The corridor opened onto a massive cavern pulsating with dim red light.
The ceiling was high, lost in shadow, and from it hung great chains of crystal sugar like chandeliers turned to rust. Beneath them, the air shimmered with heat and scent—a bitterness coating the tongue, sharp as burnt caramel.
Aya covered her nose. "This doesn't smell like chocolate."
"No," Nia said, her voice soft. "It smells like something that used to be."
Ahead of them, the corridor opened up into what appeared to be some sort of abandoned marketplace. Stalls made of twisted wood and shattered glass flanked the passageway, every one laden with articles that cast a faint glow in the half-light: splinters of crystallized sugar formed into faces, coins melted flat and stamped with names, containers full of syrup that changed color before their very eyes.
Felix moved among them, fascinated. "The Bitter District," he murmured. "Vellum said it was forbidden because the recipes here were too unstable—flavors that changed whoever tasted them."
Tomas knelt beside one of the jars. The syrup inside reflected his face upside down, smiling when he wasn't. He stumbled back. "These aren't just recipes."
Aya ran her hand along one of the walls. The stone was warm beneath her fingers, almost like skin. "It's alive," she whispered. "All of it."
They walked deeper. The further they went, the more the air pulsed with that heartbeat—steady, patient, alive. On either side of the passage were murals carved into the chocolate-colored stone: scenes of people working the factories, pouring sweetness into molds, their faces serene. But beneath each image, in darker pigment, were shapes of the same people with hollow eyes, mouths open in silent screams, sinking into the ground.
Nia reached out and touched one of them. The surface quivered, slightly, under her hand, like a living pulse. "Aya… they're moving."
Aya drew back, pale. "No—they're remembering."
Felix turned, the red light painting his face. "What does that mean?"
"Memory leaves a flavor," she said. "If enough of it gathers, it starts to speak."
The heartbeat grew louder. The floor beneath them throbbed in rhythm, and from somewhere far ahead came a faint metallic clinking, like a spoon stirring an endless pot.
They followed the sound until they came to a big chamber.
In its midst flowed a fountain, but not of water, not even chocolate, yet of liquid shadow. It rose and fell in perfect rhythm, shimmering with the same deep hue that had glowed in the forbidden molds Felix had tasted days before.
Carved into the stone around the base of the fountain were hundreds of names. Some were half-erased by time. Others shone fresh, as though carved that very day. And among them, Nia saw one that made her breath catch.
FELIX MOREAU.
She froze. "Felix," she whispered. "Your name—"
He turned, saw it, and laughed once. The sound echoed too long. "That's impossible."
Aya knelt beside the carving. The stone around it was still warm. "It's new," she said. "It's been written recently."
Felix's smile faltered. "I didn't do that."
Tomas stepped back from the fountain. "Then who did?
The answer came not with words, but with movement. The liquid at the heart of the fountain stirred, then started to climb, twisting up into an indistinct shape—a figure with no face, composed of the same dark matter. Its surface seemed to quiver like glass.
Aya's voice shook. "Is that—
"It's not real," Felix said quickly. "It's just another machine. A projection or something."
The figure cocked its head. Then, in a slow movement, the figure imitated him—head to the side, hands rising in perfect imitation.
"It's you," Nia whispered.
The surface of the thing shifted, and now its outline was unmistakable—Felix's height, Felix's stance, even the same small movement of his hands. But its eyes were hollow. Inside them, the red glow pulsed softly.
Felix backed away. "No… no, that's not—"
And the fountain spoke, its voice not loud but everywhere, as soft as a sigh:
"The city remembers who tastes without asking."
Aya grabbed Nia's arm. "We need to go."
The reflection - Felix's reflection - stepped forward. It moved with a soft rippling, like syrup on marble. The heartbeat quickened. Cracks spidered across the floor beneath it, faintly red.
"I can't move," Felix whispered.
Nia reached for him, but the air itself seemed thick, resisting her. "Felix—come on!"
Then, the voice came again, closer this time:
"Sweetness marks what is taken. Sweetness keeps what it loves."
The glow around Felix's name on the stone brightened, casting long, sharp shadows up the walls.
And then, suddenly, the light changed.
A blinding flash of gold tore through the room, followed by a sharp crack of thunder. When Nia's vision cleared, the fountain was still again—silent, solid, its surface hardened into dark glass. The figure was gone.
At the entrance stood Vellum.
His silver coat was flecked with dust; his expression was unreadable. "I told you," he said in a quiet tone. "Stay within the light."
Felix turned toward him, shaken. "What was that?"
Vellum's gaze went to the stone, to the new carving of the name Felix. "The city's memory," he said. "It carves its gratitude into whoever feeds it."
"Gratitude?" Aya whispered.
Vellum smiled thinly. "Of a kind."
He gestured for them to follow. "Come. The Festival will not wait forever."