The stairs appeared longer on the ascent. Every tread pulsed with a faint, golden light, and the air grew thick with warmth. Not one of them said a word. The breathing in his chest occurred with rapid, shallow gasps, as if part of him remained downstairs.
Finally, they were back into the edge of the plaza. The festival was now in full progress, as most of the floats were no longer there, and light ribbons now drifted through the sky like luminous serpents. Music still filled the air, but this was now much softer, winding down as it was nearing midnight.
Vellum brought them into a small courtyard, hidden beyond the Hall of Confectioners. The noise of the city muffled, and for the first time all day, silence was within reach. He turned to face them.
"You've seen what you should not," he said.
"So, why did you leave the door open?" Aya folded her arms.
Vellum's eyes flicked to her, expressionless. "Because all creations require curiosity. Without it, nothing will grow."
Tomas advanced. "That thing down there, the fountain, what was it?"
Vellum's gaze drifted past him, toward the distant light of the dome. "When this city was founded, the confectioners strove for the perfect flavor. But perfection demands memory – all joy, all failure, all flavor ever created. The Bitter District is where this memory is kept."
He stopped, almost gently. "Over time, it began to hold more."
"You mean it's alive," said Aya, frowning.
"In its own way,"
"Alive and hungry.
Sweetness and bitterness are never truly separate.
One feeds the other."
FELIX laughed once, brittlely. "And it carved my name. Why?"
Vellum's features relaxed, and for an instant, he almost resembled a human being. "Because you took without asking. The city remembers all the flavors that enter it. Now, the city remembers you."
"Can it forget?" Felix's jaw clenched.
The smile on Vellum's face didn't reach his eyes. "Nothing ever forgets here."
There was a gentle wind rustling through the courtyard, and it carried the smell of cooling chocolate and smoke. Somewhere above, fireworks erupted under the glass dome, and they were reflected in the silver coat of the horse named Vellum.
He turned back toward the children. "Tonight, you have learned your first lesson of creation. The principle of sweetness is balance. Too much, and the balance will fail. Give nothing, and the balance will starve."
"And then what happens if it starves?" Aya shivered.
Vellum's eyes drifted towards the distant towers. "The city starts to consume its own memory. That is what we call the Bittering. You wouldn't want to see this."
The words remained between them, as still as dust.
They followed him back into the Hall. The corridors were almost empty now, and the light reduced to only an amber glow. The servants moved soundlessly, removing the last traces of the Festival – golden petals being swept into bins, chocolate confetti melting into dark patches on the floor.
Nia hung back in the crowd, her mind racing. When they walked by a window, she saw herself reflected there. For a moment, she could have sworn her reflection turned her head, and its eyes flickered faintly red.
Her eyes blinked sharply. There was nothing there. Just her face, exhausted and pale.
Nevertheless, the smell of the Bitter District still lingered on her, the burnt sugar and the metallic undertones of sweetness.
When they finally reached their barracks, Vellum stopped in front of the door. "Sleep," he said quietly. "The Festival will go on at dawn. And if you prize your dreams, remain in the light."
He turned and walked away, his footsteps making no sound on the marble floor.
"What if the light's just another flavor he wants us to taste?" Aya whispered as soon as the man was out of earshot.
There was no response. The children filed into their rooms silently.
That night, the city known as the Chocolate City was sleeping. The golden rivers flowed slowly and heavily, reflecting the fading light of the fireworks. Down in the Bitter District, the fountain moved. The hard surface shifted, merely fractionally. Below the glass, the liquid darkness flowed, inscribing one name slowly.
FELIX MORE
The letters grew luminous, as if they were embers, and then from some hidden source, an echoing, gentle voice whispered, almost lovingly,
"Sweetness preserves what it loves."
Then the light faded, and the city pulsated once more, slowly, steadily, waiting.