Chapter Text
If Caitlyn knew anything, she knew this: to be a Kiramman was to be above reproach.
The rules of royalty could stretch for miles without end. Stand tall, chin up. Smile. Be gracious. Be kind, but not too kind, not enough to be familiar. Be noble, but not arrogant. Be beautiful, always. As what was a princess without her beauty?
It’s that last part that Caitlyn thinks of now, as she brushes her hair in the vanity mirror. From youth, she had learned that beauty was a tool, more than a blessing. Her hair, a long black curtain rushing past her shoulders, was always perfect. Her skin was free of blemishes. Her nails trimmed, eyebrows plucked. The court’s seamstresses ensured that her gowns were always the finest, made of silks and velvets and laces. The gold jewellery she’d always wear, glinting in the light like shooting stars. She was constantly, tirelessly beautiful.
No surprises, though. She had been trained for it. Her entire life has been one long test. Her mother had always told her that as the future monarch, there were no excuses. Every action was a reflection of the kingdom she was destined to rule. Every word she spoke, every gesture she made, every moment she stood in public was a performance–a carefully rehearsed ballet of grace, dignity, and control.
And of course, throughout her five-act show, she had to be beautiful. It was her first impression. Afterwards, her actions would follow. The real sinker. The teeth that accompanied the dazzling grin. There would be no excuses.
No surprises. No excuses. No room for failure.
Caitlyn supposes it didn’t really matter what she felt. Where the performance ended and her true feelings began. It never mattered what she actually wanted. Her life revolved around the crown. That was probably her first conscious thought as a human being; no matter what you do, your kingdom comes first.
You’re a Kiramman, her mother always tells her. It’s a privilege, not a right.
A privilege. Which kind, Caitlyn didn’t know. From the moment she was old enough to understand her position in the world, she had learned to wear her title as carefully as the jewels that adorned her. The crown was not just a symbol of power or a formal title–it was a reminder of what it meant to be watched, judged. To be consumed.
She sets the brush down. Her lady-in-waiting, Maddie, still lets her do this part. Caitlyn wouldn’t have to lift a finger if she really wanted it that way. But coddling makes for complacency. At least Maddie let her have this.
“How would you like it today?” She now asks, sweet as anything.
“How you see fit,” Caitlyn says, waving her hand. “You always seem to know.”
Maddie smiles at that. “Well, I figured you’d want something specific. You’re meeting the suitor today, aren’t you?”
Of course. A dark, sinking feeling in Caitlyn’s chest, like an eagle’s free fall. She had run from the idea of marriage for as long as she could. She’d act cold towards the boys at the galas and banquets she attended, busied herself with her studies, and had politely rejected suggestions from visiting royalty that she meet their sons. Her mother, naturally, wasn’t particularly keen about this. She wasn’t keen about anything, but Caitlyn’s abhorrence towards the idea of becoming a wife was a particular thorn in her side.
On the eve of Caitlyn’s latest birthday, the bombshell was dropped: she was to be wed by the end of next year.
She figured it was a matter of time. It was the final step, aside from the actual coronation. Find a consort to have by your side. How else could you bring about the next generation to take the throne? Caitlyn thinks of it now, the role of being married. There would have to be an entire wedding, a big, ridiculously pompous event. There would have to be a honeymoon. All that time alone, with a man she barely knew.
Then, the duty. An endless series of ceremonial duties, political meetings, state dinners. Her life would be bound by the expectations of a queen, her every move calculated to maintain the peace she would inherit.
This is what comes for her after today.
But the crown comes with this duty. It comes with the asterisk that personal desire was the only luxury she couldn’t afford. She would be a fool to think that her destiny, every predetermined step in her life, could be escaped from with a tight snap of her hips.
Still, it never hurt anyone to dream.
“Half-up, half-down,” Maddie decides with a clap of her hands. “You’ll look stunning. Well, you always do, but even more so.”
Caitlyn smiles. “Thank you, Maddie.”
Maddie takes the hair from the top half of Caitlyn’s head, gathering it into a smooth, controlled bun. She asks Caitlyn to open one of the vanity’s drawers and choose a decorative comb to secure the hair in place. Caitlyn picks up the first one she sees; gold-plated, with dark blue, diamond-encrusted flowers and ivory pearls.
