------- Five days Later, port of Bel'Zhun----------
The morning sun was a dull, bloodstained ember in the sky, casting a deep crimson hue over the waters of the harbor. The air smelled of salt, iron, and oil, the lifeblood of Bel'zhun's trade and war industries. The city's massive stone piers, carved from the black rock of the Shuriman coast, stretched into the harbor like grasping fingers, waiting to receive an arrival that had set the entire garrison on edge.
And then—
The warship appeared.
It cut through the water with ruthless precision, an armored leviathan of polished steel and crimson banners. Its hull bore the insignia of House Medarda, though subtly adorned with additional sigils—marks of private contracts, noble alliances, and unseen influences within Noxus.
This was not merely a vessel of commerce. This was a warship.
On the shore, General Dorrik stood at the head of a Noxian honor guard. A hundred soldiers, cloaked in crimson, their armor reflecting the light of the rising sun. The message was clear:
Noxus is watching.
A few paces behind him, Captain Su'Rhaal and Zanaiya stood with their own unit—the Desert Raiders, silent and ever-vigilant. Unlike Dorrik's disciplined formations, Su's warriors moved like shadows, their presence a quiet but lethal reminder that Bel'zhun was still a contested city.
Then, the warship docked.
With the hiss of pressurized hydraulics, the gangway lowered before the vessel had even fully settled. A deliberate show of efficiency, precision, and control.
And then—
Ambessa Medarda descended.
She did not stride. She marched.
Her Noxian officer's coat, reinforced with gold-lined pauldrons, swept behind her like a cape. Every step was calculated, her expression impenetrable, her presence as immovable as the iron will of Noxus itself.
Rictus followed beside her.
He was larger than most men, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, a warrior who had seen battle across half the known world. His scarred face was set in the same disciplined mask he had worn for decades.
Behind them, an entire regiment of Medardan militia descended in perfect formation. Their weapons were slung—but their movements were too disciplined, too efficient to be anything but lethal.
Even among Noxians, this was a force of professionals.
The air grew heavier as they reached the dock.
Even veteran officers straightened.
Even the breeze seemed to hush.
Dorrik stepped forward, his stance neither hostile nor welcoming.
This was not an inferior greeting a superior.
This was a general acknowledging another general.
He did not bow.
Ambessa did not expect him to.
"General Ambessa." His voice carried across the pier, even and measured. "To what do we owe your presence in Bel'zhun?"
Ambessa halted before him, her golden eyes assessing him like a commander surveying the battlefield.
She gave a small, diplomatic nod.
"General Dorrik," she greeted, her voice smooth, layered with iron beneath the silk. "I was in the region. I thought it was time I visited one of Noxus's most strategic holdings."
Her words were careful.
She had not said military holdings—she had said strategic.
Dorrik did not miss the distinction.
"Bel'zhun is a military stronghold, not a trade outpost." His tone was measured, firm.
Ambessa's lips barely curved.
"In my experience, the two are often one and the same."
Silence.
The banners above them rippled in the wind, the only sound between them.
Then, Dorrik motioned toward the road leading into the city.
"We can discuss your reasons for coming at the garrison."
Ambessa studied him for a moment longer—then, with an approving nod, she turned to Rictus.
"Have the men fall in." Her voice was not loud, but it carried absolute authority.
Rictus nodded, and with a single motion of his hand, the Medardan forces fell into a perfect column.
Dorrik turned slightly toward Su'Rhaal.
"Captain Su, arrange accommodations for General Medarda's men."
There was an implicit order beneath his words: Watch them.
Su inclined his head.
"Yes, General."
Without another word, Dorrik turned and began leading the way toward the garrison.
Ambessa followed—her presence looming over the city as though she were already taking its measure.
As the soldiers moved into formation, Su turned toward Rictus.
Years had passed since they last stood on the same battlefield.
Rictus had been his Captain, the one who had shaped him in the fires of war.
The one who had seen his potential—and the one who had ensured he received his Runic Blades.
Rictus gave him a long, assessing look.
"You'have grown," he remarked.
Su gave a faint smile. "I'd hope so."
Zanaiya tilted her head. "Still look the same to me."
Rictus gave a dry chuckle.
"No," he said, eyes narrowing slightly. "There's something else."
