Ben Solo walked into a vast chamber. Few sconces lined the walls, making the space gloomy and dark.
At the end of this room sat a man in a black throne, wearing dark ebony robes which collected in a pool around his hidden feet.
Both his hands rested on the square armrests of that throne, his demeanor relaxed as he said, “Welcome Ben Solo.”
Ben stopped, for the aisle in front of him ended abruptly.
“Kneel,” Snoke said.
Ben did as such, bowing his head in servitude.
“You feel confliction,” Snoke bellowed. “You are anguished that the Jedi Temple Luke created has been destroyed by your hand.”
“It was my home,” Ben answered.
“And what home houses a man determined to kill their only nephew?”
Ben Solo looked up at Snoke. Now that he was in front of him, he could see his deformed body–the way his collarbones jutted in odd angles, and how his waist twisted.
“You only did what you must,” Snoke continued. “And the galaxy is all the better for it.”
“Now that it’s done,” Solo began, “what should I do now? I have no one to turn to.”
Snoke laughed, his eyes squinting giddily. He rose from his throne, and Ben Solo was taken aback by how tall he was. He stopped once in front of him and ran his crooked fingers through his jet black hair.
“You have me. I will protect you.” Ben Solo, who was still but a teenager, felt tears welling in his eyes. Something was wrong about this man, but there was no one else who was there for him. His mother had sent him away. Han Solo was just as bad. And his uncle had even tried to kill him. “Yes, you understand,” Snoke said with a smile. “They are no longer your family.”
Ben’s chin quivered as Snoke placed a hand on his shoulder. “That is why, from this day forward, you shall be called Kylo Ren.”