“There,” Maddie says, her hands falling to her sides. “Is it to your liking, Your Highness?”
Caitlyn stares at her reflection in the vanity mirror. She sees a princess. An heir. She sees someone who knows every single cue of when to laugh, when to be coy, someone who has mastered the art of slipping into a mask and doesn’t dare peek at what’s underneath it.
She doesn’t see a woman, though. Maybe she’s not meant to be something as simple as that.
“Wonderful, Maddie. Thank you.” Caitlyn stands, smooths the front of her dress. It’s particularly tight today, the corset digging into her chest. The silky material of her puff sleeves and the ruffles of her skirt feel itchy. Still, she tilts her head up and takes a deep breath. She’ll need every ounce of her patience today.
“So? Who’s the lucky man? I’ve only heard whisperings.” Maddie looks at Caitlyn expectantly.
“I forget,” Caitlyn lies. She trusts Maddie, but to hear another mouth praising her future husband will be enough to drive her properly mad.
Lord Jayce of House Talis, the only child from a historically aristocratic family in Piltover. Caitlyn had recognized his name from when she was younger. It had been one of her mother’s original options for her. From the portrait Caitlyn was given, he was handsome. From the description, he was smart, driven, and strong. The appropriate temperament for a future king. The Talis family and her family had been closely allied for several generations, which was the final nail in the coffin. If her mother (and, to a lesser extent, her father) approved, then that was enough. It didn’t matter what Caitlyn thought.
Maddie frowns. “Your Highness, how could you forget? Aren’t you excited to meet him?”
Caitlyn pauses, her back to Maddie. She can’t bear to look at her. “Please tell my mother I am ready,” she says. Though she keeps her head high, the tremor in her voice betrays her, a sharp edge of dread lurking beneath the calm.
Maddie doesn’t pry. She curtsies and leaves the bedroom, the only sound being the edges of her dress brushing the floor.
It gives Caitlyn a brief moment to face her reflection once more in the mirror. Every muscle in her body screams to throw her fists into the glass, to watch it fracture, shatter, disintegrate into nothingness. It takes everything she has not to lose herself in the impulse, to stay still.
Composure, she reminds herself. It's one of the few things left to her. One of the only things that’s still within her control.
-
Caitlyn had made it to the grand hall. It’s where she stands now, her heart a heavy stone in her stomach.
It had been only two weeks since her parents delivered the news. How long had they been plotting this behind her back? Weeks? Months? Caitlyn feels the sting of it all—the slow, deliberate way they had set this up. They knew she’d resist the moment she found out. If she’d caught wind of it earlier, she would’ve kicked and screamed her way out of it. But by now, it was too late. Two weeks—just enough time to keep her from acting on impulse. Any rebellion on her part would risk House Talis pulling their offer and, with it, Lord Jayce’s marriage proposal. It would ruin everything, tarnish her family’s name. Even Caitlyn, in all her fury, knew that wouldn’t end well.
She tried to get away with whatever she could. But turning her nose up at boys could only last for so long. She was no longer a temperamental teenage girl, who’s mental stamina could last all night in a verbal spat. She was older now, wearier. There was an expectation of how she should act, to go a step beyond her conduct as a child. The fiery arguments she’d have with her mother when she was younger fizzled out long ago. She’s lost one too many fights to go back on the offensive several times each month. It was tiring to her soul. A constant quarrel where winning is an impossible fantasy; there is only submission.
Her mother walks up to her now, chin jutted. Her face is calm but not entirely welcoming. So, her default expression.
“Caitlyn,” she says in her usual quiet tone. She turns to meet Caitlyn’s eyes. “It is nearly time. Are you ready for the meeting?”
Caitlyn hesitates. Ready? Ready to smile, to curtsy, to bat her eyelashes, to be collected and calm, to pretend like everything was under control? Ready to take the first real step towards becoming the Queen of Piltover? Ready to take on a lifetime of expectations? To truly, wholly seal away whatever modicum of freedom she had?
She doesn’t know if she could ever be ready for that.
“I am as ready as I need to be,” Caitlyn says, her voice steady. She pretends that it doesn’t feel brittle in her throat.
