The world around them stilled.
No whispers.
No hymns.
No shattering.
The Pane held its breath.
Ren stared across the cracked silver ground at his double—the "cold self." Same eyes. Same body. Same Thorn pulsing in his chest. But everything in his stance screamed different. No weight of memory. No cracks of pain. Only control, as if every motion had been measured, rehearsed, perfected.
Selene could barely breathe. Her fingers curled at her sides, nails cutting into her palms as she whispered, "That one… it doesn't feel human."
Ren didn't take his eyes off him. His grin flickered. "That's the point."
The cold self tilted his head, the smirk widening. His voice was smooth, patient, like ice sliding across glass.
"You talk too much. That's why you're weak."
In the blink of an eye, he moved.
