Rowan had only taken a step forward before he was crushed to the ground. His eyes bulged in astonishment and terror, because the force being exerted on him should not—could not—exist.
His attempt to resist was futile, as the struggles he had withstood before were nothing compared to this. The pressure kept building, and his bones began to collapse into dust.
Rowan's mind, will, and soul followed the collapse of his body, and soon, everything about him was crushed into dust. Still, the pressure did not let up, and the dust was crushed into less than dust, less than even the void.
He wanted to scream, wanted to cry out, but there was nothing for him to reach out towards. Rowan was dying, and he had not even seen what was killing him.
Then there was a snap.
Where Rowan once stood, there was only an imprint, a scar upon the fabric of existence. No afterlife awaits him, no memory, no lament—only the indifferent pressure of the impossible, eternal, and absolute.
