When Ren opened his eyes, he wasn't sure he'd survived.
The air was heavy, not with smoke or dust, but with silence. A silence so thick it pressed into his ears like a physical weight. He tried to move, but his body resisted—as though gravity had become uncertain.
The ground beneath him wasn't ground. It was a mosaic of shattered mirror-shards, each piece reflecting not him, but different versions of him.
One shard showed him as a boy, still innocent, standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom. Another showed him older, with eyes hollow and full of hate. Another showed him lying dead, glass sprouting from his chest like flowers.
Ren pulled himself upright, teeth grit, refusing to stare at any one reflection for too long. His blade was still in his hand, its thorns flickering faintly as though exhausted.
The shard-winged girl stumbled toward him, her feathers dimmed, her expression pale with shock. "Ren… do you feel it? This isn't the Pane anymore."
He looked around.
