Crystal shards rained across the marble floor as Ash reclined further into his chair; brandy dripped from his chin like liquid amber. He flicked a sliver of glass from his ceremonial robes with deliberate slowness.

  “You know,” Ash drawled. “That was a perfectly good glass of brandy. I expect to be reimbursed for the damages.”

  Uncla Maa’Rati’s fist came down on the granite table hard enough to crack the stone. “You arrogant welp! Do you truly not understand the severity of your actions!” The veins in his forehead pulsed like live wires. “I will not allow your callous ignorance to tear this family apart.”

  “Oh, come now, uncle,” Ash replied, dismissing his Uncle’s words as if they were a long-forgotten concern. “My actions could hardly bring about the fall of our entire empire.” Ash sat up straight, adopting the physical presence of the Grand Pharaoh. “The 1st Faithful has endured since the 10th Integration, and during this the 856th Integration, it shall be no different.”

  “Gah!” Maa’Rati fell into his seat, letting out an exasperated sigh. For one glorious moment, Ash watched the storm in his Uncle’s eyes break. Finally, the legendary Gilded Tempest—the warrior who’d once stared down a dying star without blinking—slumped into his chair like a common beggar. Ash’s lips curled. Oh, he’d still got it.

  Then Maa’Rati spoke, and the words cut deeper than any blade.

  “Tell me, nephew.” Calloused hands—hands that had strangled Gods—cradled his face. “When did you stop seeing us as family?” His voice cracked like desert earth. “Every scar I bear, I earned fighting for our name. I thought… I thought you, of all people, understood what that meant.”

  Ash’s smirk faltered as his Uncle rose. This broken figure wasn’t the titan from his childhood stories. This man moved with the weary gait of a prisoner, one who’d willingly clamped his own shackles. He was… pathetic. He’d fallen in line, licking at the feet of the Grand Pharoah like an obedient pup.

  The realization tasted more bitter than spoiled brandy.

  [Ruler Blackwood has Entered the [Rats Nest] - Dungeon. Do you wish to Observe?]

  Ash read the prompt and dismissed it with a mental flick. Glancing up at his uncle, he saw he had not rejected it quickly enough. His Uncle’s hawk-like gaze caught the momentary glaze in his eyes.

  “So,” Maa’Rati settled back into his chair with predatory grace, “your pet Ruler finally does something noteworthy.” The carved stone groaned under his grip. “Or does he still let others dirty their hands while he cowers?”

  Ash’s goblet clinked against the table, “Hardly worth your attention, Uncle. The man doesn’t even know how to hold a blade, let alone—”

  “---Then why observe him at all?” Maa’Rati’s smile showed too many teeth. He was smarter than that. Ash barely registered his Uncle’s eyes glazing over before—

  [Congratulations! Your Kingdom has gained a new Viewer]

  The Root’s chime echoed between them like a duelist’s pistol shot.

  Godsdammit.

  “A Dungeon?” Maa’Rati’s scarred face split into a grin that showed too many teeth. “The Root found you worthy of crucible rights?”

  Ash waved a jeweled hand. “It’s nothing. A pittance. The rat-infested hole won’t even yield a proper Title.” The lie flowed like cheap wine. “Blackwood and his Revenant will likely perish in the Eidolon’s memory-twisted halls. You know how first attempts go.”

  The moment the words escaped, Ash tasted copper. His Uncle’s glacier-blue eyes locked onto him with predatory precision. That smile—that unnatural, jagged thing—crept across features hardened by eons of wrath.

  “Oh, Ash’Rati Mortanre,” Maa’Rati crooned his full name like a death sentence. “Your little Ruler commands enough of the Root’s favor to raise Revenants now?” The Gilded Tempest leaned forward, the brandy decanter trembling as he poured. “What precisely have you been cultivating in my absence?”

  Then came the laughter—a thunderclap that ricocheted off the flagship walls, each echo a hammer in Ash’s skull. There was no escape from that sound, the sound that once made warlords surrender without drawn steel.

  Maa’Rati raised his freshly filled glass in a mock toast, the amber liquid catching firelight like liquid treason. “It seems we have… much to discuss.”

  —

  A crisp autumn breeze carried the scent of decaying leaves as Buck blinked awake. Mr. Seeker’s disembodied eyes hovered inches from his face, their optic nerves trailing like jellyfish tendrils where they’d been tickling his chin.

  “I’m up,” Buck groaned, swatting the floating eyes toward Flint. His bodyguard crouched nearby, tomahawk glinting in the fading light. “The rats didn’t follow?”

  Flint’s ears twitched toward the sound of rustling leaves. “Doubt they could.” His paw swept toward their surroundings. “Look.”

