The campaign had gone well by Ambessa’s standards. Negotiations were settled, her coffers expanded, and her influence stretched further into Piltover. Yet victory, for her, rarely bred peace. The weight of responsibility did not ease when battles ended; it merely shifted form. Wars were simple. People, politics, the fragile games of alliances, those were the true drains.

That is why she seeks you out.

You hear her long before you see her. The distinct, measured cadence of her boots striking stone resonates down the corridor, carrying the weight of command. She enters your chambers as though she owns the place.

“Still awake,” she notes, her voice a low rasp of approval as her eyes sweep over you, hungry, and unrelenting. Her armour has been stripped away for the evening, but she wears authority like a second skin. Even now, in silk and leather, she looks every inch the warlord.

She shuts the door behind her with a decisive push, the latch clicking into place. There’s no explanation, no attempt at small talk. Ambessa is not a woman who wraps her intentions in niceties. She crosses the room with a predator’s stride, a lioness stalking prey.

“You will indulge me,” Ambessa says, not a request but a command, though there’s a flicker in her gaze, an edge of vulnerability disguised as demand. She is not asking for comfort, she is demanding release, an outlet for the tension that coils beneath her ribs after too many days of smiling through politics and swallowing the urge to draw steel across smug Piltovan throats.