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The floor is cold under his feet, and the stagnant air crushes his chest with its suffocating chill. He cannot see anything, the world dim and silent but for the subtle scratches of shell on stone, and the morbid whispers of ghosts carrying on the stifling air. The Pale King supposed that a dream such as this is unavoidable, spending so much time tinkering with void that eventually it would show in more than just his conscious thoughts.
Resignation quickly turns to confusion as that sound of shell on stone grows louder. The Pale King turns to seek its source, seeing a familiar mask in the distance. It moves up and down with its owner's paces, approaching him slowly. As it nears him, the Pale King hears a voice ever so close to him. It groans, broken and weak.
Now the bug is closer, he can identify it as the Pure Vessel. Within forty paces of it, he notices something awful in the way it moves. It is limping, staggering; its leg is mangled and shell split open, void leaking profusely. It is hunched over, and it almost drags itself toward him. Looking up to meet its eyes, he almost takes a step back upon seeing its mask - it is distorted under a growing pressure from within, and a crack running from horn to forehead reveals the building mass of feathers and pustules of infection inside of it. It lurches so violently as it moves that infection falls out of the crack in its mask, dropping onto the floor and bursting into slick orange splatters. It gets ever closer to him.
Frozen, the Pale King watches his creation come within a few places of him. Its mask is shaking, barely able to hold it up anymore to look at him. A crack echoes out in the empty air and it nearly collapses, catching itself on the floor with a gnarled hand. It cannot summon the energy to stand, stuck kneeling before him. The Pale King's breath catches in his chest as he watches the crack in its mask grow wider. He only managed to reach out and place his hand on its head, a parental affection against his better knowledge. The breathing by his head is weaker now - laboured and pathetic.
It shudders, trying to look up at him. Its empty eyes seem to hold unimaginable hurt, and guilt rises in the Pale King's heart.
And then it speaks.
"Father." The voice rasps, shaky and raw from screaming. There is pain in the word, and his guilt only grows. Its mask shifts under his fingers, something pushing with such force the Pure Vessel's mask splits further. The orange glow of Her anger seeps through the crack in its mask, spreads down through its eyes now bleeding viscous infection. He feels it shake more, and all he can do is hold them, watching in horror as their mask slowly splits open.
A large hand is put upon his shoulder. The Pure Vessel looks up at him, breathing heavily.
"Father." It cries, as the infection tears it apart, and the Pale King wakes up in a cold sweat.
Panic lasts in its full intensity for a second, as the Pale King feels the soft bedding he’s grasping, as he sees his familiar bedchambers and his heart begins to settle.