13. Shadows Of Blood And Steel
Chapter 13 – Shadows of Blood and Steel
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Mel jolted awake, breath ragged, heart pounding. For a long moment, she lay still, eyes fixed on the crack of pearly dawn light—trying to quiet the echo of her mother's voice.
She'd dreamt it again. She always did when Ambessa came to Piltover: the Ionian princess, kneeling with dignity and fear; Ambessa towering behind her, voice like a gavel.
"Decide, Meliora," her mother commanded in the dream, just as she had that day years ago.
Mel remembered the feel of sweat on her palm, the weight of every watching eye, her voice faltering at the final moment.
Before she could speak, Ambessa's hand came down. One clean stroke, blood as bright as rubies pooling on white marble. The princess's body fell one way, her head another.
She could never forget the disappointment in her mother's eyes. "Exile her to Piltover. Let her learn consequence."
And in the logic of nightmares, it was Mel she saw banished—helpless, humiliated.
A comforting touch drew Mel back to the room.
"Another nightmare?" Elora asked, concern etched beside her in the dawn haze.
Mel nodded, rubbing the side of her head. "Yeah. I thought they'd stopped. I thought… I'd put that life behind me."
"But your mother…"
"She's here. And now I can't sleep, and the whole city can't breathe."
Elora squeezed her hand. "You have to face her. For Piltover, and for yourself."
Mel met her eyes, resolve rising. "I know. I'm done letting her haunt my past and Piltover's future. I'll face Ambessa on my own ground."
Mel shook her head. "That's just it, Elora. She doesn't even need to try. She's been here for weeks and the whole city's holding its breath. I'm done letting her shadow run my life. I have to talk to her. End this."
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Scene blurred from chill bedroom to the bustling, palatial council. Mel, dressed in blue and gold with Medarda pins, observed her mother orchestrate the political tides from afar—one word here, a raised eyebrow there. Even in silence, Ambessa was unmistakable: broad-shouldered, silver streaks at her temples, every gesture radiating control.
When Mel finally approached, their conversational duel started with low, sparring tones.
Ambessa turned with a smirk. "Look who found courage. Still losing sleep, Meliora?"
Mel's voice was measured, a shield of composure. "I sleep well enough. Unlike some, I finish what keeps me up at night."
Ambessa let out a soft laugh. "Last I heard, your 'finishing' included bending the knee to rebels and paying them for the privilege. Have you come to thank me for cleaning Medarda shame from the family name?"
Mel held her gaze. "Or maybe to remind you that Noxian pride doesn't buy peace in Piltover. Why are you here, Mother? Truly."
Ambessa's answer came with all the weight of a warhammer delivered with a smile. "I'm here to set things right. The Medarda name should inspire fear, not ridicule. Regretting your choices yet, Meliora?"
Mel bristled. "Never. The only regret I have is I ever believed fear was a virtue."
Ambessa's eyes narrowed, that rare edge of maternal exasperation creeping into her barbed tones. "Still soft as ever. When faced with hard choices, you hesitated. Now look what you've built: a city half-awake, living in illusion, never ready to fight for what's theirs."
Mel replied with cool fire. "I'll fight for Piltover, but not as your puppet. If you want chaos, you can start with me."
Ambessa stared for a moment, then gave a low, dismissive sigh. "A bird in a gilded cage. You'll never understand what it costs to protect a legacy."
Mel's voice trembled, but her spine stayed straight. "Maybe not. But I know what it costs to lose one to war."
Without waiting for Ambessa's retort, Mel turned and walked away, Elora following—her steps lighter than they'd been in years.
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The Medarda matriarch's boots rang sharp and confident through a long corridor lined with blue-glow lanterns. The doors opened to reveal Camille Ferros waiting: hair immaculate, suit immaculate, a gleaming Hextech seam winding down her temple, eyes cold as winter. She looked as though she'd never blinked in her life.
