The pitch-black expanse of Nyx's inner world pulsed faintly as Alex stepped inside. The air was heavy, thicker than before, almost syrupy with shadow mana. His boots made no sound against the endless obsidian floor, but every step sent a ripple through the darkness. Above him, there was no sky—only an infinite void speckled with drifting fragments of pale silver light, like stars drowned in black water.
From the far end of the expanse, her throne awaited. Nyx sat there, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of the midnight sword across her lap. Even at rest, her presence was suffocating—an unyielding ocean of pressure that gnawed at Alex's skin, his bones, his very heartbeat. She didn't speak. She never did before a fight.
