Transfiguration

A body caught mid-change, no longer what it was and not yet what it will become. Limbs fold into impossible shapes, mouths open where no mouths should be, and red tongues wind through it like threads stitching the new form together. In its hands it cradles a small world, blue and violet and glowing, split open with something molten at its core. Transformation is never clean. It cracks, it tangles, it hurts. But something luminous is breaking through.