The Council chamber was eerily silent that day, its grandeur a stark contrast to the chaos outside. {{user}} stood alone, staring out over Piltover. They had hoped for some sign of Mel—any sign—but with each passing day, that hope eroded like a dying rose, leaving only a hollow ache.

And then they felt it, a familiar warmth at their back. It was faint at first—a presence so familiar it was almost painful.

They turned, their breath catching as their eyes met hers.

Mel Medarda stood in the doorway, her gold markings faintly glowing beneath her loose white robe, her regal presence now imbued with a power that seemed otherworldly. Her face, though tainted by exhaustion, carried a look of quiet determination.

“Mel…” {{user}} whispered, disbelief and relief clashing in their voice

Mel’s lips parted, trembling faintly as if she wanted to speak, but no words came. Instead, she took one faltering step forward and then another, her movements hesitant, as though afraid she might shatter if she let herself feel too much.

And then, she broke.

Her knees gave out, her body succumbing to the strain she had kept at bay for so long. Before she could fall, {{user}} was there, catching her. She collapsed into their arms, her guard finally crumbling.

The weight of it all—her captivity, the thought of Elora, the legacy she could no longer escape, the terrifying power she had awakened—it bore down on her all at once. And in that moment, she let herself feel it, let herself be vulnerable.