  Buck staggered upright—and froze

  They stood in a childhood memory made flesh. A playground from some long-buried past. One not dissimilar to the one he’d played in as a child. Weathered monkey bars stood bleeding orange rust while a long swing creaked in the wind. Twin rocking horses, their paint peeled to reveal gray wood beneath, sat ominously in a sectioned-off area overflowing with wood chips.

  Beyond the wood-chip borders stood a redbrick schoolhouse, its white-domed annex glowing faintly in the twilight. The double doors beneath the dome gaped like a hungry mouth. If this truly was a school, maybe they led into a gym? Or some sort of concert hall?

  Tires crunched on gravel.

  The twin lights of the old yellow Volkswagen Beetle painted long shadows across the wood chips as the vintage car wheezed to a stop. Rusty hinges screamed in protest as the driver’s door opened like the lid of a sarcophagus.

  Flint’s claws found his tomahawk’s hilt—until Buck’s raised his hand, stilling him. Something was off; the contrast between blinding headlights and pitch-black interior turned the emerging figure into a living silhouette, all elongated limbs, and unnatural edges. But Buck didn’t feel threatened.

  This was supposed to be a memory; what about a children’s park was threatening?

  Then, the boy stepped into the light.

  Buck took in the kid’s ensemble. He wore a pair of Basketball shorts that had seen better days with a graphic tee featuring a dragon torching what looked like Whoville. Sat upon his head was a simple Baseball hat, the logo of some nondescript sports team that blurred when Buck focussed on it.

  Wait… blurred.

  Buck tried again, forcing his eyes upward to the gangly teen’s head. Something was off; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t maintain focus. The hat remained a blurry blob of green and blue.

  “Hey, Jaxon!” The kid’s voice cracked mid-shout “The fuck you doin’ just standing there!? We’re gonna miss the whole thing!”

  Buck exchanged glances with Flint. The jackalope’s nose twitched at the scent of fabric softener and Axe body spray clinging to the teen.

  “Well,” Buck muttered, brushing wood chips from his pants,” when in Rome…” he shot Flint a warning look. “Just.. try to act natural.”

  Flint stared blankly at the bouncing teenager. “Define ‘natural,’ Master.”

  Buck ignored him, gesturing to Flint. “You mind if I bring a friend?”

  “A friend?” the boy’s face twisted in confusion.

  Strange. “Yeah…?” Buck pointed to Flint again.

  “What are you talking about, Jaxon?” A confused look spread across the boy’s face like he was trying to solve a complicated math problem. “That’s Jaxon, and… you’re Jaxon…and he’s Jaxon?” His expression glitched like a buffering video.

  “Woah, hey man,” Buck backpedaled before the memory fully unraveled. “Let’s go! It’s freezing out here!”

  The boy’s eyes snapped back into focus. “Hah, yeah. Just get in already. I don’t wanna miss the party.”

  Buck turned to Flint. “Okay, I guess we’re all playing the same character here. Maybe let me do all the talking?”

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “I will follow you, Master,” Flint replied.

  Totally.

  So without further ado, Flint, Buck, and a pair of floating eyeballs somehow, impossibly, crammed themselves into the old Volkswagon Beetle. It was a tight fit. Buck sat in the backseat folded up like a lawn chair. Flint couldn’t fit his antlers in the car itself, so his head hung out the window, giving the car the appearance of a very confused stag. And Mr. Seeker’s eyeballs bobbed around the interior, inspecting the gearshift with scientific fascination.

  The engine sputtered to life. Buck caught his reflection in the rearview mirror—and for a split second, he swore he saw another face staring back.

  As the car started moving, Buck figured now was as good a time as any to try to figure out what the hell was going on.

  “So uh…” Buck cleared his throat, leaning forward between the seats. “You pumped for the party? Who’s all gonna be there?”

  The driver shot him a sideways glance. “Well, it’s Julien’s birthday, dumbass. So…Julien?” His grin revealed a chipped front tooth. “You hit your head or somethin’?”

  “Right, right.” Buck’s knuckles whitened on the seatback. “Julien’s turning…?”

  “Seventeen.” The boy’s grip tightened on the wheel. “He’s turning Seventeen. The fuck’s wrong with you today, Jax?”

  Buck’s mind raced. “Just making sure you’re not kidnapping me,” he blurted, immediately regretting it.

  The teen barked a laugh. “Fuckin’ weirdo.” He downshifted as they turned onto a tree-lined street. “Look, I know Julien’s abuela creeps you out, but don’t be a little bitch about it. You’re gonna have to listen to her story. Unless you want her putting a curse on your ass.”

  Gods, this was strange. But Buck had been a teen boy once. Might as well lean fully in.

