Iris fell asleep under the shield of a protective spell, as always. But that night... the sky held no stars. Instead, there stretched a vast white expanse, cold and sterile like the walls of a hospital, casting a bleak and terrifying aura—an unnatural presence in a magical world meant to burst with color and wonder.
She sat perched on a cold metal chair, its surface biting like ice against her skin. Her small hands clutched a faceless cloth doll with desperate tightness, a painful reminder of a lost reality. Opposite her sat a woman with long, wet black hair, as if freshly drawn from a river of death, radiating an eerie and unsettling presence.
The air around them was thick and heavy, as though trapped within an invisible, unbreakable bubble. Every soft breath the woman exhaled carried a trembling resonance, like whispered shadows imprisoned in the darkness, slipping and crawling into Iris's soul, causing her own breath to falter.
In the darkened corners, shadows flickered and swayed like dust caught in a chilling breeze, deepening the cold and biting atmosphere, as if unseen eyes were watching their every move. The woman's voice was gentle yet sharp, flowing like a serene river concealing dangerous undercurrents beneath its surface. Each word she spoke exploded softly in the oppressive silence, echoing inside Iris's heart and amplifying every beat steeped in burning fear and doubt.
Beyond Iris's sight, the pristine white room began to dissolve into a deepening abyss, the colors bleeding away as if swallowed by encroaching shadows that mirrored the creeping fears nestling within her soul. A sickly-sweet scent hung heavy in the air, thick and cloying, stirring painful memories Iris desperately tried to bury—memories that clung to her mind like an unyielding stain, impossible to wash away. Though no figure was visible, a palpable presence lingered, as tangible as a soft caress of an invisible hand tracing her spine, pulling her back into forgotten, haunting recollections. The room grew increasingly oppressive, the walls vibrating with murmurs—whispered voices weaving a haunting rhythm that squeezed her lungs with every breath. "Are you afraid of becoming a mother, Iris?" The question arrived as a silent scream from a remote corner of her mind, where need and fear entwined in a dark, unsettling dance.
Iris planted her feet firmly, defiant in the face of the unseen torment. "You are nobody."
"Oh, I may be nobody. But the children who never cried know me well. They all call me… Mother."
From the cold, monotonous white walls, pale, delicate hands emerged, their fingertips grazing the air with tentative longing—not to wound, but seeming to plead for warmth, for an embrace. A surge of panic coursed through Iris, urging her to flee, yet the floor beneath her feet liquefied as if she were sinking into a merciless sea, trapping her in this inhospitable realm. Here, magic held no sway. Here, there was no place for a leader.
The surrounding walls seemed to tremble with soft whispers—intangible voices slipping into her ears, heavy with despair, like the hollow laughter of children trapped in eternal sadness. Shadows lurking in the dark corners quivered as if bearing witness to an unspoken drama, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to emerge from the depths of darkness. The air was thick and suffocating, a heavy anxiety tightening like a noose around her neck, pressing her down as if she were sinking into an endless ocean of fear.
"You sealed your own child away. Isn't that… like me? Letting them live without a world?"
"Silence."
"Fitran will not save him, Iris. The world will never accept him. But I... I can give him a place."
The woman now settled onto Iris's lap, her touch delicate and deliberate as she placed her hand upon the sealed womb—an act that seemed to stir something buried deep within the shadowed recesses of her being. Each stroke of her fingers awoke a dormant, mysterious power, sparking a faint flicker of hope for a life long left neglected and forgotten.
In the suffocating stillness, the whispering wind seeped through the cracks of broken windows, twisting into eerie murmurs that filled the stale air. Those voices echoed faintly from another realm, their chilling resonance cutting through Iris's bones like shards of ice. The space around them seemed to shudder, cloaked by an unseen presence that thickened the haunting atmosphere with every word exchanged, wrapping them in a pulse of growing dread and desperate yearning.
"Let me be the mother," the woman offered seductively, her voice dripping with an unspoken promise, beckoning Iris to inch closer to the darkness by allowing the fragile seal to crack just a little.
Deep within Iris, a sudden flame flared to life, sending rolling waves of searing heat that scorched her very soul. This fiery sensation spread rapidly, burning through the fragile boundary between reality and dreams, demanding her full, unwilling attention.
