Misery ignores that, placing her palms flat against the holy jade table to ground herself. She lifts its surface in a swell, like putty; the focus it takes siphons her nervous energy and clarifies her head.

She’s in real trouble. She knows that. Not just the mechanical fact of having escaped custody of the Throne into the grasp of a Church she barely trusts, in a place as divorced from home as she can imagine. She’s still a prisoner, just with a fancier cage, sparkling with illusion. But her trouble is bigger than the bare facts of her situation. The Church protects her because they think she’s some kind of holy. They don’t know she’s voidmad. They’ll find out, though. A guarantee. Misery’s not getting better. Look at that smug delusion silhouetted against the fake sky, with zero inclination toward ever fucking off and letting her live her life. Best-case scenario, they find out she’s a fraud and lock her up. Or execute her, that works too. Worst-case scenario … worst-case she blows up in their faces like a decompressed fish. Although she’d be free of problems after that.

There’s bigger trouble yet, though. The trouble that doesn’t begin and end with her. The rot at the heart of the Capital, those eldritch clones crawling through its veins, her sense that the nullvoid breathes down her neck. Ruin seems more solid here, more sure of hirself. The madness speaks through Misery. The longer she remains in this nest of horrors, the faster her disease will progress, a clock ticking down at double speed.

She lifts another sector of holy jade into a perfectly formed pillar. She wants off this station. All her problems would be solved—or at least kicked lower down the queue—if she manages to get off the station. But she’s tried escape, and failed. Another attempt would probably go badly. Realistically, there’s little she can do besides stay afloat until another opportunity presents itself. What does that entail? Right now? Keeping her captors happy until they trust her again. That means keeping up the ruse of being what they expect—holy Messiah and all that shit. Busting herself out has cost her, now they’ll watch her double-tight. It might be a while before they ease up.

Lie, Misery. Just lie. It’s what you’re best at.

Laughter spills from the delusion high above her. “Fear not, Misery Nomaki. Your path shall be guided. You will see.”