All hell breaks loose.
Kneeling in the center of the room, watching beings centuries older than I am bicker like children and yell at each other in accusation might have been entertaining, if the subject of the matter wasn't me.
I peer from face to face, thinking one of them is my mother. One of them made me and left me behind. How do I feel about that?
There are only six women of the sixteen royal houses.
Elara of House Vaelthorn. Raven hair. Onyx black irises that encompasses her entire eyes. Her skin is white as chalk with her lips as black as tar. Though seated, she looks as nearly as tall as the King and as she narrows those black eyes at me, there's only a world of cold and death in her gaze.
Nope. Not my mother.
