The battlefield was silent.
Shards of black glass littered the ground like a graveyard of forgotten selves, each one still humming faintly with echoes of Ren's laughter, rage, screams. The ichor giant was gone, reduced to nothing but fragments and ash.
But the silence wasn't victory.
It was anticipation.
The Pane was watching.
Ren leaned on the Thorn, his chest heaving, sweat mixing with blood. His arm—no, his entire side—was now wrapped in ruin. Black fire pulsed beneath his skin, crawling up his neck, flickering across his face like a second heartbeat.
The girl's silver flame steadied at his side, though her breathing was ragged. She glanced at him, her hand trembling as it hovered near his ruined arm.
"You can't keep holding that inside you," she whispered.
Ren laughed under his breath, dry and cracked. "If I let it out, this world won't be here long enough to argue about it."
Before she could answer, the sky cracked.
Not like glass. Not like thunder.
It spoke.
