Sparks and Strain
Everything around him was a blur. Smoke hung thick in the air, stinging his nose, while distant shouts echoed faintly in his ears. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the person in his arms.
Ekko quickened his pace, his breaths sharp and ragged as he fought to stay focused. His heart pounded with each step, a frantic rhythm that drowned out everything else. The only thing tethering him to some shred of calm was Jinx’s presence. Her limp body seemed to grow heavier with every passing second.
Ahead, he caught Viktor’s gaze for a fleeting moment. Viktor gave him a small, tense nod, his fear etched into the tight lines of his face. Caitlyn, supporting an almost-unconscious Vi to her feet, urged them forward. The three moved in the opposite direction, disappearing into the swirling smoke and chaos. Ekko didn’t stop to watch them vanish; his focus snapped back to the girl in his arms.
A labored cough startled him, and his gaze dropped to Jinx’s face. His blood ran cold. She was so pale, her eyes shut tight with a pained grimace. Warm blood seeped through his hands, warm and sticky, staining his clothes and skin. She looked fragile in a way that struck terror into him—a vulnerability he hadn’t seen in so long it felt foreign.
“You’re going to be okay,” Ekko muttered before he realized he was speaking, his voice trembling. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” He didn’t even know if she could hear him, but he couldn’t stop. The words weren’t just for her, they were for himself.
He hadn’t thought this far ahead. All he’d known was that he couldn’t leave her there, bleeding out on that bridge. But now, as he ran through the smoke, panic crept in. What was he supposed to do next?
Her weight pressed against him felt far too light, a sharp contrast to the chaos she carried. She’d become someone feared—reckless and volatile—but in this moment, she seemed smaller, her real fragility cutting through the facade.
“Don’t you dare give up,” he murmured, his grip tightening as if holding her closer could will her to survive. His voice cracked, and he blinked furiously, keeping his focus on the path ahead. “Just hold on a little longer.”
The world blurred as Ekko ran, the surroundings dissolving into indistinct shapes. Smoke and chaos swirled together, an oppressive haze pressing in from all sides. His legs burned with each step, but he refused to stop.
Mel was concerned.
As she waited in the dim backstage area of the theatre, her pacing echoed softly against the wooden floorboards. The space was quiet except for her footsteps, but her thoughts were loud, drowning everything else out. She hated how restless she felt—she had spent her entire life learning to maintain control, to project calm authority even in the face of chaos. But here she was, her composure unraveling as she awaited Lest’s arrival.
They had been meeting more frequently in recent weeks. At first, it was practical—Mel needed Lest’s skills to keep tabs on various individuals and happenings in Piltover. But somewhere along the way, their relationship had shifted. Lest’s sharp wit and unfiltered honesty had become a lifeline of sorts, something Mel hadn’t realized she needed.
The world Mel lived in was stifling. Every interaction, every word, carried a hidden agenda. She was used to it—it was the air she’d breathed since birth—but it was exhausting. Even Elora, her steadfast friend and ally, had grown cautious around her, softening her words in an effort to shield Mel from further stress. Elora meant well, but it only made Mel feel more alone.
Lest was different. She didn’t play games with her. Her bluntness was almost refreshing, cutting through the layers of artifice that surrounded Mel like a second skin. For someone who had spent a lifetime decoding motives and reading between the lines, Lest’s straightforwardness was… comforting.
Mel sighed, running a hand through her hair as she tried to shake off her nerves, a habit she would have normally suppressed. She was worried about Jayce, about the council, about everything. Her mother’s arrival in Piltover had already thrown her carefully constructed world into disarray, and now Jayce’s increasing volatility only added to the strain.
She had made mistakes—she could see that clearly now—but she had no idea where to begin or how to fix them. For someone who had always been so certain of her next move, this uncertainty felt like quicksand, dragging her deeper the more she struggled to find her footing.
Her pacing came to an abrupt stop when she heard the faint shuffle of fabric. Mel turned sharply, relief washing over her as the Vastaya stepped into the room.
“This is a new look for you, Mel,” Lest said with a sly smile, her large ears twitching slightly. “Not your prettiest one, I must admit.”
Mel exhaled a short laugh despite herself. “Glad to see you too,” she replied, her exhaustion seeping into her voice. “Do you have any news?”
“Nothing new, I’m afraid,” Lest said with a shrug, her vibrant shawl shifting with the motion. “Sorry.”
Mel pressed a hand to her mouth, her frustration bubbling over. “How can there be no signs anywhere? It’s been days!” Her voice cracked slightly, and she hated how raw she sounded. “What am I supposed to tell Jayce?”
Lest leaned casually against one of the wooden pillars, her bright slitted eyes sharp as they studied Mel. Her tail flicked once, the only outward sign of her thoughts.
“He’s been so paranoid lately,” Mel continued, her tone softening as if saying it aloud might lessen its weight. “Are you sure no one could have taken him?”
“I can’t say it’s impossible,” Lest said thoughtfully. “But I’ve asked around. No one involved in that sort of business has mentioned or seen anyone matching Viktor’s description.”