Su met his gaze. "It's been a long time Sir."
Rictus's expression didn't change.
"We need to talk."
There was no embrace, no warmth—only the quiet understanding of soldiers who had once fought and bled together.
And just like before, Rictus had seen something coming.
Something that no one else had yet spoken aloud.
-----------------
As the contingent marched toward the garrison, the city watched.
On the rooftops, in the alleyways, along the bustling streets—the people of Bel'zhun knew what it meant when generals gathered.
It meant that something was shifting.
And shifts in power always came with consequences.
In the towering halls of the garrison, behind closed doors, a battle was about to be fought.
Not with blades—but with words, alliances, and the slow, grinding weight of power shifting hands.
-----------------
Dorrik stood at the head of the table, his broad-shouldered frame tense with barely restrained irritation.
Across from him, Ambessa Medarda stood in eerie calm.
Her crimson officer's coat was immaculate, her hands resting lightly behind her back—a practiced stance of someone utterly in control. She did not fidget. She did not react. She simply existed in command.
"General Medarda," he began, keeping his voice measured, "I appreciate your presence, but I wasn't informed of any official intervention from the capital regarding my command here."
He placed his hands on the table, leaning forward.
"This is my city. My garrison. If there were concerns, they should have been brought to me directly."
Ambessa tilted her head slightly, as if regarding a misbehaving officer who had just questioned the chain of command.
"Ah," she mused, her voice smooth but carrying a quiet undercurrent of dominance. "And yet, here I am."
Dorrik's jaw tightened.
Ambessa stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, her hands still neatly clasped behind her back.
"The Great Houses are concerned." Her tone was calm, methodical. "They have been reviewing your reports." A pause. "And the reports of others."
Su saw the slight flicker in Dorrik's eyes—he was beginning to realize he was on dangerous ground.
Ambessa stopped just shy of the war table, her presence looming.
"You claim Bel'zhun is secure. That your hold on the city is absolute."
Her golden eyes flicked to a stack of reports on the table.
"Yet, supply lines are inconsistent. The trade economy has destabilized under your watch. Local forces refuse to cooperate with your rule."
She turned slightly, inspecting a map detailing the region's unrest.
"And worst of all…" Her voice lowered, just enough to force everyone to lean in slightly.
"...your own officers have been dying."
Silence.
Dorrik stiffened.
Su felt a sharp wave of vindication—she was finally forcing him to answer for his failures.
Dorrik forced his expression to remain neutral.
"War has its costs, General Medarda. My men fight on the front lines. Casualties are expected."
Ambessa smiled slightly—a predator's smile.
"Of course," she agreed smoothly. "When casualties serve a purpose."
The room felt colder.
Dorrik's fingers curled slightly against the table.
"You are questioning my command?"
Now, Ambessa's voice lowered, just a fraction.
"I am evaluating it."
She circled the war table, her movements slow and deliberate, until she came to stand beside Su'Rhaal.
She didn't look at him—but he knew.
She was making a point.
A slow realization settled over him.
This was a test.
Not of Dorrik.
Of him.
Dorrik, sensing his position slipping, pushed back harder.
"This city is mine to govern," he insisted. "And I have done so for years. If there were deeper concerns, I would have been informed directly by the Grand General."
Ambessa raised an eyebrow, almost amused.
"Oh? Are you under the impression that I am not here under direct orders from the Grand General?"
Dorrik blinked.
A flicker of doubt.
Ambessa stepped closer to Dorrik now, her hands still folded neatly behind her back, her voice barely above a murmur—but far deadlier than a shouted threat.
"Your command has been lacking, General," she said, enunciating each word carefully. "I am here to ensure that it is corrected."
Dorrik bristled.
"My control is not in question."
Ambessa smiled again.
"Then you have nothing to fear."
A trap.
A perfect, inescapable trap.
Dorrik stiffened.
Su could see the anger behind his eyes—but he could do nothing.
She had already won.
"This has been enlightening," she said smoothly. "I think I will need to evaluate the situation more closely."
Dorrik tried to recover.
"You will find nothing lacking, General."
Ambessa gave him a patient, almost pitying look.
"We shall see."
Then, she turned.
The meeting was over.
And Dorrik didn't even realize he had already lost his city.