The crack widened.
A seam of white fire split the dark, jagged as lightning but steady as stone. It hissed across the void, tearing the illusions apart. Mira's fading outline scattered like ash. Watson's cold stare fractured into dust. Even his mother's whisper dissolved, leaving only silence.
Ren's chest heaved. His body trembled with the effort of not giving in, of not letting the storm break loose. But he had done it. He had chosen to hold back.
The firelight stretched, lines intersecting until they formed a door. No. It was more than a door. A geometry so precise it hurt to look at, angles carved against the dark that bent perception itself.
The Gate.
Ren's feet touched the ground again. Smooth obsidian veined with light. He staggered forward, half-drawn, half-compelled.
The seam groaned open.
Sound spilled first, not sight. The low drone of turbines, the measured strike of mechanisms hidden deep within stone. Then came the glow. Glow was soft, blue-white.
