The sensation of cold stone beneath his feet was his only anchor to remind him of where he stood, once again, face-to-face with the End
Before him loomed an entity with galaxies for eyes, seated upon a throne of bones and skulls and adorned with a crown of ivory that spoke not of wealth but of sheer monarchy.
Its appearance was unchanged, as it always was. Colossal and all-encompassing, skeletal yet only vaguely humanoid, its form was draped in the remnants of countless souls, pitch black, writhing faintly, clinging like shadows that refused to fade. This was not an avatar or projection. This was inevitability given shape. The reaper of those who sought what should never be sought. For every man must taste death. And this was the one who ensured it.
