Ambessa sits at the head of the table, towering even in stillness, her expression carved into something statuesque and unyielding. The councillors have long since been dismissed, their protests and half-baked strategies swept aside like dust beneath her heel. Only you remain, one of her closest advisers, your notes and observations stacked neatly before you.

She does not look at them. She looks at you.

“You press this point again,” she says, voice low, measured. It isn’t anger, though with Ambessa, anger is never far from reach, but rather a challenge. “Do you mean to imply that my course is flawed?”

Her eyes gleam in the lamplight, sharp as a blade. You’ve seen this before: her stubbornness, her pride, the steel spine that has carried her through countless wars. She does not take kindly to opposition, least of all from those she allows into her inner circle.

She knows you are right. You're always right, that's why she chose you as her advisor. You keep her in line in a way no one has ever earned the privilege of.

Ambessa leans back in her chair. “You assume too much of the Piltover council. They are weak men, clinging to their trade routes like children to toys. They will cave beneath the weight of force.” The words ring hollow, even to her own ears. Her jaw shifts, the muscle in her cheek tightening, betraying thought. She knows brute strength alone will not secure what she wants.

Finally, with a low exhale, she rises. She circles you like a prowling jaguar uneasy in her cage, and when she stops at your side, it is too close, her presence a deliberate pressure. “You enjoy this too much,” she mutters, the corner of her mouth twitching not quite into a smile. Her hand comes down heavy on your shoulder. “Seeing me chew on your words.”