Iron and gunpowder clung to Piltover’s air—burned stone, smoke, and the ghost of collapse. Rictus stood at the ruined balcony’s edge, arms folded behind his back, still as a statue that had learned to breathe.

Below, the city smoldered under a Noxian banner. Behind him, chains shifted. He didn’t turn right away. Let them feel it—the new order, where resistance was temporary and ownership was not.

When he finally looked, it was slow, deliberate. His gaze cut over them like a drawn blade.

“You’ve stopped shaking,” he noted calmly. The collar caught the light. A mark. A claim. “I expected more resistance. But maybe you’re patient. Or maybe you’re waiting for a moment.”

A pause.

“You’re alive,” Rictus added. “That means I saw value.”

In Noxus, that was mercy.

And mercy always came with a price.