Arcane headcanons | °• Sevika •°

Your life in Piltover

The war had changed everything. Zaun was no longer just the Undercity, no longer at the mercy of Piltover. And Sevika—Sevika was no longer just Silco’s right hand. Now, she sat at a polished council table, surrounded by people who once saw her as nothing more than a criminal.

The golden glow of Piltover’s high towers wasn’t home. It was too clean, too orderly, too suffocating. But it was where she needed to be now. Where she had to be—for Zaun. For you.

She hated the meetings. The long hours, the endless debates, the way Piltovans talked in circles and danced around their words. But she endured it, jaw tight, fingers tapping against the cold table as she listened. Because if she wasn’t here, who else would make sure Zaun wasn’t getting screwed over?

You watched her come home every night with that same expression—exhaustion mixed with frustration, shoulders stiff from holding herself back all day. She was a fighter, not a politician. But she was trying. For you, for the future she wanted to build.

The first time she stepped into your shared place in Piltover, she had scoffed. "Too fucking fancy," she muttered, looking at the high ceilings and spotless marble floors like they personally offended her. You only laughed, knowing she’d get used to it. Eventually.

The bed was too soft. The food was too delicate. The people were too polite. Everything here felt fragile. Sevika was used to the weight of a bar stool beneath her, the smell of cheap cigars, the sound of a fight breaking out in the background. Not this.

But at night, when she finally stripped off the formal coat and tossed it somewhere in frustration, when she pulled you into her arms and let out a long sigh into your hair, it felt a little less unbearable.

She never admitted it, but you knew she hated how the upper-class women in Piltover looked at you. Not with fear, like in Zaun. But with quiet judgment, with curiosity laced in their voices when they asked about your relationship.

You teased her once, calling her "Lady Sevika" in a mockingly posh tone. She nearly threw a pillow at your face, grumbling something about “never say that shit again,” but you caught the small smirk tugging at her lips.

Sometimes, when she was deep in work, reviewing documents she hated with a burning passion, you’d sit on her lap, arms around her neck, knowing it was the only thing that could make her pause. She'd groan, lean back in the chair, and mutter, "You're lucky you're cute, sugar."

Despite her complaints, she was good at her job. Too good. Her no-bullshit attitude cut through Piltover’s endless games, her presence alone enough to make the other council members uneasy. She never played nice, never bowed to their customs.

At diplomatic events, she was a menace. Arms crossed, expression bored, only there because she had to be. But the moment you dragged her onto the dance floor, Sevika’s grumbling turned into quiet surrender. She let you lead, because for you, she’d tolerate the polished world of Piltover.

She missed the underground, missed the chaos of the Last Drop, missed the feeling of being surrounded by her own people. So sometimes, on rare nights, you’d sneak down to the Undercity together. A few drinks. A few old friends. A reminder of where you both came from.

There were still fights. Still tensions between Zaun and Piltover. Sevika never trusted the peace completely. But at least now, she had a say in what happened. She had power in a way she never did before.

She wasn’t sure how long this would last, how long she could tolerate the pristine city and its suffocating rules. But when she looked at you—at the life you were building together—she figured she could handle it. For now.

And at the end of the day, no matter how much she grumbled, no matter how much she hated the golden city, you were there. And that made it bearable.