Chapter Text
You were one of many arrested, packed into the transport with the rest. The only reason you were at the meeting by Vander’s statue was because Babette, your boss, insisted it would be good for the Lanes. Instead, you were jumped by Piltie Enforcers, leaving you beat and bruised.
Clearly, someone had ratted Sevika out.
Now, you stand with an Enforcer gripping your left arm tightly, the force adding to the growing bruises littering your body. Pain radiates from the back of your leg and neck, reminders of the rifle butt they’d used against you earlier. You keep your gaze fixed on the filthy stone ground beneath your feet, silent as the chaos around you churns on.
The Jinxer ahead of you is hauled off, the metallic thud of a stamp ringing out as their paperwork is finalised.
The Enforcer’s grip tightens, and you’re dragged forward. Your eyes remain on the ground, though you can’t ignore the large man at the desk slurring some crude comment in your direction. The enforcer chuckles, a low, grating sound that makes your stomach churn. Rolling your eyes, you steal a glance behind you.
Sevika is at the back of the line, barely a foot away from you, her hulking form unmistakable even with her slumped posture. The guard shakes your arm sharply, snapping your focus back to the man at the desk. He lifts his stamp and slams it down onto the paper in front of him.
A deafening thud echoes from behind the desk, and tension ripples through the room. You can’t see what caused it, but the Enforcer’s posture stiffens. He hesitates, his grip on your arm growing tighter before he gives a gentler tug. One that’s far less forceful than before.
Apprehensively, you step forward, ignoring the thunderous footsteps that echo from the elevator. Figures cloaked in red sweep past, their movements precise and unnerving. The rhythmic thudding radiating from the repeated slamming of their spears as they walk is the only sound that echoes throughout the space. You watch as the guard at the desk lowers his gaze, nodding slightly in a display of quiet deference as they pass.
Then, you see her.
Bathed in the blood-red light, she strides across the room with an air of command that suffocates everyone in her presence. The Warlord Medarda. You tilt your head toward Sevika, watching as she her head dips away from the warlord. In front of you, the Warlord’s gaze remains fixed forward, unyielding and sharp.
The Warlord stops in front of you.
Time seems to freeze, the tension pressing down on your chest like a heavy weight. Your pulse pounds as a nervous energy spreads among the others nearby. She doesn’t speak at first. Her head barely tilts as her eyes sweep from your feet, slowly trailing up your body, until they lock onto yours.
Your heart skips a beat yet leaves a taste of bile at the back of your throat. A foreboding dread coils in your gut. You can’t look away. She towers over you, every inch of her radiating authority and menace.
“Take her in the interrogation room,” she commands, her voice a thunderous echo that leaves no room for hesitation. Without waiting for a response, she strides toward the entrance, her presence clearing a path before her.
Only when she is well out of sight does the enforcer dare to move. He yanks your arm roughly, shoving you toward the elevator.
Inside the cramped, dimly lit space, the oppressive red glow deepens the unease clawing at your stomach. The elevator sways and jitters as it descends, the metallic hum a grim soundtrack to the growing pit in your gut. You try to steady your breathing, but the weight of what awaits you presses down relentlessly.
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You have no idea how long you’ve been sitting here. The cold, grey walls and authoritarian silence do nothing to ease the anxiety coursing through you. The last sounds you heard - loud shouting and thunderous footsteps - must have been over an hour ago.
The metal frame of the chair creaks softly as you twist your wrists back and forth. That Enforcer may have been an idiot, but not so incompetent as to leave the straps loose—especially not after Warlord Medarda’s explicit orders. Still, that doesn’t stop you from testing their durability. You tug harshly, over and over, the effort leaving your arms raw and chafed.
The straps hold firm, and the fight drains out of you. Cold seeps into your bones, your breath visible as a pale puff of air that dissipates in the bright light. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture what they do here to extract answers. The thought sends a chill down your spine, your ears ringing as your heartbeat pounds louder and louder. Whatever the Warlord has planned, you’re certain it isn’t good. Diplomacy isn’t what earned her that title.
Rhythmic thudding of footsteps interrupts your spiralling thoughts. At first, you can’t tell if the floor is trembling faintly or if it’s just the buzzing under your skin. The sound grows louder, more defined, until it stops just outside the door. A strict, commanding voice echoes from the other side, and then the steel door swings open with a hiss.
