[OPEN] ADOPT AI WORK - Concept of Moth Flame
In the moonless wastelands where fallen stars never rise again, the Lunar Matriarchs reign: an ancient caste of moth-women born from the ashes of dead suns. Mortals call them the Night-Whisperers, the Light-Devourers, the Widows of Darkness. They are not insects that merely learned to walk upright; they are twilight made flesh, the final, perfect stage of a metamorphosis that began when a larva devoured a million human dreams and tore free from its cocoon as a queen.
Their hierarchy is merciless and absolute, like that of bees, yet without pity or drones.
At the apex stands the Great Ash-Mother, the only immortal. Her wings are twin mirrors of black glass in which every being who dares meet her gaze sees their own death. She does not speak; her words are bioluminescent pollen that settles on the tongue and forces the victim to lie until the end of days.
Beneath her rule the Three Moon-Sisters, the supreme empress-priestesses. Each bears her own color and dominion:
The Crimson Moon — goddess of war and endings; her wings are embroidered with the skulls of slain gods.
The Azure Moon — keeper of secrets and oblivion; her dust erases the memory of entire nations.
The Silver Moon — mistress of birth and madness; she is the only one who still remembers the taste of human love.
Below them are the Cocoon Widows, mature matrons whose bodies have already begun dissolving into living shadow. They guard the tomb-cocoons where future sisters sleep, deciding which larvae may hatch and which will rot forever.
Lower still are the Pollen Brides, young and still almost mortal. They are sent into the world of men to seduce, to drink dreams, to return swollen with stolen fears. A Bride who comes back empty is stripped of her wings; the torn membranes are hung above the temple gates as a warning.
At the very bottom crawl the Ash Daughters, those who have not yet completed their first nocturnal flight. Their eyes are still simple, almost human, and a spark of pity lingers in them. That pity is burned away in the rite of the Lunar Kiss: the Great Ash-Mother presses her lips to theirs, and the last ember of humanity flutters out of their mouth as a tiny glowing firefly. These fireflies are collected in crystal vials and used to light the temples forever.
Their bodies are perfection forged in darkness: skin of polished obsidian with oil-slick iridescence, eyes formed of a thousand faceted moons, antennae that taste lies from a thousand paces away. Each pair of wings is unique: the elders bear velvet marked with glowing skulls and crescents visible only to the dead; the young have wings of frozen breath, translucent and trembling.
They know no males of their own kind. They have no need. Once every century the Great Ash-Mother births herself anew, tearing open her own chest and releasing a new Mother from the cage of her heart. Thus eternity continues.
Mortals call them a curse. Those who have seen them even once never sleep peacefully again: behind closed eyelids, their compound eyes still shimmer in the dark.
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