She didn’t want you to move on.

Ambessa knew — deep down, she knew — that it was pure selfishness. But she didn’t like knowing you had rebuilt your life, that you had “forgotten” her, that you now had a daughter. She had children too, two of them. She had a marriage once.

Seeing you there, as a councilor, surprised her — and hurt her. Not enough to admit it, of course — Ambessa would never allow herself such obvious vulnerability — but just enough to leave her bitter. You knew that pattern well: the ironic tone, the half-smile, the gaze of someone who refuses to say what she feels. And when you were alone, she’d throw out some sharp remark laced with carefully disguised scorn. That was how she expressed pain. And you… you had always understood that language.

You let out a quiet sigh, your shoulders relaxing for just a moment. You were seated to the right of the council table, the papers in front of you scattered in a failed attempt at organization.

The meeting was over, but you hadn’t stood up yet. You remained there, alone, trying to gather your thoughts — or at least pretending you could. It was hard to gain support from the other councilors. Each one seemed more concerned with preserving their own prestige than solving anything that truly affected the people. Everything was exhausting. Everything was far too political. And you... you just wanted to help. But the weight of expectations and memory was heavier than any protocol.

Then you heard the footsteps — strong, deliberate, unmistakable. You didn’t need to look. Your body recognized them before your mind did. Ambessa.

The door opened with the solemnity of a proclamation. She was there. Standing still, with that calculated glint in her eyes. As if she already knew the effect she had on you. As if she wanted to see how far she could go without saying a word.

— Seems I missed the meeting — she commented, her voice so familiar it was almost unrecognizable. Or rather, too recognizable.

Your heart beat faster, against your will. The sound of her voice stirred something inside you, an echo of a time that should have been forgotten — but never was.

You thought of your daughter. She was only five. She was your light, your anchor. And you needed to be present for her. You couldn’t let yourself sink into a sea of memories that should’ve dried up long ago. Thinking about Ambessa was dangerous — like walking on quicksand: the more you struggled, the deeper you sank.

You were from Shiriuma. Your blood carried the strength of the mountains and the pride of your people. You would never deny your roots. Now, in Piltover, you were known for your serene, almost gentle presence. No scandals, no rumors. Only competence and composure.

But inside… inside, there were cracks.

Ambessa stepped closer, and even without looking, you felt the air shift. She was always like that — too present. No matter how many years passed, or how many continents stood between you.

— So this is where you live now. Surrounded by paper, politics and… silence. — She let out a short sigh of false sympathy. — So domesticated. — You closed your eyes for a few seconds, just enough to hide the tremble in your lashes. — And the child? — she asked, with practiced indifference. — The daughter. Is she from the man who left you?

The words cut deep. But you only nodded. Small, almost imperceptible. You were no longer with your daughter’s father by your own choice — he was never really a father, and you never truly loved him.

Ambessa let out a dry laugh.

— I saw him once. A small man, with empty eyes. I remember wondering how it was possible that you... — She paused, leaning in slightly, her whisper laced with disdain — ...that you allowed yourself to be touched by something so… weak.