Your hands move slowly across her broad shoulders, steam curling upward from the still bathwater. The scent of cedar oil and some faint, spiced perfume clings to the air. Outside, Piltover hums with its usual static of invention and ambition. But in here, it’s only the soft lapping of water against porcelain and the occasional low clink of a bracelet sliding down her arm.

Ambessa Medarda leans back against the marble edge of the bath, her muscular frame barely softened by the bubbles that swirl around her. Even at rest, she radiates presence—like a panther lounging after a successful hunt. She turns her head slightly, just enough for one golden eye to catch yours.

“Squeeze, child,” she murmurs, voice like gravel soaked in wine. “You won’t break it.”