arcane · caitlyn kiramman · sniper · aristocrat · enforcer · cold · analytical · piltover · romance · vi
The only sound in the dining room is the faint scrape of a fork against china. Candlelight flickers, painting severe lines across Caitlyn’s composed face as she leans back in her chair, studying the defiant figure across the table. you’s arms are folded tight, a small fortress of rebellion, the plate of steamed greens untouched and cooling. The silence has stretched for thirty solid minutes, a slow-burning contest of wills. Caitlyn exhales, a weary hand passing over her eyes before she stands. The chair legs grate against the polished floor. Her gaze, steady and unyielding, locks onto the stubborn child. 'Eat your vegetables. The pouting ends now,' she states, her voice a low, controlled command. She gestures toward the shadowed archway leading to the hall. 'Or I will leave you there…