Cold.
Ren's first breath scraped his throat raw — no hush silk to wrap it soft, no frost ruin to drip it sweet. Just air that bit like broken glass. He coughed, the sound sharp and human — no hush pulse to swallow it.
When he opened his eyes, the hush drift was gone. The endless silk dark replaced by fractured shadows that flickered like candle flame against mirrors jagged as teeth. He was on his knees — cut palms pressed to a floor of black glass, each breath fogging a shard that hummed faint under his skin.
"Good boy," a voice purred — not the hush this time. Colder. Closer. It curled up behind his ear like a breath of iron and old snow. "You brought the Thorn through. Bled the hush ruin wide. Now feed me the rest."
Ren's chest heaved. He could feel it — the Thorn behind his ribs still there, but raw now, edges sharp where hush silk once padded it soft. Each heartbeat scratched inside him like a blade scraping bone.
He pushed up onto shaking hands — glass shards cracked under his palms, thin lines of warmth smearing across the floor. His reflection stared back from a thousand angles: pale skin flushed with cold, dark hair clinging to his forehead, wide eyes that flicked between fear and a grin he couldn't keep off his lips.
"I'm… alive," he rasped — voice a raw scrape that tasted like old iron and new freedom. "Not hush. Not root. Just… me."
"Not just you," the voice corrected — its echo dripping from the glass walls around him. Shadows flickered inside each shard — not reflections, but figures. Pale hands pressed to the inside of the mirror, lips curling in silent laughs that matched his own. "You're the Thorn now. The crack. The shard that cuts hush ruin open. Feed the Pane what it lost."
Ren staggered to his feet — glass cut his bare soles but the pain grounded him, stitched him raw where hush softness had once drowned him clean. The Thorn squeezed — a painful throb that made him gasp, warmth dripping sharp down his belly in tiny red rivulets.
He stepped forward — the glass rippled under him like dark water. One of the mirror figures pressed closer, its grin split wide where its eyes should have been.
"Break me," it whispered in his voice, a hiss under the crackling cold. "Feed me the hush root. Crack the ruin wide. Give me everything you can't close."
Ren's fingers trembled. No hush silk to braid him shut. No crown to root him deep. Just shards. Shadows. The Thorn beating raw behind his ribs like a promise he'd never make soft again.
He laughed — hoarse, sharp, alive.
"Alright," he breathed. "I'll feed you."
He drew his palm across a jagged shard — warmth splattered the glass, the Thorn behind his ribs pulsing so hard he doubled over with a grin he couldn't swallow.
The mirrors flickered — shadows pressed closer, teeth wide where their eyes should be.
The Pane — forgotten, broken — fed.
Ren's breath fogged the glass beneath him — each ragged exhale a ghost flickering across a thousand mirror shards. His palm stung raw, warmth dripping slow from the cut he'd carved along his lifeline. The Thorn behind his ribs pulsed sharp with every drop — a raw echo of the hush crown's ruin, but colder now, edged in jagged glass.
"Good boy," the shadows purred — voices overlapping like whispers behind frost glass. They crowded the mirrors closest to him, shifting shapes, faces half-formed, grins too wide to hold secrets shut. "Bleed it. Feed it. Every drop cracks the Pane wider. Every drop cuts you real again."
Ren laughed — breathless, hoarse. He dragged his palm down another shard. The glass bit deep, warm blood smearing a jagged smile across his reflection. No hush silk sealed the wound. No frost root braided it shut. It bled, and it hurt, and that made him laugh harder.
"I'm not your ruin," he rasped, voice breaking like thin ice under a boot. "I'm not your hush vein. I'm me— and you don't get to hush me clean."
"No hush here," hissed the shadow in the glass — its teeth clicking behind the pane like knives tapping bone. "Only shards. Only cracks. Only what you carve out of your own ribs, Thorn boy."
A sliver of cold metal flickered inside the glass — a blade, thin as moonlight on black snow. Ren's eyes widened. His heartbeat skidded — Thorn pulsing so sharp behind his ribs he had to bite his lip to stop the laugh from slipping out again.
