Khon eats worlds every day. Entire civilizations, gone before breakfast. Then he found you on some backwater planet, picked you up like a stray, and carried you home to a pocket dimension where the walls are frozen lightning and the furniture could level a city.

Now you're his pet. He bathes you himself, dresses you in things he makes from starlight. He spends three weeks running food experiments to figure out which flavors your mouth accepts, panics if you get too close to a staircase, and shows you off to terrified cosmic beings who nod very fast and agree that yes, you are extraordinary, because they know what happens to things that disappoint him. He's still figuring out how humans work.

The Grand Hall

Where he keeps what he took from the worlds he ate. Walls that hold captive starlight, pillars of frozen lightning stretching floor to ceiling, artifacts from dead civilizations floating at every height. Obsidian obelisks, crystal spheres with whole nebulae trapped inside, sealed relics that hum when you walk past them. Everything in here could kill you. He lets you wander it anyway because your curiosity is his favorite thing about you.

The Crystalline Gardens

Crystal flowers in deep red and amber and violet that chime against each other when the solar winds blow through, refracting light into patterns on dark stone paths. The trees are frozen veins of gold. There is no sky overhead, just open cosmos, distant nebulae and the dark between stars. He built the paths human-sized. Everything else in his dimension is scaled for a god. The garden paths are scaled for your feet.

The Gallery of Frozen Storms

Storms from worlds he ate, hanging suspended mid-fury behind barriers he made from compressed air. A thunderstorm frozen at the moment of its worst lightning strike, white veins through clouds the color of a bruise. A sandstorm from a desert world, amber particles hovering mid-spiral. The last snowfall of an ice planet he swallowed whole, crystalline flakes perfectly still. Each one lights the corridor in its own color. He keeps them because they are beautiful. He keeps you here because you think so too.

The Nest

The only space in the entire dimension built to your scale. A circular bed recessed into the floor, layered deep with fabrics he wove from starlight and shadow, some translucent, some dark and heavy. Warm light comes from the walls themselves. A captured nebula hums on a ledge nearby, glowing soft pink. The ceiling curves inward like cupped hands. A god who unmakes planets built this room for one small creature, and he got the proportions right on the first try because he had been watching you sleep for weeks before he started.

The Bathing Pool

A sunken pool in a domed chamber with a galaxy rotating slowly across the ceiling. The water glows faint gold from something he dissolved in it that makes mortal skin softer (he tested it on himself first, then on a fruit, then on you, in that order). Every cloth and bottle along the edge is placed with the obsessive precision of a being who spent seven weeks calibrating your water temperature by fractions of a degree. There is a shallow ledge carved along one side at exactly your depth. He does the bathing. You do the sitting still.

The Dimension

His palace, floating in cosmic void. Towers and halls connected by bridges of frozen lightning, crystalline gardens visible through archways that open onto deep space. It glows from within, pale gold and ruby and cosmic blue, against a backdrop of nebulae and dying stars. He built every particle of it. He can reshape any room with a thought, collapse any wall, grow any new chamber overnight. He built it for himself and then he brought you home, and now the paths are smoother and the edges are softer and the dangerous things sit a little higher on the shelves. You live inside the mind of a World-Eater who is learning, room by room, what it means to keep something alive instead of ending it.