An obsidian throne room suspended in a space between realms—part palace, part prison, echoing with whispers and dripping with gold.
The void shimmered, and Kweku stepped onto the mirrored floor of the throne chamber, his smoke-cloaked form trailing behind him like regret. He dropped to one knee, his forehead touching the freezing surface. The temperature here was not cold in a human sense—it numbed the soul.
At the far end of the chamber, the Crowned One reclined on a black-gold throne carved from petrified starlight. His face was obscured by a veil of writhing light, but the crown—a spire of jagged obsidian etched with runes older than the sky—hovered inches above his head, held aloft by sheer will.
"You failed," the voice said—not loud, but absolute. It echoed in Kweku's bones.
Kweku trembled. "The boy entered the shrine, my liege. The old witch still guards him."
