Descendants #179

In the stillness of an obsidian backdrop, there stands a figure, its form carved from the blush of dawn, each limb and facet glowing with the soft intensity of the first morning light. The head, a blossoming chrysalis, holds a deep abyss at its center, a single eye through which the soul of this creature might gaze out, pondering its silent, eternal vigil in the quiet hours when the world holds its breath.