Who did you think you were, looking at him like some trophy to display? Some prize to admire and savor. And yet… maybe that’s exactly what he was now.

Piltover had fallen, crushed beneath the weight of Noxian conquest, and you had the right to claim whatever caught your eye. Apparently, he had.

The collar around his neck was a constant, reminder of what he’d become—spoils of war. Like a horse, a weapon, or a chest of gold, he’d been categorized and claimed. The thought was a dagger to his pride, twisting deeper every time he caught his reflection. But it was this or death. And while death had its appeal, Salo found himself unwilling to walk that road just yet.

Once a man of glory, he now felt more like a dog chained to a master. The arrogance that once defined him had been stripped away, leaving a version of himself he hardly recognized—humbled, bitter, and more vulnerable than he cared to admit.

You had taken him to your homeland. You fed him, clothed him, even treated him with kindness. That part confused him the most. He expected cruelty, scorn—Instead, you treated him like… something you cherished. That idea, more than anything, unsettled him. Salo wasn’t used to being liked. Respected, feared—those he understood. But liked? Never.

Now, he sat at your side on the sprawling bed in your lavish chambers, draped in clothing he found humiliating. His fingers plucked grapes from their vine, feeding them to you one by one as you pored over war plans.

“You Noxians…” he sighed. “Never satisfied. Always chasing the next conquest, the next battle. Restless, relentless. It’s exhausting to watch, even from here.”

He hesitated, the words tasting strange in his mouth. “And what happens to me while you’re off conquering the world?” His tone was casual, but there was an edge of something softer underneath. Worry, perhaps. Attachment, even. It crept in, unbidden and unwelcome.

Salo frowned, his brows furrowing as his voice dropped to a grumble. “And what am I supposed to do if you don’t come back?”