The Gallery of Failures

The deeper she went, the brighter it became. The walls were no longer marble but solid diamond, refracting the light into blinding rainbows. Elara walked with a gliding grace. She didn't get tired. Her legs, she realized, had stopped aching miles ago.

She reached the Midpoint of the dungeon. It was a vast rotunda called the Gallery.

Along the walls were alcoves, and in each alcove stood a statue. They were breathtaking. Some were made of gold, others of obsidian or jade. They were frozen in poses of contemplation, combat, or dance.

Elara approached a statue of a knight made entirely of silver filigree. The detail was impossible. She could see the individual strands of his hair, etched in metal.

"Who made these?" she asked. Her voice sounded different now—musical, echoing, as if her throat had been tuned.

"They made themselves," the Curator said. He was standing by a statue of a woman made of rose quartz.

Elara frowned. She touched the silver knight. It was warm.

She pulled her hand back. "It's warm."

"Energy generates heat," the Curator said. "Even static energy."

Elara looked closer at the knight's face. His eyes were open. They were gemstones, yes, but deep within the crystal matrix, she saw a flicker. A frantic, screaming flicker of consciousness.

She stumbled back, her porcelain hands clattering against her chest. "He's... he's alive."

"He is preserved," the Curator corrected. "He came to me seeking to be unbreakable. He traded his skin for steel, his blood for oil, his heart for a piston. Eventually, he traded his movement for stability. He is perfect now. He will never die. He will never fail."

Elara spun around. The woman in rose quartz... she recognized the tilt of the chin. It was a girl who had vanished from the Slag-Heap five years ago. A girl who wanted to be beautiful.

"They are traps," Elara whispered. The realization crashed into her. The wealth on the floor wasn't the prize. The people were the prize. "You don't give riches. You eat us."

"I refine you," the Curator said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its warmth. "I take the chaos of biology and order it. Look at yourself, Elara. You are halfway there. You are exquisite."

Elara looked at her reflection in the diamond wall. She didn't look like Elara anymore. She looked like a doll. A very expensive, very hollow doll.

"I want to leave," she said.

"You cannot," the Curator replied. "You are unfinished."

"I'm leaving!" Elara turned and ran.