Chapter Text
The rain had started before dawn, the kind that never commits fully to falling. It hangs instead, misting coats and flower petals, leaving the garden smelling of wet greenery and expensive perfume. Music plays in the distance, though it isn’t loud enough to keep the whispers from carrying over it. You stand beneath the black canopy with your hands folded and your expression managed in the way you were taught at a young age. Your mother’s casket rests before you, its lacquered wood finished with silver trim and covered in white lilies.
She would have preferred roses.
And gold.
You hear the title from somewhere behind you. Director Callidus. The submission in their voice tells you he has arrived. You turn and see your father standing among the mourners, his black suit perfectly fitted, every inch tailored exactly to his liking. His gray-threaded hair frames a face held in permanent composure, his mouth set in a straight, impassive line. And though he lowers his gaze at the appropriate moments, his eyes remain separate from the sorrow, watchful and unsettlingly clear as they move through the crowd. There is no visible struggle in him, no effort made to contain emotion because nothing presses to escape. Whatever he feels about your mother is nowhere to be found.
You watch as people approach him cautiously, their stride slowing before they even reach him. When hands extend toward his, he allows the contact briefly, accepting each condolence with a solemn look you recognize too well as detachment before ending the exchange on his terms.
Around the perimeter, the Enforcers defer to him without instruction; when his weight shifts, theirs does too. You were raised inside this choreography, long before he was promoted to Director. You learned early how to anticipate disapproval and adjust yourself before it was spoken. Consequences were never public, and disappointment was never immediate. It waited, following you behind closed doors, where correction could be delivered without witnesses.
He makes his way through the gathering and takes his place beside you, one hand resting lightly at your back.
“She would’ve hated this,” you say, without turning.
His hand shifts to the base of your neck, firm enough to direct, not console.
“Don’t make a scene.”
You let the comment pass. You learned long ago which moments disappeared and which waited for you later.
Somewhere behind the rows of umbrellas, Cassandra Kiramman approaches. You notice her before you see her, in the subtle way space reorients itself around her. She enters crowds already assured of her welcome, and people make room without realizing they’ve done it.
You’ve worked under her for years. She offered you a position straight out of school, telling you that Piltover needed minds like yours. She was powerful, perceptive, and for a time, you believed she was something to aspire to. Now, all you can think about is how well grief suits her.
It gives her the appearance of a soul.
She looks appropriately stricken when she reaches you, offering her hand to your father. He bends to kiss it, and your fingers clench behind your back. A moment later, you let your arms fall to your sides and she places her gloved hand over yours. You don’t return the pressure, but you meet her eyes and give her the response she expects.
“Thank you for coming.”
She squeezes your hand again before moving on, passing close enough to your father that their shoulders nearly touch. She steps to the front of the crowd and begins the eulogy, speaking of your mother as if she were a dear friend. You don’t hear the words, only the cadence. The same one she used to make the truth sufficient cover.
Marcus stands several paces back, and your stomach turns at the sight of him. His expression sits somewhere between boredom and entitlement, a composure that has no place here, and he knows it. His eyes find yours, then continue downward. Heat floods your face, but you keep the reaction hidden. You turn away before he can finish looking.
You haven’t been alone with him since the night he learned your father had been promoted instead of him. When resentment set in and he drank until closing. The same night you learned the truth about the affair. You remember finishing glass after glass until standing became optional, and how the bar emptied without you noticing. You remember that he was the one who found you. And what happened afterward.
He chose you because he couldn’t retaliate against your father. That connection has never stopped costing you. You don’t replay it. You learned that memory requires participation, even when the moment itself did not. Forgetting was the only consent left to you. What remains now is the aftermath, the way his eyes pass over you as if nothing had happened, as if that were the agreement.
The rain must’ve finally come down while you were lost in thought. It drips from the edge of the canopy, splashing on the ground near your shoes. Your eyes shift to the empty space where your mother’s family should be. You accept the explanation you were given: distance, politics, obligations that could not be set aside. It’s easier that way. Easier than asking why no word came at all.
Cassandra brings the eulogy to a graceful close soon after, prompted more by the inconvenience of getting wet than by any genuine sense of loss. When she steps down, your father’s hand finds her arm, guiding her as she descends. She smiles at him while your mother’s body cools in the casket behind them, already irrelevant to the exchange unfolding in front of it.
The service comes to an end, and guests begin filtering toward the reception hall to escape the rain. You stay there a moment longer, staring at where she lies, trying to understand what your life is supposed to become without her in it. Without the one person who stood between you and your father. Your eyes sting at the thought, but you don’t let yourself cry. You say one final goodbye and turn away.
Once inside, you stand apart from the crowd near one of the tall windows, watching the city through the rain-streaked panes. Across the room, Cassandra is speaking with another Council member, Allira Salo. You catch only his snide comment about the catering, but you hear Cassandra perfectly as she laughs politely and assures him she’ll pass along the feedback, as though they’re attending a Council function rather than a funeral. Not far from them, your father is already discussing potential Academy recruits with two Enforcers.
Listening to them, you don’t wonder whether your mother ever felt out of place in this life. You wonder how she endured it for as long as she did, when you can barely hold yourself together now.
When you finally excuse yourself, you step out onto the balcony and lean against the railing, breathing deeply for the first time all day. The door opens behind you, and you sense someone at your side.
Caitlyn Kiramman.
She approaches discreetly, staying out of your parents’ line of sight.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
It’s the first apology you’ve heard today that carries weight.
“I know.”
She glances toward your father. “He shouldn’t be allowed to stand there like that.”
You look where she does. Nothing about him has changed.
“That’s how it works.”
“Someone should have done something. Someone should—”
She stops as the words turn back on her—the report, the confidence with which she filed it, the belief that she was doing the right thing.
“I didn’t—” she starts, then stops again, unable to finish.
She didn’t kill your mother. But her actions ensured that nothing interrupted him while time ran out.
“I know, Caitlyn,” you say softly.
For a while after that, neither of you speaks. Nothing happened today. Nothing ever does. Your father remains unchallenged while everyone else learns how to survive around him.
You understand then what’s been missing. It was never planning or resolve. It was the freedom of having nothing left to lose. As long as your mother was alive, he controlled the cost of your defiance. That truth dictated every move you made.
When she died, that leverage died with her.
If he’s ever going to fall, it won’t be because this city finds a conscience. It will be because you step outside of the place that answers to him.
You stop thinking about how to endure.
And you start thinking about how to return the damage.
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