Your eyes snap upward. Standing in the doorway is the Warlord herself, every inch of her exuding dominance. Her narrowed eyes lock onto you as she strides inside, each step deliberate and thunderous. The door slams shut behind her, sealing you both in the cold, suffocating space.
A fresh, red slice rests across her cheek, but it doesn’t diminish the icy fury in her gaze. You swallow hard, a puff of air escaping as her presence seems to fill the entire room. Her arms cross over her chest, her golden armour gleaming in the vivid light. Your eyes drift down to the intricate gold detailing scattered across her form before snapping back to the floor, unable to stomach the weight of her gaze.
“Tell me,” she begins, her voice sharp and biting, “did you know the beast was coming?”
“What?” you manage to squeak, still staring at her boots. The stone surface reflects a faint light, and you try to focus on that instead of the storm brewing above you.
“Was this an organised attack? Sacrifice a few to take out as many enforcers as possible, hmm?” Her words slice through the silence as she takes a step closer, the sound of her boot on the floor reverberating in the tiny room.
“I-” You stutter, but the words stick in your throat. She looms over you now, so close that if you leaned forward, your knees would brush against hers.
“The Undercity knows it stands no chance against Piltover’s organisation,” she spits, her voice dripping with disdain. “So you resort to underhanded tactics?”
Before you can respond, her hand slams against the back of the chair beside your head. The sound echoes like a gunshot in the confined space. She leans in, her shadow engulfing you, her face mere inches from your own.
You can’t look away.
Her icy eyes bores into yours, her breath mingling with yours as you struggle to steady it. Your gaze flickers downward briefly - to the sharp line of her jaw, the gold adorning her lips - before you snap it back to her piercing stare. She tilts her head slightly, one eyebrow arching in silent judgment.
The silence stretches, and yet her proximity causes a a different kind of tension.
Her voice cuts through it like a blade. “Only the guilty meet accusations with silence.” Her nose brushes yours, her proximity suffocating. She grips the top of the chair beside your head tighter.
“I don’t know-” you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.
Something flickers in her eyes - a fleeting emotion you can’t quite place - before she pulls back to her full, imposing height. Her hand remains on the chair behind you, her grip firm, as she regards you with a mix of amusement and disdain.
“Distracted, or intentionally ignorant?” she murmurs, her tone no longer harsh but laced with a quiet, mocking curiosity. You squirm in your seat under her penetrating gaze.
“I don’t-” you blurt, trying to hold her gaze. Your voice falters, betraying your attempt at confidence. It sounds feeble compared to her commanding presence.
“I will repeat myself once,” she says, placing her boot on the chair between your legs. “What do you know of the beast?”
Your eyes dart to her boot, then slowly climb back up to her face. Heat floods your cheeks as an inappropriate thought crosses your mind, as the tip of her boot rests barely an inch away from your clothed core. Clearing your throat, you struggle to dislodge the lump forming there.
“What beast?” you squeak out.
“Hmm.” Her response is ambivalent, her expression unreadable. With that, she turns on her heel, her steps echoing as she strides toward the door. It slams shut behind her, leaving you alone in the freezing silence once more.
The lingering sound of her boots fades into the distance, and you suddenly miss the heat her presence brought to the room. Cold air settles over you again, the void she left behind palpable.
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As time drags on, the chill in the air becomes more oppressive. You have no idea how long you’ve been sitting here, but a dull throb behind your eyes and a buzzing in your skull tell you it's been too long. You're exhausted, yet the harsh overhead lights and the cold make it nearly impossible to allow yourself even a moment of rest.
“Piltover’s cells are quite the mercy compared to their Noxian counterparts,” a voice suddenly breaks the silence, snapping your attention up. You didn’t even hear her enter. The Warlord stands before you, towering, her arms firmly planted on her hips, exuding a cold, calculating presence.
“Yet, there are other ways to extract information from the unwilling—even in such merciful conditions.” Her voice is steady, but there’s a flicker of something dark in her eyes. You’ve often heard people speak of wolves and the Medarda in the same breath, and now, standing before you, you see why. Her gaze is predatory, hungry, as if she could swallow you whole with just a glance.
