The Knight tracks him by sound. Grimm's steps are less chaotic than the Weaverlings'. Fast. Keeping close. Their paw itches at his sharp movements, but he continues to keep from threat.

Up and forward, up and on, through the Ancient Basin.

The sign indicating the White Palace's former place falls once more to their Nail, bouncing against the wall to roll somewhere behind them. Their perception finds the area somewhat brighter than before as well.

...Or.

Not their mind and dark playing tricks alone, they fine, when they climb into the cavern and stop.

The White Palace's scant remains are more.

The broken gate that held nothing behind it is still standing crooked as it was. Past its rubble, a path. Farther back, towering walls of grey. Cracks crawl along broken spires (each curving upward in shape of the Pale King's crown, the Knight note with creeping annoyance), and black pours out in gushes and motes. Darkness. Theirs.

(The screaming buzz of circular blades, the distant dead denied grief of one who choked on the Void of his own volition, coward, place of pain, in what is theirs, in what is them--)

The Pale King's dream had been a silver splinter in their shell, and they'd flicked it out to land where it started.

Grimm forgotten, their path shifts to the (not-so-)White Palace's ruins.