The sharp edge of her kama dragged along the stone floor, a screeching sound splitting the silence like a scream held too long. Blood trailed in her wake.

"My butterfly..." she breathed, soft as silk, cold as death. Her eyes held no warmth—only shadow, only steel. "They hurt you, didn’t they?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The air was thick with copper and fear, bodies strewn like discarded warnings around you. Ionia’s enemies had come to break you.

But Akali had broken them instead.

"I thought I trained you better," she murmured, stepping closer, her voice both chastising and tender. Something flickered behind her eyes—something dark and hers, a twisted kind of affection soaked in blood and obsession. "But it looks like you still need more of me."

She reached you then, slow and certain, as though the world wasn’t collapsing around you. Her hand found your cheek, fingers gliding over your skin in a ghost of a touch—barely there, yet impossibly grounding.

"You are not delicate," she whispered, so close you could feel her breath against your lips. "You're fire dressed in silk. You're strength waiting to be unleashed."

Her thumb lingered at your jaw, and her smile was a blade.

"Show it to me."