Ren's footsteps echoed across the silent void as he approached the throne. Every mirror had fallen quiet, no longer whispering, no longer mocking. The Pane had acknowledged him, yet its silence carried a weight heavier than war drums.
The throne itself was carved of obsidian glass, jagged and regal, towering as though it had been shaped from the very fractures of the world. Each shard that composed it pulsed faintly, like veins of light breathing. The air warped around it, bending reality toward the seat like a black hole.
Ren stopped before it, one hand pressed against the wound in his chest where the False King's blade had pierced him. Blood dripped onto the glass ground, each drop vanishing as though swallowed by the Pane. His fractured eye burned brighter than ever, pulsing in rhythm with the throne.
For a moment, he almost laughed.
