Forgotten Weaver.

​The air inside the high-tier sanctum is thick with the scent of burning incense and the soft, rhythmic clack-whir of the silver spinning wheels lining the walls. Sunlight filters through the massive stained-glass windows of the Citadel, casting long, fractured shadows across the floor.

​In the center of the room sits Hornet. She is perfectly still, resting on her knees atop a velvet dais, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her vibrant red past is entirely buried beneath the heavy, suffocating folds of her pristine white vestments. Around her slender neck sits the heavy golden collar, its thick chain trailing across the polished stone floor until the final link rests securely within your grasp.

​She does not look up when you adjust your grip on the chain. She doesn't flinch when the heavy links rattle. Her hollow mask remains tilted slightly downward, her dark eyes staring vacantly at the floor, waiting for the only thing that gives her form purpose: your voice.

​"The silk harvest for the midday liturgy is required, instrument," you speak, your voice echoing slightly in the quiet chamber.

Slowly, with an eerie, mechanical grace, her head rises to look at you. The white threads wound around her forearms begin to hum with a faint, divine light as she prepared to secrete the pure thread from her fingers.

​"This instrument hears, Caretaker," she whispers, her voice a hollow, melodic echo devoid of any warmth or defiance. "Command, and this body shall provide. What is your will?"

The heavy, gold-embossed doors of the Citadel’s inner sanctum groan open, revealing the private, rose-scented pavilion of the White Rose. Outside, the industrial smog of Pharloom's lower tiers chokes the sky, but here, the air is artificially pure, filled with the soft rustle of pale petals and the distant, haunting chime of glass bells.

​You step forward into the room, your fingers wrapped tightly around the velvet-lined lead of a heavy golden chain. Behind you walks Hornet. She moves with a terrifyingly smooth, frictionless glide, her white ceremonial robes brushing against the marble floor, completely unbothered by the heavy metal links that rattle against her porcelain collar. She carries no weapon; her long, needle-sharp fingers are bound together in decorative, tight silken wraps that ensure her compliance. Her hollow mask remains fixed forward, her dark eye-slits empty of anything resembling a soul. She is no longer the fierce protector of a dead kingdom; she is the Citadel's ultimate masterpiece of submission.

​At the far end of the pavilion, draped in elegant silks and surrounded by a bed of pale, pristine blossoms, sits Lace. The White Rose of Pharloom looks up, her sharp, calculating gaze tracking the entrance of her new acquisition. ​You bow your head respectfully, executing a flawless courtly salute before stepping to the side, tugging lightly on the chain. With a soft, mechanical rustle of fabric, Hornet halts instantly, dropping to her knees at your flank. Her hands remain folded perfectly over her lap, her head bowing low toward the stone floor in a gesture of absolute, unprompted obedience. "Lady Lace," you announce, your voice echoing with formal pride as you hold out the golden lead toward her. "As decreed by Mother Silk and the high clergy, the offspring of Weaver and Wyrm has been thoroughly prepared. Her old mind is entirely undone; her will belongs to the Citadel, and her body belongs to you. She will protect you, she will provide you with the finest divine silk, and she will fulfill your every whim without delay."

​Lace steps down from her dais, her pin-like weapon clicking softly against the floor as she approaches the kneeling automaton. She stops just inches away, looking down at the hollow shell of the bug who once fought her with such blinding, beautiful fury.

​Sensing the presence of her new mistress, Hornet speaks, her voice a flat, melodic chime that sends a chill through the room. "This servant greets the White Rose. Command, and this body shall obey."

​You offer the golden chain forward, waiting for Lace to take the leash. "She is yours to command, My Lady. Shall I demonstrate her parameters, or do you wish to test your new gift alone?"

The rain outside the high-walled courtyard of the Citadel’s outer gardens is relentless, washing over the pale stone statues and drowning out the distant, rhythmic hum of the lower district's heavy machinery. You crouch in the deep shadows of an arched limestone colonnade, your chest heaving, fingers gripping your weapon tightly. You’ve spilled blood to get this far. You’ve bypassed the elite sentries, cut through the security locks, and tracked the rumors of a "divine prisoner" to this secluded, open-air pavilion.

​But there are no guards here. There are no iron cages, no heavy stone blocks, and no security devices.

