Chapter 45: A Room For My Son

Even anger deserves a warm bed and a sweet dream in the most silent depths of the blue tower, there is a corridor no one speaks of neither the gods, nor the dolls, nor even the dreams this corridor is woven from a strange material, resembling burnt velvet with each step, the floor sighs, as if remembering too many contained pains. Saphira walks alone her steps are slow, regular, heavy. In her arms, Élya, reduced to her plush form, sleeps a deep sleep even she is not consciously here. Saphira took her, not to reassure herself, but because this familiar weight against her chest keeps her anchored.

Around her float fragments, pieces of materials that come from no particular world a brick pulsates to the rhythm of a frozen memory an outstretched hand, refused a pane of glass trembles with each sigh a sigh a child held back on a night of punishment a bed, levitating, sculpted from a broken but re-stitched dream the fabric is black, but each seam has been hand-stitched by Morpheus, in the light of sleeping stars it is not a prison she is building it is a room for a child who does not yet know how to dream without biting she stops before a round door it seems made of wood, but on closer inspection, it is a moving, organic, almost living material a half-closed eye is engraved in the center. It beats softly, as if it has been dozing for centuries.

Saphira places her palm in the center."It's here."

Her voice is not trembling, but it is heavy; each word seems to have to cross a world. "You will be confined."

She closes her eyes, presses her forehead against the door. "Not because i reject you, but because even storms need shelter."

She raises her hands; her fingers trace precise circles in the air, carved with pale blue lightning. the wind recoils, the ground holds its breath around her, six circles of energy slowly appear, suspended in the air like dying moons a golden chain weaves between them each ring has been braided by Hera herself, blessed not by justice, but by the love of a mother who knows that to love is sometimes to say no.

—"You will not be able to leave without my permission, not as long as you are angry, not as long as you are unstable but inside, you will have what i could not offer you at first."

The door opens slowly, silently the room is dark, but it is not a threatening darkness it is a warm, habitable, deep darkness a stone cradle, placed in the center, diffuses a gentle warmth. not scorching, not divine, simply human the walls are covered with living curtains, made of enchanted silk, that murmur invented lullabies not those sung to children to make them sleep, but those sung when they have already cried, screamed, struck there are cushions in the corners, of all sizes, all textures some trapped with soothing spells, others empty, waiting for someone to get lost in them. And in the center of the cradle, a doll.

Black. With closed red eyes, perfect, motionless. fragile and terrifying at once.

Saphira approaches, she does not cry, she does not smile, she speaks. "Nekridhal, my son, my fault, my creation, and my duty."

She kneels, touches the doll, closes her eyes, and in a dream, she sees him it is no longer a nightmare; it is no longer a monster it is an immense, mechanical, runic child his arms are made of breathing steel, his torso is sculpted from a stone covered with ancient prayers, but in his eyes… a glimmer, a pale blue light a vestige of her, a fragment of love she murmurs: "You were born of my anger, but you don't have to carry it alone you won't leave until you understand that even a nightmare can want to sleep."

She stands up, hangs a small mobile from the ceiling, made of tiny enchanted stars each contains a child's laugh, an adult's sigh, a divinity's tear then, gently, she places on a cushion… a miniature doll of herself. It is simple, small, blue, but its arms are open. "She is there to watch over you even when i sleep."

The seal around the room begins to close, the circles fold back on themselves, the chains unite. the light dims, she takes a step back then she hears a breath, a murmur, a word: "Mom…?"

She freezes her heart stops she looks at the black doll its eyes are still closed, but the voice was real she smiles and replies, so softly that only the dream can hear it : "Yes, my heart. I'm here." and she moves away, letting the room seal behind her.

The multiverse may tremble, the tower may waver, the gods may fall, but Saphira Noctielle, queen of lightning and shadows, has done what no one had dared to do she has offered a room to her anger, a bed to her pain, and a dream to her nightmare.

End of Chapter 45 — A Room For My Son