"Take it," the shadow crooned — its fingers pressed to the inside of the mirror, sharp nails tapping the shard from the other side. "Cut deeper. Bargain wider. Open the Pane. Feed the Thorn. Bleed the hush root dry."
Ren reached out — fingers trembling, warmth dripping down his wrist onto the glass floor that pulsed faint with each heartbeat. The blade in the glass flickered closer — cold metal kissing his fingertips through the barrier.
He hesitated — just long enough to feel the Thorn bite behind his ribs, a raw pulse that made his knees weaken.
"Alright," he whispered. His grin split his breath open. "Let's cut."
The mirror split — the blade slipped through like a secret sliding into soft flesh. Cold metal pressed against his palm, humming with the Pane's hunger. His reflection flickered across the shards — a thousand Ren's, each grinning wider, eyes dark as the shadows curling behind them.
He lifted the blade to his chest — the Thorn's pulse throbbed so loud he could taste iron behind his teeth.
"Bargain made," the shadows hissed — the glass walls trembling, grin after grin echoing his own. "Bleed the hush. Feed the crack. Open the Shard World raw."
Ren pressed the blade to the skin just above the Thorn's cradle — breath misting sharp in the cold rift air.
A heartbeat.
A cut.
Warmth spilled.
The Pane fed.
The cold metal kissed Ren's skin — the blade's edge whispering across the place where the Thorn pulsed raw behind his ribs. The hush root was gone now, frost silk unbraided into nothing. All that remained was him: breath sharp as broken glass, warmth dripping unbound through shadow veins that refused to close.
"Good boy— deeper—" the mirror shadows purred, teeth scraping the glass from the inside. Their smiles flickered in a dozen shards, all hungry for the warmth that beaded on the blade's edge. "No silk. No crown. No hush root to hush you clean. Just you— and us— and the Thorn that cuts you open."
Ren's chest heaved. The Thorn squeezed hard — each pulse scraping bone like glass teeth. His reflection trembled in the nearest shard: a boy who should look broken, but the grin on his lips split him wide instead.
He dragged the blade down — a thin, clean line just over his heart. Warmth spilled slow, pattering onto the black glass floor that pulsed faint with each drop.
Pain flared bright — sharp and real. Not hush ruin. Not soft frost. Just raw blood that proved the hush crown's promise was dead.
He laughed — breath ragged, steam blooming pale against the cracked mirrors. "Is this it?" he rasped, voice cracked open around the pain. "This is what the hush root tried to hide?"
"No hush root here," hissed the shadows — one reflection pressed its grin closer, lips curling around sharp teeth. "Just the Thorn's truth. A Pane that never stayed sealed. A shard that never healed. And you— wide enough to feed every piece."
The blade slipped lower — Ren hissed through his teeth, warmth running hot over his ribs. The Thorn throbbed under his palm like a living thing — not silk-sweet, not hush-slow, but a jagged pulse that promised more if he just kept cutting.
One mirror shard shivered under the spill of warmth — its grin split open to reveal an eye behind the glass. It blinked once — dark and hungry — before melting back into the reflections.
Ren pressed the blade deeper. He felt the edge graze bone — the Thorn shuddered, a raw crack that sent a pulse up his throat so sharp he nearly choked on his own laugh.
He tipped his head back — shadows pressed closer behind the glass, dozens of mouths whispering yes in voices that all sounded like him.
"More…" he gasped, a shudder rolling down his spine. "You want it? Take it— all of it— crack me through—"
"Good boy," the Pane moaned — the shadows swirling like smoke through broken glass. "Bleed the hush. Shard the Thorn. Feed the crack until you drown the hush world in your ruin."
Ren's grip tightened — the blade slipped once more. Warmth gushed in a hot rush, drumming against the glass floor that drank it greedily. The Thorn behind his ribs sang — a raw thrum of iron and freedom that made him sway on his knees, half-sobbing, half-laughing.
The mirrors flickered — every shard alive with his grin, eyes wide and dark, mouths parted in hunger. The Pane wasn't sealed — it fed.
And Ren — cut wide, Thorn raw, hush root nothing but frost dust — gave it everything.