Thebe's violet dawn slipped through Hira's window, tinting her green hands as she pressed dough against the stone counter. Her slightly scaly skin softened at the fingertips, shaping the flatbread with practiced ease—a skill born from years of stretching meager harvests. Her white eyeballs, gleaming and pupil-less, flicked to the clay pot simmering on the heat coil, its steam sharp with boiled root. "Tavi!" she called, voice carrying a faint hiss. "Move it—breakfast's ready."
Her son bounded in, green scales rippling over his lanky frame, tail flicking as he half-shifted into a leaner shape before settling back. At twelve, Tavi's control wavered—claws sprouting, then vanishing in bursts. "Ma, you hear that hum?" he said, white eyes wide, reflecting the dim light. "It's up there!" He jabbed a finger at the ceiling.
