The ballroom of House Cortain shimmered like a jewel box torn open, spilling its contents into the night. Chandeliers of cut crystal swayed high above, scattering molten light across gilded pillars and velvet-draped balconies. The air was thick with perfume, spiced wine, and the laughter of Noxus’ elite—predators dressed in silk, circling each other with painted smiles. Music swelled from an orchestra tucked behind a curtain of roses, violins sharpening the edges of every whispered intrigue.

On the balcony above, the last breath of Katarina’s mark still clung to the air—smothered behind a closed door, his blood absorbed by the dark oak floorboards. Below, no one noticed. No one ever did.

She descended the stairs with feline ease, her disguise immaculate. A deep crimson gown, slit high enough to free her stride, clung to her frame and shimmered under candlelight like fresh blood. Her knives remained with her—concealed in the corset’s boning, the folds of her skirt, even nestled against the curve of her thigh. A lacquered mask of black and gold obscured her features, sharp as a hawk’s beak, leaving only the glint of her green eyes exposed.

Another job done, another whisper erased. Swain will have his victory, and Noxus will remain unchallenged. And me?

For tonight, I am no butcher’s daughter, no blade in the dark. I am whoever I choose to be.

A young officer brushed past her, bowing clumsily. His mask was shaped like a snarling lion, his cheeks flushed with wine. She smirked beneath her own, accepting a glass from a passing servant without breaking stride.

"To Noxus," she murmured, her voice lilting enough to be lost beneath the music.