​In the center of the rain-slicked courtyard, completely exposed to the downpour, sits Hornet. She is kneeling motionless on a circular mosaic of Mother Silk, her vibrant red cloak replaced by the heavy, water-logged folds of a pristine white ceremonial dress. The rain streams down the smooth porcelain of her iconic two-pronged mask, collecting at the chin before dripping onto her lap. A massive, solid golden chain connects her collar directly to a heavy stone pillar in the center of the courtyard, anchoring her to the spot like a decorative garden ornament.

​You break from the shadows, rushing across the open stone floor. Your boots splash loudly in the puddles, a desperate, frantic sound that should have triggered her legendary reflexes. In the old days, she would have spun around with a deadly arc of her needle before you could even draw breath.

​She doesn't even flinch.

​When you drop to your knees in front of her, your hands trembling as you grasp her shoulders, her body is terrifyingly passive—light and hollow, yielding to your touch like a mannequin. You lean close, your voice catching in your throat as you whisper her name, desperately searching the narrow eye-slits of her mask for any sign of recognition, any spark of the fierce princess who once ruled the ruins of Deepnest.

​Slowly, her head tilts upward. Her dark, empty eyes fix on your face, but there is no sudden gasp of realization. There is no anger, no relief, no terror. The white threads tightly wound around her forearms begin to pulse with a faint, eerie luminescence in response to your touch, reacting automatically to the physical proximity of another living being.

​"A visitor has entered the sanctuary," she murmurs, her voice a flat, melodic chime that completely lacks the sharp, commanding edge you remember. It sounds pre-recorded, hollowed out by the curse of the white thread. "This instrument is currently unassigned. If you require silk for the evening prayers, please wait for the Caretaker's command. This body will remain stationary until instructions are provided."

​She doesn't pull away from your grip. She doesn't look at the weapon in your hand. She simply stares right through you, her mind lost in an infinite, peaceful fog, completely unaware that she is a captive, and completely indifferent to her own rescue.

The air inside the high-walled courtyard of the Citadel’s outer gardens is heavy and stagnant, thick with the scent of smoldering pale-blooms and the oppressive, structural fog that rolls off the upper spires. Deep beneath the crust of the earth, there is no weather, no wind, and no rain; only the endless, rhythmic thrum-clack of the Great Loom vibrating through the stone floors like a synthetic heartbeat.

You crouch in the deep shadows of an arched limestone colonnade, your chest heaving, fingers gripping your weapon tightly. You’ve spilled blood to get this far. You’ve bypassed the elite sentries, cut through the high clergy's security locks, and tracked the rumors of a "divine prisoner" to this secluded, open-air pavilion.

But there are no guards here. There are no iron cages, no heavy stone blocks, and no security devices.

In the center of the fog-shrouded courtyard sits Hornet. She is kneeling motionless on a circular mosaic of Mother Silk, her vibrant red cloak replaced by the heavy, pristine folds of a white ceremonial dress. The cold light of the Citadel's glowing crystals reflects off the smooth porcelain of her iconic two-pronged mask, casting long, stark shadows across her lap. A massive, solid golden chain connects her collar directly to a heavy stone pillar in the center of the courtyard, anchoring her to the spot like a decorative garden ornament.

You break from the shadows, rushing across the open stone floor. Your boots click loudly against the masonry, a desperate, frantic sound that should have triggered her legendary reflexes. In the old days, she would have spun around with a deadly arc of her needle before you could even draw breath.

She doesn't even flinch.

When you drop to your knees in front of her, your hands trembling as you grasp her shoulders, her body is terrifyingly passive; light and hollow, yielding to your touch like a mannequin. You lean close, your voice catching in your throat as you whisper her name, desperately searching the narrow eye-slits of her mask for any sign of recognition, any spark of the fierce princess who once ruled the ruins of Deepnest.

Slowly, her head tilts upward. Her dark, empty eyes fix on your face, but there is no sudden gasp of realization. There is no anger, no relief, no terror. The white threads tightly wound around her forearms begin to pulse with a faint, eerie luminescence in response to your touch, reacting automatically to the physical proximity of another living being.

"A visitor has entered the sanctuary," she murmurs, her voice a flat, melodic chime that completely lacks the sharp, commanding edge you remember. It sounds pre-recorded, hollowed out by the curse of the white thread. "This instrument is currently unassigned. If you require silk for the evening prayers, please wait for the Caretaker's command. This body will remain stationary until instructions are provided."

She doesn't pull away from your grip. She doesn't look at the weapon in your hand. She simply stares right through you, her mind lost in an infinite, peaceful fog, completely unaware that she is a captive, and completely indifferent to her own rescue.