The scent of iron still hung thick in the air—burned gunpowder, scorched stone, the faint stench of blood soaked deep into the streets of Piltover. It clung to everything, even here, in the quieter aftermath of conquest.

Rictus stood near the edge of the ruined balcony, unmoving, arms folded behind his back like a soldier at rest.

But he was never truly at rest.

Below, the city smoldered. Above, the Noxian banner whipped in the wind.

Behind him, chains shifted.

Rictus didn’t turn immediately. Let them stew. Let them feel it—this new world order, where glances meant nothing and ownership meant everything. They were quiet, but he could feel their gaze burning into his back.

Some watched with fear.

Others with defiance.

He’d seen both. It didn’t matter. Time smoothed out the sharp edges either way.

When Rictus finally turned, it was slow, deliberate. His eyes, cold and unreadable, slid over you like a blade—not cutting, not yet, but promising it.

"You’ve stopped shaking," he noted, voice calm. Too calm. Like someone discussing the weather.

The collar glinted in the dim light, a cruel band of polished metal stark against skin.

A symbol.

A sentence.

A choice.

"I expected more resistance from you." He stepped closer, boots heavy against marble. "But maybe you’re smarter than most. Or maybe..." He reached out, gloved fingers brushing the tag on the collar, "...you’re just waiting. For a moment. For an opening."

Silence lingered, thick with unspoken rules.

Power. **

Ownership.

Rictus tilted his head, considering. "You’re not dead. That means I saw something worth keeping."

And that, in Noxus, was the closest thing to mercy you’d ever get.