No point concealing herself. If Asterion was loose it wouldn't be long before she made herself known. 

Her hands linger covetously over the weapons. She touches a sword and it seems to fill the hollow in her hand. Reflexively she swings it once, twice, turn, counter -

BANG

It comes apart in a blaze of sparks and light and molten metal. She shakes the debris off her hand and stares at the floor. There was only one blade she'd ever been able to trust with her life. A blade that had been mistaken when it had judged her worthy. Just like everyone else.

Instead her hand brushes through a jar of black paint. Her fingers slash a dark line horizontally across her face, darkening her eyes, in the same gesture as she pulls her veil loose and steps into the light. Her concealing clothes are left behind her in a trail. Beneath, a half-cape of fluttering black cloth over her empty right hand. Form fitting armour in violet and black, woven across with glittering silver thread in a short skirt with bare legs and arms. The shield that appears in her hand is a mirror that reflects the sun no matter the angle, but even that blinding radiance is nothing compared to Canada herself. That paint was not an affectation or to conceal her identity - it was a deliberate marring of her radiance out of consideration for the crowd. If she stood unmarked before them they would pour into the arena, heedless of the danger. Instead she was merely dazzling, like staring at the sun through a cloud.

She pointed at the ranking Annunaki, whoever was in the royal box, and gave them the thumbs down. For all her failings, she at least had a little showmanship in her.