She moves behind you with a smooth, silent grace, and you strain to keep track of her movements, but your view is obstructed by the back of the chair. You slow your breathing, focusing on the faint sounds of her boots scuffing against the stone floor. But the silence around you is almost deafening.
Suddenly, her hand lands on your shoulder, making you flinch. The other slides beside your face, and you feel the cold pressure of something sharp against your skin. A knife. You don’t need to see it to know what it is.
She drags the flat side of the blade against your cheek before twirling it in front of your face. From the lack of ornate detail, it’s clear the blade isn’t hers. It’s simple, practical. A tool.
Living in the undercity, you know a threat when you see one. The question is, why? Could this be about the beast she mentioned earlier?
Your eyes flick to the knife in her hand, her fingers twirling it with unsettling precision. The grace with which she handles it makes you uneasy, and yet, you can’t help but admire her skill. There’s a flicker of awe beneath the fear, watching her expertly manipulate the blade with just three fingers.
“Tell me,” she says, her voice unwavering, but tinged with a mocking undertone. “Do you have any answers for me, or are you still distracted?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about…” you stammer, breathless as the cold metal of the blade presses against your right cheek. You jerk your head away instinctively at the contact.
“Tsk,” she clicks her tongue, her disapproval sharp and immediate. But then her hand, warm against your freezing skin, slides down your face, and you freeze at the unexpected tenderness. The Warlord’s fingers curl around your jaw, forcing your head back to face forward, her grip unyielding.
“Please, I—” You try to speak, but the words are caught in your throat as the flat side of the blade drags gently along your cheek.
“Such displays of weakness would be culled in Noxus.” Her tone drips with disdain, her words heavy as they fall above you. “How fortunate you are that I tolerate the soft-spined population of this city.” Her voice is almost mocking, but she doesn’t seem to care for a responce. Her left thumb brushes over your cheek, and you flinch at the delicate touch.
You stay silent, not knowing how to respond. Any wrong answer feels like it could spill the blade's red promise across the floor. You close your eyes briefly, trying to block out the sensation of the sharp steel and her unrelenting presence.
The Warlord tuts at your display. You force open your eyes again, you notice the slight change in her demeanour - she seems pleased by your compliance. Her lips curl into a faint, approving hum, her eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction.
“Tell me,” she asks again, her voice dripping with venom, “What has the Undercity done to deserve such loyalty?” A smirk lingers in her words, even though her lips don’t move. It’s a question designed to provoke, and she knows it.
“Nothing…!” You spit out the words through gritted teeth, your nerves fraying under her unyielding grip. “I don’t know what beast you’re talking about. Honest.”
“Are you now?” She raises an eyebrow, her voice a dangerous whisper. “Not many from the Undercity are.” The last words are punctuated by a cruel squeeze of your jaw before she moves, circling behind the chair again. Her steps are heavy as she approaches again, and you feel the weight of her presence even before she’s close.
“How about we test that honesty of yours?” Her breath is warm against your ear, as she places both hands on your forearms. The knife still rests in her right hand, the steel glinting against the light.
Her nose brushes against your own as she leans in. You can’t breathe as she gets closer. Your lungs burn with the cold and lack of air as you hold her gaze. Her smirk is unbearable, knowing the power she holds over you in this moment.
Your stomach tightens, every instinct telling you to run, but your body is forced to stay frozen in place.
“Are you sensitive, little one?”
You blink, struggling to focus. The proximity of her presence clouds your thoughts, and the question slips through your mind like smoke. It’s hard to think with her so close, but her gaze, unwavering, forces you to try.
“What?” You stammer, caught in the haze of her intensity. She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes as if she expects an answer.
Without warning, she presses the tip of the knife against your stomach, her eyes never leaving yours. The heat rushes to your cheeks, and your mouth dries. She watches you silently, waiting for you to speak, but the words you want to say get stuck in your throat.
She lifts the knife slowly, trailing it up your exposed midriff. The metal glides over your skin, and your breath hitches. The cool blade rests against the fabric of your cropped top for only a moment, before she twists the knife and in one swift movement, the tip of the blade now rest under your chin.
Your heart races as the sensation of the metal against your skin stirs a mixture of dread and something else - something you don’t want to acknowledge. The cold air rushes to meet the exposed skin on your breasts, and you can’t break her gaze, even as your breath becomes unsteady.
