For a week, the world hung between incredulity and wonder.
Some said a miracle had blossomed; others, a trap.
And in the quieter corners of the provinces, where hope had gone thin and gray, the invitations shone like a promise too bright to trust.
In Wicker Square, Nia kept hers hidden under the floorboards. Her mother had seen it once-the night it appeared-and crossed herself.
"Don't go chasing men's dreams," she had whispered, "especially not his."
"Whose?"
"The Confectioner's. Ambrose Vellum built his city on sweetness, but every sweetness hides a price. Remember that."
Her mother had once worked in the cocoa mills outside the capital, long before the Chocolate City existed. Nia remembered her hands always being faintly brown from the powder, how she'd flinch at the scent of boiling sugar.
Yet the invitation hummed like a pulse beneath the floorboards. Every night, Nia felt it whispering through the boards: Come see.
Outside, vendors sold imitation chocolate bars molded like the invitations. Children licked the golden letters until their tongues turned green from the dye. The real chosen ones — those six names printed in the paper — became legends before they had met.
By the sixth day, the city started getting ready for their journey.
A single train — said to belong to Ambrose Vellum himself — would stop at each province to collect them. Its route was secret, its engine never photographed. It was said to run on a mixture of steam, sugar and something else entirely.
Nia was already up when the train arrived that morning.
She hadn't slept. Instead, she'd sat by the window, clutching her patched satchel, staring out into the fog. When the ground began to hum, she thought that she was dreaming. But then a low whistle broke the silence-long and low and almost mournful-and she saw the lights cutting through the mist.
The train materialized, emerging as if from another world entirely. The body was molten brass; each car embossed with vines that seemed to shift when you looked too long. Steam hissed from vents shaped like open mouths.
Nia's mother stood beside her, saying nothing.
"You don't have to go," she said.
"I know."
"Then why do you?
Nia didn't reply. She wasn't certain herself. Perhaps it was curiosity. Maybe it was the ache of always being left behind. Perhaps it was the scent of chocolate that still hung in the air, sweet and dark and dangerous.
The conductor stepped down from the nearest car. He was tall, attired in a uniform which shimmered like polished caramel. His face was pale beneath the brim of his cap. His eyes were the color of cocoa husks.
"Nia Calvert?"
She nodded.
He tipped his hat. "You've been expected."
Her mother pressed a small ribbon into her palm. "For luck," she said softly. "And for remembering."
Nia tucked it into her sleeve and climbed aboard.
Inside, the train had the slightest scent of sugar and metal; the corridors in it shone with amber light, and the air was heavy, like a held breath.
She found her compartment with ease — her name was embossed upon the door in gold script. Inside, five others sat in waiting.
Felix Moreau first looked up, his hair perfect even in the dim light. He smiled with practiced charm. "Well. I suppose we're the lucky few."
Aya Kimura sat near the window, sketching something in her notebook. Lina and Leo, the twins, were playing some game with chocolate coins. Tomas Vega leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes sharp.
"Guess we're all here," Tomas said, his voice rough. "Anyone know where we're headed exactly?"
"The Chocolate City," Lina said, as if it was perfectly obvious. "Didn't you read the paper?"
Tomas gave her a look so that she started giggling.
Aya didn't look up. "They say it has no sky," she murmured.
"What do you mean, no sky?" Felix asked, frowning.
"They put a glass dome over the whole city," Aya said. "To keep the scent inside."
Silence followed.
Nia watched out the window as the train got under way. The scenery slid by in smears of gray and green; then it blurred into shadow as they plunged into a tunnel. The lights flickered.
As they steadied again, Nia realized the air smelled different — richer, thicker, almost intoxicating. The pipes lining the tunnel oozed something dark and viscous, pulsing faintly, like veins.
Felix pressed a hand to the glass. "That can't be real."
Aya closed her notebook slowly. "It is."
After that, nobody said a word.