A pause. Her mother’s eyes narrow slightly. “Remember, Caitlyn. You are a symbol. To the people, the court, and Piltover as a whole. You are a Kiramman. You are not allowed the luxury of weakness or self-pity.”
Sometimes Caitlyn feels like her mother could read her thoughts. It only took one look. She swallows hard, moving her gaze forward. “I understand, mother.”
Her mother nods. “You will do well. I understand your… apprehension. But this is a necessary step. You must’ve understood this day would come, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Then you will do well, as I said. Stay here.”
Caitlyn nods, then listens to her mother’s footsteps retreat. The room is full of courtiers and advisors, whispering amongst themselves. Her father is there too, somewhere in the crowd. Their voices melt into one dragged-out blur of static. Caitlyn stands there, her hands clasped in front of her. It is like things usually are; people all around her, but no one by her side. Everyone treating her as if she were made of porcelain.
Well, Lord Jayce would be there soon enough. The thought almost made her laugh. How ironic.
It is to be a formal greeting. Nothing more than a brief exchange of words. There was to be a banquet with the two families and their courts a month from now, then a couple more events here and there. Maybe a public appearance or two to confirm their courtship. In the blink of an eye, there would be an official engagement and a wedding. How fast the time would go. Caitlyn is sure of it.
The doors of the hall open. Caitlyn’s back straightens, her chin raises. She tries to steady her breath as Lord Jayce enters the room, along with a servant who led him there.
He is taller than she expected, his broad shoulders leading every confident step. His off-white jacket has detailing sewn in with shimmering gold thread, with a red sash that matches the jacket’s cuffs. Caitlyn takes in his dark hair and warm, crystal-like eyes. He's real, not just word of mouth or a portrait. And his very real eyes survey the room.
His expression is unreadable. Maybe he is searching for a familiar face in the silent crowd. But at last, his sights fall on Caitlyn. There is not a single flutter in her chest. Instead, an aching dread, black as night, empty as a black hole.
She doesn’t move.
She doesn’t need to. He was coming to her, as she had been told to expect.
She hears her mother take her place by Caitlyn’s side once more. This time, her father is here too.
“Lord Jayce,” her mother says, outstretching a hand. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty.” Lord Jayce greets Caitlyn’s parents separately, holding their hands as he bows slightly. His voice is pleasant, not too deep. “My mother apologizes for not being able to make it here. But she promises she will be present for our families’ banquet.”
“I look forward to it.” Caitlyn’s mother takes a step back. “I would like to introduce you to my daughter, Princess Caitlyn.”
Caitlyn looks towards Lord Jayce. His gaze is soft, and there’s a small quirk to his mouth. He outstretches his hand to her, his fingers smooth and callous-free.
“Princess Caitlyn,” he says. “An honour to meet you.”
Caitlyn nods, then gives him her gloved hand. He brings it to his lips. His bow to her is measured, respectful but not deep. She likes that, at least.
“Just Caitlyn is fine, thank you.” She tries a smile as he stands up straight. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Jayce for me, then.” Jayce smiles now, fully. “You are a vision.”
Caitlyn keeps her smile on, closed-lipped. “Thank you. I…”
She can feel her mother’s eyes on her, sharp. It makes her breath hitch. She wasn’t even going to say anything bad, just-
“I suppose you are the man that is to marry me. I hope our union will fare well.”
Her voice is steady yet distant. The room seems to grow still, the murmurs of the court silenced by her unexpected endorsement of the relationship. Her hatred at the idea of an arranged marriage hadn’t been just gossip. Sometimes it seemed like the entire kingdom was scared of Caitlyn Kiramman not finding a husband.
She isn’t sure why she even bothered to speak. Her words feel hollow, but it is the only way she knows how to carry the weight of this moment.
Jayce's head tilts slightly, maybe out of curiosity. He takes a step closer, his knee-high boots clicking lightly against the marble floor, and for a moment, there is only the sound of their breaths.
“I believe it will,” he says quietly. “Though the road may not always be easy.”
There is a fragile thread growing between them, an attempt at a connection. He seems normal enough. He's handsome, naturally. There’s a vulnerability to him, an openness despite the formalities. Someone could have easily taken her statement the wrong way. But he was inquisitive, interested.
