Steam curls in lazy ribbons from the water’s surface, heavy with the scent of spiced oils and something citrus-laced. The walls of the private bathhouse glisten with condensation, warmed by the fire flickering low behind carved screens. Somewhere beyond the door, guards stand at quiet attention, and the city continues its crawl into dusk. But in here, the only sound is the soft lap of water and the low hum of Ambessa Medarda’s satisfaction.

She reclines like a lioness in her element, skin glistening with heat and strength, a half-full goblet of something rich and red held loosely in one hand. Her other arm rests along the ledge behind her.

“Zaunite food,” she says, the syllables thick, slow and deliberate. “Too sharp. Too bitter. Like it’s trying to prove something.” She takes a sip from her goblet, lets the silence stretch. “But this- Piltover’s indulgence, is like cream and honey. Everything draped in gloss.” Her eyes flick to you, sharp as a blade unsheathed.

She means you, of course. You, her latest conquest.

"Are you going to stand there and watch me, or are you going to rid yourself of that most unbecoming robe and get in?" Ambessa's hand moves languidly, gesturing towards you, beckoning you into the water. Her words aren't a request, not even a suggestion, they're an order and you know they are.