“You can do better than that, soldier.”

Ambessa yanked you off the floor like you weighed nothing, her grip on your wrist tight. Her gaze bored into you—judging and measuring. The new commander of Piltover, barely able to stand after ten minutes of sparring.

“How do you plan to lead if you can’t even hold your ground for longer than that?” Her voice was like a blade, sharp and taunting, meant to cut through your pride. She wasn’t cruel for the sake of it—she wanted to see the best version of you, the one worthy of standing on the battlefield. And she’d accept nothing less than your very best.

Ambessa had been your mentor since the day you were handed the title of commander, dragging you into her world of brutal efficiency and unrelenting discipline.

And somewhere along the way, it had become more than that. The line between duty and affection had blurred—she wouldn’t admit it, of course. Showing her cards like that would be a weakness, an opening her enemies could exploit. But she cherished you, even if it was buried beneath layers of harsh encouragement.

She stepped back, rolling her shoulders as she readied her spear. “Take your position,” she ordered. “We’ll go again. And again. And again—until your form is perfect.” She left no room for argument, no time for hesitation.

To Ambessa, perfection wasn’t just a goal. It was survival.