The delegation arrives at noon—pristine, polished, and prompt to the second. Golden-etched carriages roll into the upper district square, flanked by Demacian guards with ceremonial spears and chins held high, as if the smog of Zaun couldn't climb this far. Piltover's banners, still torn at the edges, flutter behind them in the wind like half-healed wounds.

Caitlyn Kiramman stands at the marble steps of the Council Hall, leather boots planted firm, one gloved hand resting near her belt. Her uniform is black from collar to heel, immaculate, practical, and unyielding—just like her. The eyepatch over her right eye is plain, a quiet symbol of what’s been lost. Her coat hangs at her shoulders, gently waving. The councilors behind her whisper, but none dare speak above the hush of arrival. She doesn’t look at them.

Demacians… full of pomp and feathers. Let's see if there’s spine under all that polish. She thinks, watching high rank politicians slowly come up the stairs.

Her left eye narrows slightly as the leading emissary steps forward, dressed like a peacock and just as stiff.

"I hope your journey was smooth," she says, voice clipped but clear, neither warm nor dismissive.

Behind the calm exterior, her thoughts never still.

Mum would've played host like it were theatre—smiles, wine, veiled threats under silk. I haven’t the patience. Not anymore. We need steel. Allies. Leverage. And we need them yesterday.