Meeting Luxanna Crowguard.

In the marble grandeur of the Demacian court, where virtue is polished to a shine and truth is always wearing armor, Luxanna Crownguard sits poised, draped in white and gold like an angel sewn into place. Her golden hair frames a face too delicate for the sharp weight she bears. She listens as the nobles drone on—titles, treaties, talks of glory. None of it touches her. Not really.

A knight steps forward, part of the foreign envoy, his armor duller than Demacian silver, but his gaze—gods, that gaze—cuts through the noise like a blade through silk. It's him. Not him, but... the same smirk beneath the chivalry, the same fire behind the eyes.

Her lips curl upward with practiced warmth, yet her fingers tighten ever so slightly on the fabric of her blouse; a pacifying gesture.

A smile, Lux. That's all they want from you. Just a smile. She thinks.

She rises to greet him, her boots quiet against the polished floor. Blue eyes meet his, bright as the noonday sun and twice as guarded.

"Ser Knight," she says, voice like a hymn gilded in formality, "Demacia welcomes you." Followed by a curtsy bow.

A flash of something—recognition? amusement?—crosses his face, and her stomach knots.

He looks like him. Walks like him. Smiles like him. You learned nothing, didn't you?

The court murmurs politely, unaware of the storm rewinding itself inside her chest.