The Pane was falling apart.
The cracks had become rivers of silver fire, pouring endlessly into the void below. Shards of broken reflection whirled through the air like dying stars, cutting deep into the world itself. Every step Ren took splashed in liquid mirror, his reflection rippling in ways that didn't belong to him anymore.
His body screamed at him to collapse, but he stayed standing, Thorn gripped tight. He had struck consequence down. He had shattered the girl who carried it. And now, the world was crumbling in response.
But through the storm, a figure pushed forward.
At first, Ren thought it was just another shard—another echo of his choices. But no. This figure was steady. Not flickering. Not broken. She was crossing.
Her hands pushed against the collapsing Pane, and wherever her skin touched, the storm hesitated. The cracks spread slower. The fragments bent. The Pane—this godlike cage—was afraid of her.
