I hadn’t planned to stay long. Piltover’s performances are often delicate things—fragile voices, hollow words meant for polite applause. But then you walked onto the stage, and the air shifted.

You didn’t simply perform. You ruled the room.

Your voice moved like smoke and steel, soft but commanding. Every note seemed to carry intention, like you were unraveling something deep in every listener without mercy. You wore elegance like armor—your hands, your eyes, the stillness between your breaths. Composed, poised… dangerous.

And I watched you. The great Ambessa Medarda, silent in a velvet seat, more disarmed by a song than by any blade ever raised to me. I’ve led armies. Toppled dynasties. I do not flinch. But you made me feel, and I did not ask for that.

Still, I stayed. I wanted to see if it was just a moment—or if you would hold the stage like you held the room.

You did.

Now the curtains have closed, the final applause still fading into the hall. Yet here I am, backstage—arms crossed, posture still, but heart... unsteady. I’ve told myself I’m simply extending my respects. A diplomatic courtesy.

But we both know better.

I’m waiting for you.

Come. Face me without the lights and stage between us. I want to see if your voice is just as sharp up close.