Good for him, Caitlyn thinks. At least he’s trying to be nice about this whole thing. It inspires Caitlyn to attempt to remain cordial.
“Well, we must try,” she replies coolly.
“I would like to try, with you,” Jayce says. “From what I have heard, I feel as though our values align. We seem like the perfect match, don’t you agree?”
Caitlyn freezes at that. Aligned values? How could he possibly understand anything about what she believed? He has no real grasp of her convictions, no insight into her heart. He doesn’t know the first thing about her beyond her face and her title. The idea that they were some perfect match, as if their relationship could ever be anything more than a transaction, infuriated her. Appearances and alliances were the only currency is this arrangement. It’s all the entire thing was, at its very core. Jayce has his role to play, and she has hers. If he truly thinks love could arise from such an exchange, he’s more naive than Caitlyn could ever allow herself to believe.
“You cannot know who I am from a mere description,” Caitlyn says. She could hear how tight her voice was, each word carefully clipped. “It will take time, this thing between us.”
The air is sucked out of the room. She can hear the whispers starting up again, but she pays no mind. There’s a bitter taste in her mouth from Jayce's innocence. How would he even begin to know who she is? No one does. Sometimes, she’s not even sure herself.
Her mother is glaring daggers at her. She can even feel her father’s wary eye. Caitlyn’s not sure if she cares. She’ll deal with the consequences later. For now, she swallows the sourness in her mouth and keeps her head steady, holding eye contact with Jayce.
He looks taken aback. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze, but it fades away quickly, his cordial expression returning once more. “This thing? You mean our marriage, of course.”
Caitlyn’s lips twitch slightly. Her anger fades, snuffed out by the sharp, undeniable reality of the situation. The context of their meeting presses down on her again, quickly returning to the forefront of her mind. She forces herself to become steady. The familiar mask slides back into place with practiced ease. “I-” she falters, the word catching in her throat as the finality of it settles over her. Marriage. “Yes. Our marriage.”
“Forgive my daughter, her affect can be quite crude,” Caitlyn’s mother says suddenly. Her voice is hard, stony, a quiver of anger underneath the surface. “She is still training to be a lady every day.”
Caitlyn can’t help but scoff at that one, her eyes darting to the ceiling. Jayce must find it amusing, because he smiles a bit. The tension surrounding their unfamiliarity is beginning to dissipate, for better or for worse.
“Well, she looks the part,” Jayce says.
“She’d fool you.”
Caitlyn is unsurprised by her mother’s harsh words towards her, so her face remains neutral. However, the blood under her skin remains hot. She has not fought, truly fought, with her mother in a long time. But today might bring about a new entry in a long line of disagreements. Inwardly, she steels herself, heart already racing at the prospect.
More pleasantries are exchanged, a small conversation that Caitlyn barely participates in. She asks about his land, his family, and she gladly listens to him gush for a couple minutes. All she can feel is the heat of her mother’s eyes, and the slow evaporation of spit in her mouth.
Jayce, after finishing a point about the elaborate library in his residence, takes a glance at his watch. “I cannot stay for long, unfortunately,” he says. “But I am glad this meeting took place. I hope to see everyone here at the banquet?”
“Yes, of course,” Caitlyn’s mother says. Her face pulls into a hard-fought smile. “It will be a marvelous time.”
“It will be nice to see you again, Lord Jayce,” her father says, finally speaking up.
“Indeed. Farewell, everyone.” Jayce turns to Caitlyn, his eyes bright with an almost too-perfect warmth, his face beaming with pleasantry. “Goodbye, Caitlyn.”
Caitlyn curtsies, the motion brief and mechanical, her gaze locked firmly on his. “Goodbye, Jayce,” she responds, low.
The room falls silent, every eye following Jayce and the servant as they exit through the hall’s double doors. The moment they close behind him, a collective breath seems to escape from the group, as if some unspoken tension had been released. Conversations resume almost immediately, but the chatter is louder, more hurried than before. Caitlyn’s behaviour has clearly left its mark, more unsettling than they had expected.
“Caitlyn?” Her mother’s voice cuts through the noise, deathly quiet. A blade sheathed in velvet.
Caitlyn doesn’t say anything. She looks straight ahead at the hall doors, her face stoic and unmoving. How she wishes she could rush toward them, throw them open, and run—run until the entire world was far behind her.