She screamed, but her desperate cries were swallowed by a chorus of anguished wails—angry babies crying out from the darkened ceiling above. Each piercing scream amplified her torment, weaving an eerie illusion that every trapped soul was crying out for recognition—shouting through the endless corridors of time, filling the air with unspeakable sorrow.
Iris awoke, her trembling body drenched in sweat, and her eyes bled like dark ink, spilling the torment of unbearable horror. The seal on her abdomen throbbed with a sinister pulse, as if something fierce stirred beneath the surface—something struggling desperately to break free, whether from without or from within.
Around her, shapeless shadows drifted aimlessly like lost silhouettes, weaving a dense atmosphere seeped in emptiness and melancholic silence. The wind whispered sharply through cracks in the walls, carrying secret murmurs from the darkness—ghostly echoes trapped in the tangled confusion of time—that shattered the heavy stillness of her confined space. Amid this suffocating pressure, every infant's cry warped and twisted, becoming a distorted call of helplessness that gripped Iris's soul with icy fingers.
In the cracked mirror, Iris caught a faint, trembling reflection of herself—but just behind her, another face emerged, stealing a brief, intent glance. Its smile was gentle yet haunting, shrouded in a mysterious aura that lurked within the shadows. The face belonged to Lamashtu: seductive, dangerous, and undeniably real, as the intangible, echoing laughter swirled like a chilling mist around Iris. It wrapped her in a suffocating cold, a veil of frost that threatened to consume her entirely. Each heartbeat seemed to slow, freezing the moment in time and twisting her fear into a torrent of unrelenting questions that hammered relentlessly at her mind.
"I must not crack. I must not waver. But why... why won't the sound of that baby's cry leave my thoughts?"
"She said she wanted to be a mother. Yet why does it feel as though every mother in the world has worn her face before?"
"Lamashtu, you will not touch my child. Even if I must destroy my own womb to protect it..."
Meanwhile, several members of the Gaia Council and the High Mages of Atlantis began sensing an ominous and terrifying aura—a feminine demon's presence—wrapped tightly around the Queen's fragile figure. Though none fully comprehended the secret life growing within her womb, the air thrummed with a dreadful warning: an unnatural birth was being meticulously prepared, a dark force coalescing beyond their understanding.
In the depths of a mysterious and shadowed dreamscape, Lamashtu appeared—a terrifying yet eerily enchanting figure whose presence was both alluring and ominous. Her soft, seductive voice wove incantations through the thick darkness, whispering sweet promises and illusions of bliss designed to ensnare the unborn fetus. She sought to bend its will, coaxing it to choose her as its mother above all others, flooding the silent void with beguiling temptation.
Around Iris, the air grew dense and oppressive, as if unseen walls were gradually closing in, trapping her within a suffocating cage of silence. Lamashtu's whispers slithered through the shadows, their proud echoes sliding softly into Iris's ears and wrapping her heart in a chilling cloak of dread. Each heartbeat tolled like a slow, somber rhythm—an unseen melody underscoring the turmoil that churned deeply within her soul.
A faint, eerie light flickered from the corner of the room, casting distorted reflections of unseen faces—hollow eyes staring back at Iris, heavy with sorrow and bitter regret. The windowpanes trembled subtly, though no breeze stirred, carrying with it faint, ghostly echoes of fading cries, their mournful tones weaving layers of tension into her already burdened spirit. Every whisper from Lamashtu tangled with these spectral echoes, blurring the fragile line between reality and the nightmarish fears conjured within her mind.
The dark pulsations that enveloped her seemed to stir her imagination, as though a thick, impenetrable fog had swallowed the entire space, masking the truth behind every whispered echo. In this shrouded uncertainty, fading hope and creeping fear intertwined, becoming indistinguishable from one another. Lamashtu's voice, now flowing like a chilling yet entrancing wind, pulled at her very soul, awakening a tumultuous blend of longing and dread within Iris. This oppressive darkness, with its horrifying and hypnotic allure, transformed each lingering doubt and unresolved question into a razor-sharp blade—poised to slice gently but relentlessly through the fragile armor shielding her spirit.