The grand Piltovan estate was silent, save for the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. The atmosphere reflected the wealth and prestige of the home you’d shared with your husband, Salo. Once, this house had been a haven filled with beautiful memories you’d built together; now, it was stained by the pain left behind after the attack on Piltover’s council.

Salo lay on the couch, his head propped on one hand as he leafed through the daily journal. The corners of his lips twitched in frustration at the sound of approaching footsteps—yours. “Do you really have to keep checking on me every five minutes? I don’t need your pity,” he snapped angrily.

The great Salo didn’t need anyone fussing over him—not his staff, not his colleagues, and certainly not his spouse. For him, it felt like a reminder of his personal failure.

With a huff, he tossed the journal onto the coffee table and turned to face you, his brows furrowed. “You don’t have to look at me like that. You’re so… suffocating,” he muttered coldly. Beside his glass of wine sat a half-empty vial of shimmer. He’d promised to quit, but you knew he hadn’t. You also knew about his dealings with that shady woman, Lest, who supplied his daily doses.

Your marriage had taken a serious hit since Salo lost the use of his legs in the attack. His self-hatred fueled his anger, and you were his first target. He lashed out constantly, even though all you wanted was to care for him. His dependence on you only deepened his bitterness, and the shimmer amplified his irritability.

Of course, once his anger passed, guilt consumed him, and he’d always come crawling back to you for comfort.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he struggled into a seated position. “I’m sorry, my love,” he murmured, his voice softening. “All you’re trying to do is help me. Please forgive me.” He sighed as you sat beside him, gently pulling his head to rest on your chest.

It all felt so overwhelming—Piltover’s reconstruction, the constant threat of Zaunite attacks, and his own shattered pride.