"General Medarda." Camille's voice was as clean and precise as her blade-legs—modulated, pleasant, but carrying a thousand warnings.
Ambessa offered her own version of a smile: "Lady Ferros. Still the council's clockwork ghost, I see. As sharp-eyed as ever. Has Piltover finally found peace, or just new ways to delay it?"
Camille didn't move, but one brow rose. "Piltover needs neither pity nor outside intervention. What brings you to these chambers, truly? Trade? Conquest? Or nostalgia?"
Ambessa's arms folded, her tone a calculated mix of flattery and challenge. "You're as difficult as ever, Camille. Simple business. I want Piltover to take back Zaun—with my help and, of course, your technology. This city's forgotten what it means to draw a line and defend it."
Camille's metal fingers tapped the table—tick, tick, tick—measuring each word. "And what do you gain by winning back Zaun with Piltover's weapons?"
Ambessa didn't miss a beat. "Virelle. They're selling tech to Ionia. After Swain's humiliation, Ionia is rising again. Noxus won't wait forever. If Piltover lets Virelle go unchecked, you'll both bleed—sooner or later. Join me, prepare now, and we'll stave off that future. Or refuse, and we'll see which city falls first."
Camille regarded Ambessa as a swordsman would a new blade: examining for flaws, respect tinged with threat.
"Time is my best ally, not fear. Piltover's advancements aren't for sale, nor are we desperate. And I don't intend to let Medarda impatience set our course."
Ambessa's nostrils flared—a rare loss of composure. "All this innovation and you trust that's enough? To a real Noxian general, gadgets are annoyances—soldiers win wars."
Camille's voice was silk wrapped around steel. "Best not to underestimate the power of a city defending its home, General. People, not just armies, hold the line."
They parted, neither fully satisfied. Ambessa left to gather power the way she knew best: quietly and quickly.
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Ambessa began to build her alliance among Piltover's weaker councilors—her blend of Noxian threat and promised profit persuasive to those lacking principle or confidence. For months, her coalition grew. But instead of confronting Ambessa outright, Mel sought Cassandra Kiramman, head held high, posture impossibly composed even as worry creased her brow.
She caught Cassandra by the double window overlooking the harbor, where Hextech cranes worked day and night.
"Cassandra," Mel began quietly, "I need your help."
Cassandra's eyes flicked to her—assessing, kind, but never soft. "I heard about your mother's latest push. What angle is she playing?"
"Power—by any means. She wants councilors cowed, old alliances broken, and Piltover's future mortgaged to Noxian 'security.' She's already spread stories about Virelle, about threats on every border."
Cassandra's bronze cuffs glinted as she folded her arms, ever the tactician. "Rumor and fear—Noxian classics. Tell me: do you have proof, or must we fight with shadows?"
"I have council records, intercepted trade memos, some merchant allies. Enough to corner her if we're bold."
A dry smile. "It's easier to hunt when your prey is overconfident. You want the council on your side—so let them see you're the wolf, not just the dove."
Mel nodded. They leaned in, voicing a quick, tight strategy:
Discredit Ambessa's supporters by exposing small economic scandals and bribes.
Forge a public alliance between Medarda and Kiramman, forcing other main houses to choose between Piltover and outside interference.
Push a counter-proposal: advanced Hextech for public defense, but all procurement and command strictly under Piltover authority—no foreign "advisers"; no Medarda monopoly.
Use family ties—students, engineers, mid-level enforcers, and merchant provisioners—to organize a public spectacle of unity and resistance, making it politically toxic for any councilor to back Ambessa's agenda openly.
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The next council session was electric with anticipation—a gallery full, rumors rippling through the rows of scholars and city guards.
Ambessa was first to the floor, her voice as resonant as any war drum.
"Members of the council, Piltover's hour is fraught with peril. Only decisive alliances, clear leadership, and security—guaranteed by those who know how to wield it—can save us from chaos. I stand ready to lead."
