What does it mean to die for nothing?
The thought pierced Maeve's mind as she staggered forward, her boots crunching against the shattered remnants of a fight that had already ended. The air was heavy with smoke and the metallic stench of blood, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore.
Bodies surrounded her like overgrown grass, scattered and still. Maeve barely moved, but the weight of it pressed on her chest. All she could think about was how these people—Zaunites who had believed, who had fought—were dead. Gone. Erased from history. Their names would never be spoken again.
Maeve stumbled through the aftermath, her hands trembling, her pistol hanging uselessly at her side. The Enforcers had retreated, leaving behind the ruin of what they had done—a graveyard of the hopeful, bodies upon bodies, all sacrificed for a dream that had turned to ash. She didn't know how she was still standing, still moving, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she pushed forward, calling out names into the silence.
"Felicia! Connoll! Vander!" Her voice cracked as she looked around. "Silco!"
The bridge stretched endlessly before her, broken stone and broken dreams. And then she saw him—Vander, standing amidst the ruin like a monument carved from grief. His broad shoulders hunched beneath the weight of loss, his face drawn and empty.
Maeve ran to him, her heart pounding with a desperate hope she didn't dare acknowledge. "Where is everyone? Where's Felicia?" she demanded, her voice raw, her hands gripping his arm.
Vander didn't answer. He didn't have to. His eyes dropped to the ground, and then, reluctantly, they flicked behind him.
Maeve turned, and there she was.
Felicia's body lay crumpled on the cold stone, still and silent. Blood stained her clothes, dark against the once-vibrant colors. Her eyes, once so full of life, were closed forever. Maeve froze, her breath caught in her throat, the world tilting beneath her feet.
Felicia had died for Zaun. For the people she loved. For hope. But what hope could survive this? What future could grow from the ashes of so much death? Maeve's chest heaved as a scream built in her throat, only to die there, strangled by the weight of everything. She wanted to tear the bridge apart, stone by stone, to demand answers from a world that had given her nothing but pain.
Her legs gave out, dropping her to her knees beside Vander. The knife she carried slipped from her fingers, clattering uselessly to the ground. Her hands trembled as they hovered above her sister, desperate to touch her but paralyzed by the finality of it. It didn't feel real.
But it was.
Maeve's thoughts spiraled, blurred into chaos. Felicia had believed in something. She had fought for something. And still, she had died for nothing. No revolution would come from this. No justice would tip the scales. Zaun would remain in chains. Piltover would remain untouchable. And Felicia was gone.
Maeve dropped her head into her hands, her body folding under the weight of it all. Tears burned behind her eyes but refused to fall. She couldn't cry. She couldn't scream. All she could do was sit there, shattered, as the bridge around her whispered the truth.
This was all they ever could be.
Doomed to die.
