The luxurious birthing suite was a masterclass in opulence, with plush velvet drapes in a rich burgundy hue that seemed to whisper tales of grandeur.
The walls were adorned with intricate frescoes, each one a work of art in its own right, depicting scenes of mythological creatures and celestial bodies that seemed to dance across the ceiling.
The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers, their delicate petals arranged artfully in a crystal vase on a beautifully crafted wooden side table that seemed to glow with a warm, golden light.
A chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals reflecting the soft glow of the room's ambient lighting, casting a warm, ethereal glow over the entire space.
On the bed, the woman lay reclined, her long, cherry blossom-colored hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of pink silk.
Her green lipstick was a striking contrast to her pale skin, and the mole on her left cheek seemed to add a touch of whimsy to her features.
Her crimson-grey eyes, however, were expressionless, almost piercing as she gazed at the baby cradled in her arms.
Despite her pale complexion, her beauty was undeniable, and the light white clothes she wore couldn't hide the curves of her voluptuous figure.
The baby, a boy with the same shade of hair color as his mother, lay quietly in her arms, his tiny features scrunched up in a mixture of confusion and exhaustion.
He was the first of her children to share her hair color, and the midwives in the room couldn't help but steal glances at the pair, their faces a mask of professionalism.
The room was silent, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioning and the gentle rustle of the woman's breathing.
The midwives stood frozen, awaiting their mistress's orders, but she remained silent, her gaze fixed on the baby.
The silence was oppressive, weighing heavily on the room's occupants, as if the very fate of the world depended on the woman's next words.
Ten minutes passed, and still, she said nothing, her expression unreadable.
Most would assume she was admiring her newborn, cooing over his tiny features and cherishing the moment.
But the woman was not your stereotypical mother.
She was a figure of power and mystery, a woman whose reputation preceded her.
And in this moment, she seemed to embody both the beauty and the darkness that surrounded her.
The midwives shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between the woman and the baby.
They had attended to countless births, but there was something different about this one.
Perhaps it was the woman's aura, or the way she seemed to command the room without even speaking.
Whatever it was, the midwives felt a sense of trepidation, as if they were waiting for something momentous to happen.
Finally, after an eternity, she spoke, her voice low and husky.
The sound seemed to reverberate through the room, like a crack of thunder on a summer's day.
"Utterly."
The word hung in the air, a challenge, a condemnation, a judgment.
The midwives exchanged nervous glances, their faces still, as if waiting for some unseen signal to react.
She paused, her gaze still fixed on the baby, her eyes seeming to bore into his very soul.
"Pathetic."
"Useless Mongrel," she sneered.
Nine months of meticulous planning, only to be saddled with a subpar exorcist.
Her calculations must have been woefully inaccurate.
Yet, there was something intriguing about this foresight.
The servants stood silently, awaiting her orders.
Not a single one dared to voice an opinion, their faces masks of impassivity.
Before she could speak, a shrill alarm pierced the air, signaling that the clan was under siege.
The threat must be substantial for the alarm to sound.
Cassandra's gaze locked onto one of the midwives.
"You, come," she commanded, her tone devoid of warmth.
The midwife hastened to her side, and Cassandra handed her the child.
As the midwife stood back, a whirlwind of petals erupted around her, swirling in a miniature vortex.
An umbrella materialized, hovering above the child, and just as suddenly, a hand shot out from the vortex, dispersing the petals.
Cassandra was already dressed for the occasion, clad in a sleek black coat with a crisp white shirt underneath, her trousers tailored to perfection, and her feet shod in polished leather ankle boots.
Her raven hair was pulled back into a tight bun, accentuating her sharp features.
As she stepped outside, the storm hit her like a slap in the face.
The moon hung low in the sky, a deep crimson that cast an eerie glow over the landscape.
The rain pounded down, looking more like blood than water, and the lightning strikes that battered the clan's barrier were devastating.
The clouds were as dark as ink, and an unsettling feeling hung in the air, like nothing had threatened the barrier in centuries.
Cassandra raised her hand, letting the rain fall onto her palm.
"Interesting," she murmured, her gaze narrowing as she analyzed the phenomenon.
Before she could continue, a midwife's hesitant voice called out to her.
"Mistress?"
Cassandra turned, her icy gaze piercing the woman, who visibly trembled under her stare.
"What," Cassandra muttered, her voice cold.
"Mistress, what should I do with the boy?" the midwife asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Cassandra's gaze flicked to the child, her expression unreadable.
The boy's eyes had flickered open, and he looked up at them, his gaze unfocused.
"Go ask another," Cassandra said finally, waving her umbrella.
She vanished into thin air.