Descendants #20

In the stillness of obsidian nothingness, an ethereal automaton stands, its limbs a lattice of bone-white and joints of shadow; within its translucent, amber chest, a nebula of color swirls—a heart of captured cosmos, a silent pulse in the eternal night. Each limb, articulated with a craftsman’s precision, reaches out as if to embrace the void, or perhaps to conduct the silent symphony of the infinite dark.