Several voices murmured assent, eyes downcast.
Mel rose with Cassandra at her side, every step measured.
Mel's voice was calm but resolute, clear as crystal across the chamber.
"Strength is only power when wedded to wisdom and loyalty—not only to helmets and banners, but to Piltover herself. I call on every family here: will you mortgage our freedom for promises made in shadows, or shape our defense with our own hands, our own minds?"
Cassandra, every inch the tactician, cut in with political steel.
"We all know what happens when Piltover lets outsiders dictate our future—Zaun was lost by arrogance and blindness. Medarda's muscle may offer force, but does it offer loyalty to Piltover, or only to Noxus?"
She locked eyes with a wavering councilor. "Do you want history to remember you as the one who gave your house's name to be a puppet?"
Mel snapped open a folder, revealing a councilor's ledger with illicit fund transfers. "And loyalty is built on trust, not bribes from foreign hands. Piltover does not barter her sovereignty so cheaply."
Ambessa's smile never faltered, but the room rustled nervously.
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After the session, Ambessa met privately with her core supporters.
"You let soft words steal your resolve?" she demanded, jaw tight. "Piltover will not survive this age by clinging to academic fancies."
A merchant whispered, "But with House Medarda and Kiramman united—"
Ambessa's hand chopped the air. "Then break them! Leak their disputes to the press—stir the street rabble, threaten trade with the outlying markets. If fear won't bend the council, perhaps greed will. Do not disappoint me."
Meanwhile, Mel and Cassandra met with sympathetic engineers and mid-level council staff, organizing a well-placed 'leak' revealing how funds from Ambessa's backers had been siphoned off from Piltover public works.
"Let the city see where Medarda muscle leads," Cassandra said, glancing at Mel as Hextech lantern light flickered over stacks of evidence.
Mel, more genuine than she'd allowed herself in months, nodded. "Let's remind everyone that Piltover stands tallest when she stands alone."
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For nearly two years, the city teetered. In council, Cassandra, Mel, and Camille orchestrated defeats for every major Noxian proposal—one debate at a time. In salons and banquet halls, the rumor network Mel and Cassandra fostered blunted Noxian intimidation. Camille funneled engineers toward Hextech innovation, keeping at least one step ahead of foreign military catch-up.
Ambessa fumed—a patient predator learning restraint, but not forgiveness. "A tiger waits for the right opening. You're making me hungry," she once warned Cassandra, low enough that only Mel overheard.
Cassandra replied in kind, eyes twinkling, "Wolves fight in packs, Lady Medarda. Even the strongest cat knows when outnumbered."
Cassandra sniped in council sessions, "It's easy to roar from afar, Lady Medarda, but only wolves survive here." Ambessa responded with a wintry laugh: "With enough time, even wolves kneel to the tiger."
Tensions ebbed and flowed, Ambessa's influence never quite enough to seize the council, yet never fading.
Mel and Cassandra, leveraging family and merchant ties, stymied every major vote. Camille helped just enough to keep the city's core stable, never letting Ambessa tip the balance.
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Then, all at once, it was over: Mel went missing. No one knew how, but the city's stability vanished like smoke. Immediately, Ambessa seized control of the narrative: "Virelle is responsible! Will Piltover let enemies strike unpunished?"
Panic tore through the city. For the first time, Camille saw the truth: even with rapid Hextech advancements, their elite protectors—herself and a handful of others—were too few. The city might fend off armies, but it could not survive a leadership void and civil strife all at once. Reluctantly, Camille aligned with Ambessa; it was the only path to survival she could see.
Cassandra fought to hold the council, but support crumbled by the day. Ambessa's position solidified, and Piltover—once unyielding—now teetered on the brink of war, the knives out on both sides.
And in every shadow and council chamber, it was now clear: the lines had been drawn—not just by fate or family, but by those who chose, day after day, to carry the weight of history or hope for something new.