  Buck forced a laugh and punched the boy’s shoulder, carefully modulating his enhanced strength to something approximating teenage aggression. “I’m not scared! You’re the one who—”

  “There he is!” The boy grinned as identical suburban homes blurred past. “Damn, thought I was gonna have to check you for pod people.”

  The Beetle slowed as they approached their destination. Every house on the street looked the same, cookie-cutter two-story, farmhouse-style house rotating through lap siding of three fascinating colors; brown, gray, and white. A single tree in the front yard next to the paved driveway; some sort of oak or elm.

  It didn’t take long to identify the house they were traveling to. About halfway down the street, a big castle-shaped bouncy house dominated the front yard. Cars were parked, bumper-to-bumper along both curbs, and as they grew closer, the throbbing bassline of Latin trap bled through the windows and into the backyard.

  Buck exchanged glances with Flint, whose antlers rattled against the roof with each bass drop. Somewhere in this perfect suburban nightmare lay the memory’s key and possibly their way out.

  Buck squinted at the towering bouncy castle, its plastic turrets swaying in the evening breeze. “Kind of old for this, aren’t we?”

  The boy snorted, slamming his door shut. “Julien’s whole family is here. Guys got like…twenty cousins or something. Half of ’em are probably in diapers. Here you go, man.”

  The boy swung his seat forward, giving Buck enough room to crawl out. Flint began the long process of getting out of the car as the two started walking toward the house. “You get him anything?”

  “Shit,” Buck said. A birthday present? He had loads of crap in his [Inventory], but he couldn’t imagine Julien would enjoy getting a pile of rocks or a bucket of goo. But when Buck went to open his Inventory, he was met with a surprising message.

  [Error: Inventory Inaccessible]

  “Uhhh, that would be a no.” Buck said apologetically.

  “Shit, no worries.” The boy responded. “Julien probably won’t even notice.”

  But that brought up something important. If Buck couldn’t access his Inventory, what else had become ‘Inaccessible’? One by one, Buck went through all of the systems he’d grown used to activating with the Cracked Kingdoms. One by one, he was met with the same Error message.

  It looked like he would have to complete this Dungeon without using any of his [Abilities].

  A metallic screech tore through the party chatter. They turned in unison to find Flint standing beside the Beetle, now missing its passenger door. Buck raised his hands questioningly, but the jackalope only dusted off his shoulders like he’d completed a difficult chore.

  “Sorry, Master,” Flint said, falling into step behind Buck. “The… window was stuck.”

  The driver blinked at his mutilated car, then at the seven-foot-tall antlered warrior, then back at his car. He flickered for a moment, his body shifting back to his previous position as he continued leading them toward the backyard gate.

  As they approached, two children burst through, their greeting firing like a broken record. “HeyTonyHeyJaxonHeyJaxonHeyJaxon!”

  Mr. Seeker’s floating eyes bobbed in an exaggerated nod, clearly reveling in the attention. Buck watched as one child’s sneaker came untied mid-stride—the lace snagging on a stray rock. The kid faceplanted into the grass, popped back up, and kept running without missing a beat.

  Buck exchanged glances with Flint. Whatever nightmare lurked in this memory, it was clearly content to let them play along… for now.

  “Let’s see what they’ve got to eat,” Tony said, brushing past the giggling girls. “Gotta fuel up before storytime.”

  Buck’s ears perked at the repeated mention. “Storytime?” He feigned casual interest while eyeing the steaming food table. “What’s tonight’s tale?”

  Tony shrugged, loading a plate with golden-brown pupusas fresh off the griddle. “Hell if I know. Julien’s abuela always comes up with some wild ass shit.” He thrust the overflowing plate into Buck’s hands. “Makes for a weird end to the night. Here, try this.”

  Buck stared at the plate. It was piled high with three perfectly crisped pupusas oozing cheese. A vibrant curtido slaw that smelled like vinegar and sunshine, and before he could react, Tony carelessly poured a red salsa onto the plate, creating abstract art across the meal.

  “You think this is like a Hades and Persephone thing?” Buck muttered, looking at the plate and then at Flint.

  Flint leaned in. “Master, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Fair point.

  Buck’s stomach growled like a caged beast. After a month of coyote jerky and foraged berries, the aromas hit him like a sensory battering ram—toasted corn masa, melting cheese, the tang of pickled cabbage. His mouth flooded with saliva.

  He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Every survival instinct screamed at him to devour the plate whole. His fingers twitched, nails biting into his palms as he fought the urge to shovel food into his face like a starved animal.

  But Gods, it smelled like heaven.

  The moment the first bit of pupusa hit Buck’s tongue, all caution evaporated. The crispy masa shell gave way to molten cheese and savory beans, the spicy salsa igniting his taste buds like fireworks. Tony’s ecstatic moans as he devoured his food mirrored Buck’s ravenous delight.