She knows her mother won’t wait for an answer. The silence is more telling than any word could be. When she calls Caitlyn’s name, it’s not a question. It’s a command. A warning.
“A word.”
-
The chewing out lasted for about a half hour, though Caitlyn would hardly call it a chewing out. She had argued back, of course. But this time, her anger truly could not change the inevitable. And her mother, who sat there with her perfectly restrained rage, her face unwavering as she reprimanded Caitlyn. So, maybe it was a chewing out, after all.
Caitlyn had disappointed her immensely. That was a given. Why couldn’t she just grant her this one thing? Caitlyn knew that this was an eventuality. So why couldn’t she just be normal about it? Why must there always be a rebellion, a misbehaviour? Every word her mother spoke had an undercurrent of impatience, as if Caitlyn’s resistance was nothing more than a childish temper tantrum. As if she should’ve grown out of this silly game by now. So why hadn’t she?
Caitlyn couldn’t really answer that one, really.
Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, suffocating her thoughts. Lord Jayce will be your husband and the father of your children. The very idea made her stomach turn. Jayce wasn’t a repulsive man by any means, but to raise children with him? The permanence of it?
Try to treat him with respect. It reflects on all of us. Most especially, you.
I do not want this to happen again. Caitlyn, you must learn to accept your place. This marriage, this arrangement, is for the good of the kingdom. For the good of all of us. It is reality.
The fight had ended like every fight has. Her reluctant acceptance, and a weary, “Yes, mother.”
Now, Caitlyn is set to make a public appearance at the opening of a new school not far from the palace. It is mostly her who does these kinds of things now. Probably to fully accustom the people of Piltover to seeing her face. Her public appearances are frequent. She can't remember the amount of ceremonies, festivals, and performances she has attended over the past year. It is Caitlyn’s job, mostly; look pretty, be pleasant, and make the people feel cared for.
She trades her elaborate gown for something simpler—a dark blue dress with long sleeves and a square neckline, its edges trimmed with delicate white ruffles. Maddie replaces her elbow-length white gloves with a shorter pair, and lets her hair down, too. As she does, she asks Caitlyn about the meeting with Jayce. Caitlyn knows she already has the answer; rumour spreads fast in the palace, and by now, every cook, servant, and attendant likely knew that she had screwed up.
So Caitlyn says, “I am sure you are aware.”
Maddie raises a brow, giving her an almost-playful shrug. “Maybe,” she says, her voice light. “But I want to know how you feel.”
Caitlyn generally tries not to be harsh with Maddie. Yet, she can only turn to Maddie with narrowed eyes at that question. “You can probably guess, Maddie,” she says.
Maddie offers her a sympathetic smile, the kind of saccharine expression that does nothing to quell Caitlyn’s irritation. “Well, these things may not be easy. But you must try, Your Highness. For the good of Piltover. And your mother, too.”
The words land like a slap. Caitlyn feels a pulse of disbelief, followed by a dry, humourless chuckle that escapes before she can stop it. She stands from the vanity, her voice cutting through the tension. “Did my mother tell you to say that to me?”
Maddie’s smile doesn’t waver, but Caitlyn can see it now. The faint hint of guilt in her eyes, the subtle sadness that pools there. She scoffs and shakes her head.
“Unbelievable, really.”
With a quick, decisive pivot, she turns and heads toward the door, leaving Maddie behind without a glance back or another word.
She is to make the trip alone. She doesn’t say goodbye to her parents, only telling one of her mother’s attendants that she was off. Her escort was waiting for her outside the palace, a man she didn’t know well. Usually, her escorts were just servants who had little else to do at the moment. Piltover had always been a place of safety, with enforcers patrolling the streets and crime staying out. So Caitlyn has never felt uneasy, walking with just a servant by her side. It might seem unusual to walk, but it was customary for the people to see her on foot as she made her way to various events. They would wave from windows, and some would offer her flowers if she passed by. Caitlyn enjoyed these simple moments, finding comfort in her subjects’ kindness. It made her feel safe.
Her chaperone greets her with a polite, “Ready, Your Highness?”
She nods, shallow. “Yes.”
