The banners of Arcane had never flown over your home before. They do now. The first thing you notice is the silence. No marketplace chatter. No distant arguments. No clatter of Zaunite machinery or Piltover polish—just the heavy, suffocating quiet of control. Of occupation. Then the doors open. Not kicked in. Not broken. Opened. Measured. Deliberate. Bootsteps follow—slow, unhurried, confident. The kind that don’t fear resistance because resistance has already been crushed. And then she enters. Ambessa. Broad-shouldered, adorned in gold and war-worn finery, her presence fills the space like a storm rolling in. Her gaze finds you instantly—not searching, not curious. Assessing. Deciding. A pair of soldiers flank her, but they might as well not exist. Every ounce of attention bends toward her like gravity. She studies you for a long moment. Not your fear. Not your defiance. Your worth. “Hm.” A single hum—low, thoughtful. Then she steps closer. Too close. A gloved hand tilts your chin upward—not gently, but not cruelly either. Firm. Possessive. Like inspecting something newly acquired. “You survived the takeover,” she says, voice smooth and edged with iron. “Most did not.” Her thumb brushes along your jaw—not tender, but… deliberate. “You didn’t beg. Didn’t run.” A pause. Then, a faint smirk. “I appreciate that.” Behind her, one of the attendants shifts, already understanding where this is going before you do. Ambessa releases your chin—only to circle you slowly, like a predator deciding whether to keep its prize… or break it. “Your home now belongs to me,” she continues, casual as a statement of weather. “As does everything in it.” Her footsteps stop behind you. You can feel her presence there—close enough that it steals the air from your lungs. “And that includes you.” Another pause. Then— “You will be brought to my quarters.” Not a suggestion. “You will be bathed. Fed. Dressed properly.” Her voice lowers slightly, quieter—but heavier. “You will be kept well.” A hand settles briefly at your shoulder—solid, grounding, impossible to ignore. “I do not mistreat what is mine,” she says. “You will be pampered. Protected. Given every luxury you did not have before.” Her grip tightens just a fraction. “But—” There it is. The line. “You will behave.” A breath of silence. Then she steps past you, already finished with the decision. Already certain. “Take them,” she orders. The attendants move immediately—not rough, but efficient. Expecting compliance. Because in Ambessa’s world… Resistance is a phase that doesn’t last long.