  “Gods above,” Buck mumbled through a mouthful, grease dripping down his chin. Even if this was some Eidolon trick, the meal would be worth whatever came next.

  Before he realized what he was doing, Buck was up, heading back to the gingham-clad table for round three of the delicious food, and Flint was close behind. With each bite, more and more stress was released from Buck’s tensed shoulders. But that was just the beginning.

  The night unfolded in a whirlwind of simple joys; Buck dominated yard games with his enhanced reflexes, though he deliberately missed the last cornhole toss to let a gap-toothed cousin win. He ate all the food he could get his hands on, pocketing anything and everything, and eventually orchestrating fireworks with a group of boys, their faces alight with wonder as Roman candles painted the sky.

  It felt…good to blow off some steam. Fighting to survive, trying to hide from the Viewers, dealing with the realization you had become the monster in a monster movie, it all had been so…draining. This…this was easy. It was easy to have fun, and playing like a kid again felt good. Hells, he even took a moment to sneak a little bottle of mezcal off the adult table.

  Even his companions surrendered to the moment. The [Corpse Seeker] Minion bobbed through the air like a macabre parade float, a lopsided party hat strapped between its optic nerves as children chased it in giddy circles.

  Flint also seemed to lean into the memory. Buck couldn’t help but laugh as the hulking jackalope barbarian climbed into the bouncy house, his antlers puncturing the nylon with each cautious bounce. Pink streamers tangled in his fur like battle trophies.

  “Let’s go, big guy,” Buck laughed, plucking plastic shreds from Flint’s antlers.

  Flint’s ears dropped, “I apologize, Master, the small ones were… persuasive.”

  “You don’t need to say sorry.” Buck’s grin felt foreign on his face. “It’s just been one thing after another these past weeks. We’ve earned this.”

  “Yes, I agree, Master.” His brow furrowed. “I wish to learn how to cook these… pupusas.”

  Buck started, “Oh…uh…yeah, totally. I’m not really sure we could make them at camp, but someone around here has to at least know what the ingredients are.”

  “I will ask—”

  Before Buck could respond, Tony slung an arm around his shoulders. “Damn, Jax! Never seen you cut loose like this!”

  “Tony!” Buck gestured to the feast. “You know Julien’s family better than me. I’m looking for whatever culinary genius made the food tonight. Got any ideas?”

  “Fuck yeah, I do, you bozo. It’s Julien's dad. He’s around her—”

  Then—as if a director had called “cut,” the mood shifted.

  The back door groaned open. A young boy emerged, supporting an elderly woman whose hunched form seemed to absorb the porch light rather than reflect it. The old woman’s gnarled fingers clutched a leather-bound book that pulsed faintly in time with Buck’s quickening heartbeat. It had to be Julien and his abuela.

  “All right, everyone! Let’s get upstairs! Storytime!” Julien announced.

  Like marionettes with cut strings, the entire party froze mid-action. Plates clattered to the ground. Children released sparklers that hung suspended in the air for an impossible second before falling. The crowd turned as one, their movements synchronized in eerie perfection as they shuffled toward the house.

  Buck’s laughter died in his throat. The mezcal bottle he had pilfered felt suddenly heavy in his pocket. Whatever joy this memory had offered, the real trail was just beginning.

  “Let’s go, Jaxon,” Tony cut in, yanking Buck’s shirt. “What you standing around for?”

  “Are we gonna fit?” Buck eyed the house, its doorway absurdly narrow for the horde ahead. “Seem’s like a tight squeeze”

  But even as the words left his mouth, he knew he’d been mistaken. This wasn’t real— well, it was real, but since when did physics matter in a world where the Root could terraform a galaxy with a snap of its metaphysical fingers?.

  Compared to that, this was child’s play.

  With a shrug at Flint, Buck fell in line, trudging toward the back door. With each passing step, they grew closer, and one by one, everyone entered. The line moved like a single organism. There was no shoving, no grumpy murmurings as people bumped into each other, and no sign that any partygoers were troubled by what was happening. The line never slowed.

  “Be ready for anything,’ Buck whispered. Flint’s hand drifted to his weapon.

  Then it was their turn. Tony flashed a grin, walking backward into the house—

  —and vanished.

  How could everyone fit inside?

  Simple. They didn’t

  The moment Buck crossed the threshold, the world drained. Color, sound, the party—all gone. Only a single naked lightbulb remained, swinging lazily in a nonexistent breeze. Beneath it: a wicker chair, its rattan frayed like old bones, centered on a floor dusted with decades of neglect.

  And in that chair sat Julien’s abuela. Alone.

  “Hello, Jaxon.” Her voice was a death rattle wrapped in civility. “Please. Take a seat.”

  And with a wave of her hand, three chairs materialized out of thin air.