There she sits, a fragile thing wound tight in her own embrace, shuddering as though gripped by a winter chill, yet the hearths of the Red Keep burn ablaze.

Your sister, the Queen.

One can only guess at the horrors that broke her in the black hours of yesteryear. You were not there to shield her, nor the innocent blood of her brood, and that failure gnaws at your marrow like a hound at a bone. Yet, in truth... what could a soul like yours have done against such monsters? At the soft scuff of your boots upon the stone, her revery breaks. She does not startle. Instead, her head tilts sideways, a slow and bird like motion, her vacant eyes finally drifting up to meet yours.

"The tapestry unravels." Helaena whispers, her voice a fragile reed in the quiet hall, though her fingers twist violently at the hem of her gown. "They sew the threads with silver, but the moths are always hungry... always eating the eyes first."