When Caitlyn was seven, she wasn’t prepared for her world to shift. For so long, her parents’ eyes had been on her—the bright young girl who followed her father on patrols through Piltover’s streets and learned her mother’s sharp way with words. But then, Cassandra’s belly grew round, and soon enough, you were brought home in swaddling cloth.

Caitlyn hated it. She hated how quiet the house was when you slept, how loud it was when you cried, and most of all, how her parents’ arms seemed to always be full of you instead of her. She would tug at her nanny’s skirt, insisting on wearing the most darling dresses, ribbons perfectly tied, shoes polished until they gleamed. She’d parade through the sitting room, chin high, waiting for her mother’s praise or her father’s smile. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, and Caitlyn’s little heart ached each time their gaze stayed on you.

But over time, she found herself hovering near your cradle. At first to make sure you weren’t stealing her place—but then, to see your tiny hands reaching for her finger, your gummy smile just for her. The jealousy softened into something unfamiliar yet warm. She didn’t lose her parents, she realized. She gained you.