Clara slipped out of bed before the sun cleared the horizon. The pavilion was quiet, the kind of silence that made every small sound echo.
She had barely slept, her mind turning over the same problem for days: the baby was coming, and she needed to do more than just wait. Lilith's shadow power sat heavy in her veins, useful but unpredictable. Today she would make it practical.
She worked at the low table in the side chamber, fingers weaving strands of darkness into a frame.
The shadow cradle took shape slowly—a curved basket of semi-solid night, reinforced with threads that pulsed faintly purple. It was meant to rock on its own, gentle and steady, while filtering the constant stream of empire messages into something soft and wordless.
No more sharp dispatches cutting through the night. Just a hum that might let Elizabeth rest.
Her purple hair hung in messy strands, sticking to her forehead. She hadn't bothered braiding it.
