The lights flickered back on after a brief stretch of darkness.
They revealed a lavish chamber—fine carpets spread across polished floors, ornate decorations placed with deliberate precision, and heavy velvet drapes in a deep burgundy hue framing the room.
The air carried the scent of fresh flowers, rich and overwhelming, drawn from the crimson blossoms arranged throughout the space.
Above the bed hung the head of a demonic creature, its hollow gaze fixed eternally forward—a silent warning rather than a spectacle.
Reclining beneath it was a woman.
Her long cherry-blossom–colored hair spilled down her back like soft silk. Green lipstick stood out sharply against her pale complexion, and a small mole on her left cheek gave her otherwise severe beauty an unsettling contrast. In her arms lay a newborn boy, still and quiet, pressed against her blood-stained sleeves.
The room was silent save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the slow, measured rise and fall of the woman's breathing.
Three midwives stood nearby, unmoving. They waited for their mistress to speak.
Cassandra Lu Way's gaze rested on the child, unblinking. Her crimson-grey eyes were empty—cold, assessing, and utterly detached. There was no warmth in the way she held him, no tenderness in her expression.
Minutes passed.
She did not speak.
To an outsider, the scene might have resembled contemplation. Perhaps even reverence. But those who served Cassandra knew better. Silence, when it came from her, was never gentle.
The temperature in the room dipped subtly. The flowers lining the walls began to droop, their petals curling inward as if shrinking away.
Cassandra was displeased.
And displeasure, in her presence, had consequences.
At last, she spoke.
Her voice was low, calm, and carried easily through the chamber.
"Utterly," she said.
A pause.
"Pathetic."
Another.
"Worthless."
They were the first words the child ever heard.
The servants did not react. They did not dare.
Cassandra closed her eyes, releasing a quiet breath. When she opened them again, a familiar tension rippled through the room. The midwives recognized that look—rare, decisive, final.
Few things survived once she reached such a conclusion.
There was something grimly poetic in it. That the one who gave life could also decide its worth.
This was Cassandra Lu Way.
Before she could act further, an alarm pierced the stillness.
Her gaze snapped toward one of the midwives.
"You," she said. "Come."
The woman hurried forward, hands trembling as Cassandra passed the child to her without ceremony.
With a snap of Cassandra's fingers, petals burst into motion around her, swirling into a tight vortex. An umbrella appeared at her side, and in the next instant, the petals scattered, leaving her transformed.
She now wore a tailored black coat over a crisp white shirt, her trousers fitted perfectly, polished leather boots grounding her stance. Her dark hair was pulled into a severe bun, sharpening her already commanding features.
She stepped outside.
The storm struck immediately.
The moon hung low, stained crimson against the sky. Rain fell hard and heavy, lightning crashing against the clan's barrier with a force unseen for centuries. The clouds churned overhead, dark and restless, and an uneasy presence lingered in the air.
Cassandra lifted her hand, letting the rain gather in her palm.
"Interesting," she murmured.
Behind her, a hesitant voice called out.
"Mistress?"
She turned slowly. The midwife flinched under her gaze.
"What is it," Cassandra said coolly.
"What should I do with the boy?"
For a moment, Cassandra seemed almost surprised—as though remembering him only now. Her eyes flicked briefly toward the child.
His eyes were open.
They met hers.
The moment lasted only a heartbeat before she looked away.
"Ask another," Cassandra said.
She turned, took a few precise steps forward, raised her umbrella—
—and vanished.