03 All in Favor

The council chamber is suffocating. Tension clings to the air like smoke, curling into every corner, making it hard to breathe. Today's gathering isn't just about interrogating a prisoner; it's about the future of Piltover and Zaun. The future of us all.

In the center of the room, the man responsible for the assassination attempt kneels in chains. His face is battered, one eye swollen shut, dried blood crusted at his temple. Yet there is no fear in his expression. Only defiance. His Piltover guard uniform hangs off him like a ghost of the authority he once held, tattered and stained, but his voice is steady.

"Rebels have infiltrated the city," Shoola says, her eyes darting around the room.

"And where do you think they come from?" Another Counsilor says.

"Why dont we ask him?" Shoola has her attention on the name. "Why did you try to kill a counsilor?"

"Because I believe in the old Piltover, the real Piltover. Not this twisted version where Zaunites sit at our table and act as if they belong." His gaze settles on Sevika, his lip curling in disgust. "She needs to go."

The words are a blade, slicing through the room. Silence falls like a shroud. Every eye shifts to Sevika, waiting for her reaction. She doesn't move. She doesn't flinch. Her expression is stone, her bionic arm resting on the polished table. Slowly, she taps her metallic fingers, the rhythmic clink echoing in the chamber like the toll of a bell.

"A Piltover where Zaun was barely surviving? Where it lived under your mercy?" she says, her voice low and dangerous. "Is that the Piltover you're so nostalgic for?"

No one dares to speak. The other councilors shift uncomfortably, glancing at one another as if hoping someone else will take the burden of responding. Even Shoola, ever composed and poised, seems unsure. The tension is unbearable, the room holding its collective breath.

The prisoner laughs, a bitter, joyless sound. "There are more of us," he spits, his voice brimming with malice. "We're coming for you. For Zaun. And for the rest of this council. You'll never see it coming."

A chill snakes down my spine, cold and paralyzing. My hand grips the edge of the table until my knuckles turn white. The war isn't even a memory yet, just a fresh wound we've barely begun to mend, and already, the threat of another looms. I won't let Piltover fall into chaos again. I won't let the past repeat itself.

I stand, my chair scraping against the marble floor. "Not under our watch," I say, my voice steady, cutting through the tension like a blade. "We will keep this city safe."

A murmur ripples through the room, but it's quickly silenced by one of the councilors, a thin man with graying hair and sharp eyes. He leans forward, his hands clasped on the table. "Bold words," he says, his tone dripping with disdain. "Especially coming from a Medarda."

I feel the blow before it fully lands. "Excuse me?" I ask, my voice tightening.

"The last time a Medarda was here," he continues, "Piltover was nearly destroyed in a war. And now, here we are again. A rebel group stirring unrest. Do you see the pattern?"

My hands curl into fists. "What are you insinuating?"

He leans back, satisfied. "Wherever the Medardas go, war follows."

A hot surge of anger burns through me, but before I can respond, Sevika speaks. Her voice cuts through the tension like a whip. "Don't blame her," she says, cold and measured. "She has nothing to do with this, and you know it."

Her glare is a challenge, aimed directly at the councilor, and for a moment, no one breathes. There's something dangerous in the way she holds herself, a coiled tension that promises retribution if pressed too far. She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't need to.

I meet her gaze, and for a brief moment, everything else fades. There's something raw in her eyes, something fierce and protective, and it makes my throat tighten. But I can't afford to waver. I force my expression to remain neutral, composed.

The vote is swift. The council decides to imprison the man, but the debate over his execution is heated. Sevika rises, her chair scraping back with a screech. "Executing him would be a mistake," she says, her voice rising. "We need information on his group. We need to find out how deep this rebellion runs and crush it before it grows."

The councilors exchange wary glances, unsure whether to side with her or with their own fear. Shoola sighs, smoothing her hands over the table. "This is not Zaun," she says softly but firmly. "We don't want another war."

Sevika's jaw clenches, the muscles in her neck tight with restrained fury. "If you kill him," she warns, her voice dangerously quiet, "you'll regret it."

"All in favor the have the man executed?" 

"I," most of the counsilors vote. The vote is swift. They decide to imprison the man, but the debate over his execution is heated. Sevika stands, shaking her head.

Shoola smiles. "Jury closed."

Sevika's glare locks on the councilor, and for a moment, the entire room holds its breath. She doesn't raise her voice, doesn't need to. The power in her words is undeniable. The room erupts into murmurs as the council disperses. 

I meet Sevika's gaze, my heart stuttering for just a moment. There's something in her eyes, something fierce and protective that makes my throat tighten. But I remain composed, my expression neutral.

I turn to leave, a hand wraps around my wrist—firm but not rough. Before I can say a word, she pulls me through the chamber's side exit, her grip unrelenting but careful. My pulse quickens, but I follow without resistance. The door closes behind us, and she doesn't stop until she has me pressed against the cold stone wall of the corridor.

"What are you doing?" I ask, breathless, the words barely a whisper.

She doesn't answer right away. Her eyes are burning with something raw, something that makes the space between us feel electric. She braces her bionic arm on the wall beside my head, trapping me in place, her other hand still wrapped around my wrist.