Far beyond the reaches of any single plane, in a place where broken realities folded into each other like discarded paper, she sat on a throne that had never been whole.
The Hollow leaned forward, elbows resting on the jagged armrests, and watched the latest fragments dissolve. A silver-haired echo — one of her lesser creations — flickered out of existence after failing to hold its shape against Adams' will. She felt the loss the way a woman feels the snap of a thread she had been carefully weaving. Mild annoyance. Nothing more.
She was beautiful in the way ruin could be beautiful. Tall, dark-haired, skin like polished obsidian shot through with faint veins of starlight. Her eyes held no pupils, only shifting voids that reflected every universe she had ever tasted. When she smiled, it was slow and deliberate, as if she had all the time left in existence.
