Past the miles of corridors and clusters of guards the Butchery awaits, dimmed by the sallow pinpricks of late-night lighting, enough to make out the shapes of the seraphim hanging from their hooks, but not enough to trigger their iridescence. Misery and Alodia Lightning approach the transformed seraph, pitch-black in the low yellow light. Past the viewing platform, past the control station, up and up the winding steps until they’re on the pilot’s boarding platform. The long journey from medical bay to station’s bowels has given Misery time to find her feet, and she’s largely vertical and self-supporting as they stand in the great shadow of the seraph. She looks up at the wound bisecting its chest, the gouge left behind when they cut her out of its core.

Alodia Lightning says: “You’re going in, aren’t you?”

Misery nods. She’s all dizzy and she can’t blame the salves this time. They’ve worn off. This is where it happens. Her life ends and the void takes her. She’s strangely okay with that fact. She’s come to peace with it.

The princess says: “I’ll go with you.”

“What?” The declaration catches her off guard. “You can’t. It’s dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid of danger. Who do you think I am? I’m coming with you.”

Misery pulls air into her lungs, slowly. The princess is as voidmad as she is. She’s followed Misery into the realm of delusion. It’s the only explanation. “You think there’s something to this prophecy thing, don’t you?”

Alodia Lightning’s eyes are reflective in the dim hangar, gleaming with emotion Misery cannot read. Studying the shape of the blue seraph like a lover. “If you asked me a month ago, fuck, a week ago … I would have punched you. But now? I don’t know.” She turns the same impossible gaze upon Misery. “I have to see it for myself. Your miracles. Whatever happens, I have to know.”

“You could die,” Misery says. “You’ll probably die. I’m dead too. You sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. All right.” Misery can’t even laugh. All emotions have been crushed out of her.

They climb in. Even the creamy insides of the seraph have turned to glistening bluestone, striped with pale veins of gold. Misery slides over the frictionless surface, easing into the wound where she once lay. The princess follows behind, sometimes using her shoulder or arm for grip.

The hollow that used to be the pilot’s seat retains her vague form, even with all the stone that’s been cut away. Alodia Lightning slips on an awkward incline and Misery lunges to catch her. The princess’s panicked hands latch on—one around her neck, one around her waist. She swears quietly, then calms, like a bird.