I stand in the ruins of my own mind. The air hums with the static of dead stars and older prayers. Before me, my conscience takes form—not as a voice, but as a shimmering hologram, woven from light and memory. It wears my face, but calmer. Wiser. Unbroken.

'You knew,' it says. 'From the beginning, you knew what the crown demanded.'

I look down at the shattered pieces in my hands. Gold and bone, fused with a pulsing black crystal. I can still feel its hunger.

The dome above fractures further. A beam of dying red light cuts across the throne, illuminating the carvings of my conquests—worlds burned, gods dethroned, her name among the lost.

'What do you want from me?' I ask.

'Not want,' it corrects. 'Need. You must choose. Dissolution. Succession. Or judgment.'

The throne behind me thrums, eager. My blood sings with ancient power. But for the first time, I hesitate.

What do I do?