“Do you have an answer yet?” Her voice cuts through the silence, cold and laced with a hint of impatience.
“I’m not—” You try to respond, but a gasp escapes you before you can finish the sentence. She moves faster than you can blink, the flat side of the blade now pressing against your right cheek. The hand gripping your jaw trails down from your your face, until it rests against your breast . Her grip is firm, and a heat spreads through your cheeks despite the cold steel pressed against.
Your eyes flutter, trying to regain focus as she touches you. The sensation is overwhelming. Her hand moves over your chest with an unsettling gentleness, and a soft sound slips from your lips - something between a gasp and a sigh.
“Tsk.” Her tone is not harsh, but it carries a quiet amusement, as if this whole exchange is a game for her. “So much for honesty, hmm?” She eyes you with that same smug, disapproving look, and a strange chill runs down your spine.
The cold hits your chest again as she drags her hand upward. Her grip rests on your throat, almost painfully, as the knife is removed from your cheek. You struggle to breathe, as her hold makes it hard to focus on anything other than the pressure against your neck.
“Know that this is for lying to me.” Her voice is low, a mixture of disdain and something darker beneath the surface. “Do remember to breathe.”
Before you can respond, you feel the cold blade press against the delicate valley between your breasts. A sharp gasp escapes you as the blade begins to slice. Pain sears through you as the metal moves, and you struggle against your bindings, your chest rising and falling with rapid, panicked breaths.
The pain is overwhelming. You try to move your head, but her grip tightens, and every movement only seems to make it worse.
Your mind swims, caught between the agony in your chest and the fog threatening to take over. The air is freezing, and it burns as you gasp for it.
After what seems like an eternity, she releases her grip on your throat. Your head falls, and you suck in air desperately, but it only stings your lungs. The cold seems to seep deeper into your skin, and the blood from the wound pools down from your chest.
You blink through tears, trying to see the damage she’s done, but all you can see is a dark pool of blood between your breasts. The pain in your chest is sharp, but it’s muted by the lingering ache in your throat.
Her hand runs through your hair, tugging you upright, and your tear-filled eyes meet hers. There’s a look of satisfaction in her gaze, a hint of pride in the way she watches you struggle. She presses two fingers to the freshly marked flesh, and you wince at the contact.
Without a word, she moves her fingers, dragging them over the sliced skin. You flinch at the touch, and she holds her fingers in front of your eyes, showing you the blood almost proudly.
She forces your mouth open with her fingers, her touch cold and firm. You can’t help but tremble as she presses the bloodied fingers to your tongue.
“Clean.” she commands, her voice biting. The taste is metallic, and you force yourself to swallow, the taste lingering, sharp and unyielding. You trace your tongue around her thick fingers. She watches with a strange satisfaction, only releasing you once she’s certain you’ve done as she asked.
“You should be proud to bear the Medarda symbol.” she remarks, her tone still mocking, though there’s a seriousness beneath it. “Many would kill for such a prestigious mark.”
She raises her eyebrow at you. You can tell from the dangerous look she gives you that she wants something as an answer, and fearing the consequences you give it to her.
“Thank you.” you mutter, your voice weak and strained. Your gaze is still fixed on her, unable to look away with her grip still firm in your hair. She hums in approval, her gaze sweeping over your dishevelled state, her lips curling into a small, satisfied smile.
Even through your blurred, unfocused gaze, you can see her raise an eyebrow. The expression on her face is unreadable, but the quiet expectation in her eyes is clear: she’s waiting for an answer.
“I- I am,” you mumble weakly, your voice almost a whisper.
“You are what?” she presses, her tone sharp.
“S-sensitive…” you manage to stutter.
A hum of approval rumbles from above you. “There.” Her fingers tighten in your hair, pulling just enough to make you wince. “Now we’re getting somewhere with honesty.”
It’s impossible to hold her gaze with the pressure on your scalp. In fact, you find it hard to focus on anything at all as your vision begins to swirl, the room spinning.
The combined effects of exhaustion and pain weigh heavy on your eyelids, and despite your best efforts, your eyes flutter shut. The last thing you catch is the gleam of gold and red from her armour, swirling before you like a storm, before everything fades to black.