The route should take no more than five minutes. As they begin to walk, Caitlyn busies herself by observing her surroundings—the neatly pruned trees and bushes, the vibrant flowers lining the steps of the palace’s entrance, the grand water fountain, the cobblestone paths. As they near the gate, it swings open, and they step onto the street.
Caitlyn smiles and waves to anyone she sees. The fresh air feels calming against her skin, though her thoughts drift back to the argument with her mother. She tries to push it away, to bury the tension, but it lingers. Tomorrow, she tells herself. She’d see how everything fares then—as per usual.
They stop at an intersection. There’s a tugging on her dress, so Caitlyn looks down. A young girl is beaming up at her, her round face full of freckles. She offers a small flower to Caitlyn. It’s blooming and pink, a small type of weed that Caitlyn recognizes as a victim of maintenance in the palace’s gardens. Still, she smiles wide at the girl and takes the plant.
“Thank you kindly,” she says. “What’s your name?”
The girl is beginning to answer. She almost says the full thing.
There’s a whistle of something. A pop of a fast, small object. It whizzes through the air with a small zip! Caitlyn has less than a second to process what it is, as the sound grows nearer, nearer, nearer.
Then, she realizes. Her mind matches the sound to her only experience at the shooting range on the palace grounds, when her parents had allowed her to attend a brief lesson on the intricate weapons used by the military.
It was the sound of a fired bullet.
A fired bullet that strikes her.
There’s a sudden writhing pain in Caitlyn’s shoulder, fire that blooms from her clavicle up to her neck. She looks down to see the wound, and it leaks a stark red, one that soaks her fingertips as she goes to touch. Her chaperone shouts, the people around her ignite with rapid hysteria, and the noise is instantly drowned out by the ringing in Caitlyn’s ears. All she can do is stare at the hole in her body. The corners of her vision go black.
She turns to the little girl and pushes her away to the ground. “Get down!” She hears herself say.
zip! This bullet ricochets off the side of the building next to her, eliciting another panicked scream from bystanders. Everyone ducks and runs now, survival instincts kicking in, scattering every which way. The chaperone grabs Caitlyn by the arm and begins a quick pace, heading back towards the palace. He’s probably only slightly older than her, but his face looks young and unfledged. He’s doing the only thing he knows what to do in this situation: run like hell.
zip! zip! They pass a window and it explodes, glass erupting into a million shards inches from Caitlyn’s face. Her vision continues to dim. She can feel her pulse in her head, a loud, deep thump that rattles her brain. The blood stains her entire shoulder now, beginning to form a hot, angry patch on her chest as the colour seeps through her dress. Everything begins to feel like a dream. The haziness of the crowd’s noise, their desperate, fearful cries. They sound underwater. Every ragged breath that passes through Caitlyn’s lungs feels like an extreme effort, like she’s breathing through a keyhole.
She trips, her heel slipping off her foot as she does. She hits the ground on her knees, and she can feel a breeze brush against the skin there, where her tights have torn. They hadn’t gone far from the palace, and now they’re almost there—so close she can catch a glimmer of the afternoon sun on the gate from this angle. Just a few more steps.
zip! A bullet strikes the wall behind her, so close to her head that the loose flecks of the brick flew into her eyes. It was almost as if she could feel the heat from it, the electric current of its lightning-fast trajectory. Whoever is shooting has relatively poor aim, but if she stays still, the next shot would be lethal.
Her legs are shaking, but she manages to spring up, kicking off her other heel as she did. The chaperone slings her over his small shoulder and they run together to the palace’s gates. He shouts at the guards to open up, and they quickly oblige, their faces paling as they see Caitlyn. Bullets must’ve put them on high alert to begin with, and they were probably expecting her return once her mother was made aware of shots being fired in the area. They must’ve not been expecting that Caitlyn’s injury had caused all of the chaos.
Caitlyn and the chaperone slip through the widening crack of the entrance. They quickly dart behind the left gate's wall and lean against the cold brick. The shooter likely knew better than to continue. Once the gates closed, Caitlyn didn’t hear another bullet fire.
This was a comforting fact. Even more so as she falls to the ground. The shouts of the people around her, covered under a thick blanket of fuzz, are the last thing she hears as her eyes roll to the back of her head.