In that area, the halls of the Soul Cleaver were as silent and still as the grave. Appropriate, since these particular ones were a grave in truth, still home to a few drying carcasses of the Atrium's former denizens: the ones that had been too weak or too injured in the crash to escape their damaged cells.

Vasedra had known their names. From her Belmun self, she had crafted together a habitat for them, for all of the collection, and ... adored them in her own way. Sentient, intelligent pets. Children, half-loved  at best.

The void knight could still remember the feel of the mucus that had drenched her human hands when the vozaksian had first hatched. Disgusting. Fascinating. The corpse in the cell at her back had been the last of her kind, and Sedra's Belmun self had been the last creature in all of existence to experience one's hatching.

A memory, now. Rot and entropy. Decay, like the King in the mad shrine to Raeisley's slug.