Malfeas is a demon city whose heart is its sun, but he is also the King of the Primordials, raging endlessly in spiteful fury against a prison made of himself. His layers crash against themselves; his descendants wage war to conquer the streets of his kingdom that are his arteries; the serfs and denizens of his world-body build as he does and rage as he does and kill as he does. He dances in the streets, a colossus of brass unmindful of the baleful gaze of his first-born son, his heart, his holy son that is a part of himself; all who wander his streets know the shame and glory and horror of Malfeas, the demon-prince, who is the cage in which he is a prisonner.
He Who Holds In Thrall is a towering ziggurat of black stone, and that ziggurat screams and moans with a chorus of a billion agonies. Some creatures find home in his corridors; some mad ghosts make sacrifices on his forgotten altars; some terrible beast, white-furred and heavy-tusked, sometimes looks up from afar, its eyes aglow with the dim remembrance of a different time. But the ziggurat is dead; its chorus reaches out in Whispers to warp the ghosts that approach it, but without purpose; its depths may be plundered for treasures and power at a price, but the price is not purposefully enacted; it is simply the towering gravity of the corpse-god that crushes lesser minds and leaves those who escape it not unscathed. There is no will, no purpose, no identity; only a death that never ends and taints the abyss with its suffering.
Long ago some fallen hero of a golden age ended too soon climbed the stairs, and reached the altar, and shed his blood on the blackstone; and the ziggurat answered, but its answer was not born of will, but the reflexive throes of a great beheaded snake. The fallen hero spoke to the depth: "Give me power." The depth answered: "Kill the world." The hero agreed. Does the depth remember the hero? Does the hero desire to kill the world? Will he ever accomplish the promise he made? No. Imputing a password into a computer is lying to this computer, making it believe that you are who you are not; but the computer does not understand or care for the truth or the lie, and it does not understand or care what you will do with the information you steal from its drive. Imput receives output. Promise to kill the world and receive power; but the corpse-god does not act, it merely answers stimulus in its broken, erratic, mindless way.
If you choose to think of the Primordials as states, nations, or corporations, then the Neverborn are the ruins of Prypiat. Yes, there are streets there, and buildings, and animals wandering the deserted radioactive fields; but a city without its people is not a city, merely a collection of oddly-shaped rocks.