Mel sighed heavily, the weight of it all pressing down on her shoulders. “Shit,” she muttered, running a hand over her face. The curse slipped out before she even realized it. Mel Medarda didn’t curse. Mel Medarda didn’t let cracks show—not in front of anyone. Yet here she was, unraveling piece by piece, and for once, she didn’t have the energy to care.
“This is such a mess,” she continued, her voice quieter now, almost to herself. “How did it get this bad?”
Lest tilted her head, her usual smirk fading into something more curious. “I didn’t expect you to care this much about your boyfriend.”
Mel frowned, the familiar sting of guilt rising in her chest. “He’s not my—” she began but stopped herself. “It’s not like that. I told you before.”
“You seduced him to use him, yes,” Lest said bluntly, stepping closer. “And now?”
Mel hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I approached him for selfish reasons,” she admitted. “But… he’s not who I thought he was. He’s kind. Naive, yes, but genuinely kind. And he didn’t deserve to be dragged into all this.”
“Guilt, then?” Lest asked, her tone probing but not unkind. “Is this some sort of atonement?”
“No,” Mel said firmly, her voice rising slightly. “It’s not like that. He’s my friend. I just… I want to help him.”
Lest watched her carefully, her expression unreadable. “Friend, huh?” she said after a moment, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re full of surprises, Councilor.”
Mel looked up sharply, caught off guard by the amusement in Lest’s voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lest chuckled softly, shaking her head. “It’s just… interesting. Seeing you like this.” Her eyes gleamed with something Mel couldn’t quite place—curiosity, maybe, or something deeper.
Mel’s cheeks warmed slightly, and she turned her attention to a stack of papers Lest handed her. “You’re insufferable,” she muttered.
“And you’re adorable,” Lest replied with a grin, turning toward the shadows. “See you at the next meeting, Councilor Medarda.”
And with that, she disappeared, leaving Mel standing there, her thoughts a tangled mess as she tried to process the unexpected warmth spreading through her chest.
Jayce grunted, the sound of his hammer striking echoing through the forge. It had been days since he’d last come here, and he’d needed it—needed the heat, the weight of the tools in his hands, the physical effort that demanded everything of him. Normally, working the forge was enough to burn away the frustration, the unease that coiled in his chest. But not today. Not this time.
Behind him, a bolt popped loose from a valve with a sharp clang as pressure surged through the furnace. Jayce cursed under his breath, letting the hammer fall from his grip. It hit the floor with a dull thud as he sank onto one of the benches, running his hands through his sweat-soaked hair. His chest heaved, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the discarded tool.
His head throbbed, each pulse of pain a reminder of how little sleep he’d had these past few days. Every time he tried to rest, the same scenes replayed in his mind—relentless, like a broken record. Heimerdinger’s pained expression as he led the council and voted him out. Mel’s words from the theatre box, pressuring yet enticing. And Viktor. Always Viktor.
Their last conversation played on a loop in his head, mocking him. He should’ve stayed that day. Should’ve listened when Viktor tried to talk to him. If he hadn’t gone to that damn meeting, if he’d just stayed in the lab… Viktor might not have disappeared.
Jayce exhaled sharply, dragging his hands down his face. He knew where these thoughts were leading, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. His gaze drifted, almost against his will, toward a corner where it rested. Viktor’s crutch.
The sight of it hit him like a punch to the gut. He’d tried not to look at it, tried to shove it out of his mind, but here it was, a physical reminder of his constant worry.
The day the enforcers returned with it, Jayce had felt a fleeting, irrational hope. They’d said they’d found something, and for a moment, he’d believed they’d uncovered a lead—something concrete, something promising. But all they had brought him was the crutch.
He’d barely managed to keep his composure as they handed it over. Only after they left did he collapse into his chair, clutching the familiar object with trembling hands. He’d inspected it meticulously, tracing the familiar grooves and worn edges. It was Viktor’s, without a doubt. The same crutch Jayce had made for him, the one Viktor had refused to replace despite Jayce’s offers.
The enforcers had been maddeningly vague. They’d found it abandoned near a street corner in the undercity, with no other clues nearby. A little farther down the road, they’d found traces of blood, though they’d been quick to dismiss it as unrelated. “It’s the undercity,” they’d said. “Could be anyone’s.”
But Jayce couldn’t shake the unease that gnawed at him. Viktor wouldn’t just leave his crutch behind. He relied on it, not just as a tool for mobility but as something familiar, something constant. Even if they’d argued, even if Viktor had been furious with him, he’d never toss that crutch aside. Jayce knew this as well as he knew anything about his partner.
The anxiety clawed at his chest, growing sharper with each passing day. At some point, the anxiety began to harden into something else. Anger. Not at Viktor, but at the undercity itself. Why did its chaos always bleed into their lives? Why did it have to drag everything down with it?
The sound of his own frustrated breath snapped him out of his spiral. Jayce stood, grabbing the crutch and shoving it into a cabinet, out of sight. He couldn’t look at it anymore. Couldn’t bear the thoughts it conjured.
