Page 43 of Bought By the Void Walker
"Simple."
"The best plans are."
Nezavek checks my weapons one last time, his hands lingering on mine. I feel his fear clearly now. Not of death but of losing me. Of failing Melara the way he failed the others.
"We do this right," I tell him. "No hesitation."
"No mercy," he agrees.
We face the portal. It's a tear in reality, showing glimpses of crystal and ice and preserved horror. Somewhere through there, Melara waits. Still aware. Still suffering.
"Ready?" Nezavek asks.
I take his hand, feeling his shadows twine with my fingers. The bond pulses between us, complete and unbreakable.
"Let's go kill him."
Nezavek squeezes my hand. "The Collector will try to make you hesitate. He'll use Melara against you. Don't listen. Whatever needs to be done, we do it."
"Even if it means."
"Even then. She wouldn't want to exist like that forever."
We step through, into whatever waits beyond.
YORIKA
The portal spits us out into wrongness.
My knees buckle immediately. The space exists in overlapping dimensions, each one slightly out of phase. My marked skin burns, the silver traceries flaring hot against whatever power holds this place together.
The smell hits next. Apparently crystallized flesh has a specific scent. Burnt sugar mixed with copper and the sharp trill of sustained terror. Hundreds of victims, each one adding their particular note to the assault on my senses.
"Breathe through your mouth," Nezavek says, his hand tightening on mine.
I do, though it barely helps. The taste coats my tongue, sticky and wrong.
The gallery stretches impossibly far in every direction. Walls of living crystal pulse with soft light, each surface reflecting not images but memories. Final moments, last thoughts, the instant of crystallization played on eternal loop. Illusions.
The floor beneath us is black glass. In the reflection, I see myself crystallizing from the inside out. In his, shadow dissipating into nothing.
"Don't look down," he warns, but I've already seen.
The victims are arranged with obscene care.
To our left, fear: a woman frozen mid-run, her crystal legs extended in a sprint that will never end; a man cowering in a corner; a couple clutching each other from whatever approached them last.
To our right, despair. Bodies slumped, hands covering faces, some kneeling. One woman has her hands pressed against her pregnant belly. The expression on her face makes bile rise in my throat. Ahead lie other sections—rage, hope, joy—all twisted by crystallization into permanent horror.
And they're all aware.
Every single one.
Eyes track our movement. Hundreds of crystallized gazes following us through the gallery. Some pupils dilate when we pass close. Others weep tears that crystallized before they could fall, leaving salt trails permanently etched on glass cheeks.
"How many?" I ask.
"Three hundred and twelve," Nezavek says. His voice stays steady but I can feel his anguish. Each number is a failure, a person he couldn't save. "That I know of. There could be more in the deeper galleries."
