The temporary subjugation force was gone. Again. He was alone once more. He blinked slowly as he considered this, but there was nothing to be done for it. Rolling back his shoulders, he launched himself deeper into the heart of subterranean installation. . .
. . . spattered against the pages of the journal from a racking cough that struck his gaunt scaled form as he blearily regarded the Singer, her voice full of promise, full of endings, full of death—now he cracked a painful and cruel grin—that was better than slowly wasting away, livestock bereft even of the most basic purpose: to feed their superiors; no, he would spare them that and someday, somewhere, someone else would surely find a way to begin the Great Work anew. . .
. . . Old chains rattled and tugged insistently, reaching for a servant ready made to feed its master’s ancient hunger. But that which has shattered can never be truly remade as it was before. Now she was beyond those writhing bindings; they belonged to another life, to a different mask. . .
. . . The leaves of metal embraced and the world was finally silent once more. But the dreams continued on, like the bright cavern without end, rich and alien and without purpose, other than it simply just was.