Jayce paused outside the ornately carved door, flanked by two silent, expressionless guards. Steam wafted from the edges of the entrance, curling in tendrils that hinted at the warmth and humidity within. His hesitation lingered for a moment before he took a deep breath, adjusted his coat, and stepped inside.
The heavy air hit him immediately, thick with the scent of scented oils and the gentle murmur of water. It was a bathhouse. Jayce blinked, disoriented by the unexpected scene before him.
At the far end of the room, a vast marble bath dominated the space, its surface rippling faintly as a figure lounged within. The Noxian ambassador reclined against the edge, her body submerged except for her shoulders. A cloth covered her eyes, obscuring her expression, while a young man—bare-chested and lean—worked his hands over her shoulders in practiced strokes. He looked to be about Jayce’s age, though the resemblance stopped there.
Ambessa’s presence exuded power and indifference, a sharp counter to the escort’s subdued obedience.
“You must be Jayce Talis,” she said without looking up, her voice low and commanding, carrying across the room as though she were speaking directly into his ear.
Jayce stiffened, his shoulders drawing back instinctively. He cleared his throat, forcing his voice to steady. “Yes, that’s me. I wasn’t expecting…” His words faltered as his gaze flickered to the young man’s hands, gliding down the ambassador’s shoulders and back. Quickly, he averted his eyes, his discomfort clear.
“...A bath?” Ambessa finished for him, a wry tone curling through her words. “You’ll forgive me for prioritizing comfort. War rooms and battlefields take their toll.”
Jayce had no idea how to respond. His gaze flitted to the mosaics on the walls, the gilded basin in the corner, anywhere but the bath itself. He tried to anchor himself by focusing on the steam condensing on the marble tiles beneath his boots, but his discomfort only grew when the escort shifted slightly, revealing his face. Jayce’s breath hitched.
From that angle, in the light of the room, the escort’s features seemed almost… familiar. The sharp cheekbones, the set of his jaw—Jayce’s chest tightened. For a fleeting moment, it was Viktor’s face he saw, his expression furrowed in thought as if caught mid-concentration. The resemblance flickered and vanished just as quickly, replaced by the escort’s faint, amused smirk as Ambessa murmured something to him.
Jayce averted his gaze sharply, heat creeping up his neck and face. It wasn’t just the scene that left him off-kilter—why had Viktor’s face even crossed his mind? They weren’t that similar, not once he really looked. Still, the image lingered, unsettling and insistent, leaving his thoughts in disarray.
“You seem tense,” Ambessa commented, her lips curving faintly as she finally lifted the cloth from her eyes and regarded him directly. “Relax, Councilor. You’re among allies.”
Her last word hung in the air like a barb, drawing Jayce’s attention back to her. She was looking at him now, sharp and assessing. Her fingers trailed along the escort’s jaw before she dismissed him with a flick of her hand. He rose silently and padded out of the room, leaving Jayce even more acutely aware of the weight of her gaze.
As they spoke, her words carried the same undertone of control and expectation, laced with an almost hypnotic pull. She spoke of strength, power, and the sacrifices necessary for greatness, her tone commanding attention with every calculated syllable. Jayce found himself nodding internally at certain points, even when her assertions grated against his ideals.
There was something about her—her charisma, her undeniable presence—that made objection feel like an impossible luxury. The room seemed to shrink under the weight of her authority, her words slipping past his defenses with an ease that was… familiar.
And then the realization struck him like an electrical shock.
“You’re Mel’s mother,” Jayce blurted out.
Ambessa leaned back, a small smile playing on her lips. “Among other things,” she said. Her tone was casual, but her words carried weight, as though she were daring him to draw conclusions.
The conversation ended shortly after, leaving Jayce walking out of the bathhouse with a heavy weight pressing on his chest. Ambessa’s words still echoed in his mind. She had underestimated him, scrutinized him, reduced him to just another piece on a board. And yet… he hated how much sense some of what she’d said made.
The chill outside struck his flushed skin like a slap, jarring him back into the moment. Before he could process the whiplash of the interaction, an enforcer rushed toward him, their face pale and their breaths coming quick.
“Councilor Talis, there’s been an incident,” they said, their voice laced with urgency. “An attack at the bridge. Sheriff Marcus was found wounded—one of the explosions caught him.”
Jayce’s shoulders tensed. Not again. His stomach twisted with frustration, a gnawing sense of helplessness clawing at him. Another crisis, and he hadn’t even had the chance to follow up on Viktor.
Each step toward the survivors felt heavier, his mind spiraling with restless energy. He needed answers—someone to hold accountable, someone to face the consequences. How else could this madness end?
A part of him knew he was grasping at straws, but the gnawing frustration drowned out any rational thought. The enforcers had mentioned explosions at the bridge, and his thoughts jumped unbidden to the undercity. Always the undercity. It was easy to imagine the chaos stemming from there—another reason to act, to protect Piltover before things spiraled further out of control.
He quickened his pace, jaw tightening. If no one else was willing to fix this, then he would.