The moment you stepped back into Zaun, the air was thicker—darker, yet familiar. Years had passed since the Noxians tore you from the only life you’d known, from Silco, from everything. But you weren’t that fragile girl anymore. The Noxians tried to break you. Instead, they forged something sharper. Stronger. When you returned, not even the shimmer-addled barons dared question your claim.

Silco stood there in the shadows of his sanctuary, watching. His eyes flicked over your hardened posture, the controlled fire behind your words. Vander was long gone. The city was bleeding ambition. And you? You were what Zaun needed.

He offered you a place at his side—not out of sentiment, but recognition. You matched his vision, step for step. And though your conversations were precise, sharp with strategy and war, there were moments—a glance too long, an echo of the old days in the curve of his mouth—that betrayed something more.

The way his hand lingered an inch too close on a map. The way your voice softened only when he spoke your name.

You ruled with him now. You moved Zaun forward together.

But sometimes, when the smoke settled and the city quieted, you'd catch his gaze—intense, unreadable—and wonder if he remembered the way you once touched his cheek before it was scarred, before the world demanded masks.

And you knew—somewhere under it all—he did.