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Part I: The Breathing Walls
Summary: Thale and Vermidge descend into the corridor. The walls pulse like flesh, and the air is thick with spores that carry false memories. As Thale walks, her past starts bleeding through—visions she can't control.
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The stairs were shallow, but endless.
Thale stepped lightly, eyes scanning every curve of the walls as they spiraled downward. The corridor's shape was more organic than architectural—like they were walking through a vein, not a tunnel. The walls weren't metal anymore. They had texture.
Veins. Folds. Sweat.
And they moved.
Not all at once, not dramatically. But every few steps, the corridor gave a long, slow inhale—so faint it might have been imagination. The floor dipped and rose with no warning. Strange seams split open briefly, exhaling a mist that smelled like dried skin and lemon rot.
"Why does it feel like it's watching us?" Thale murmured.
Vermidge, behind her, adjusted his ticking monocle.
"Because it is. The Corridor of Rot is a reactive zone. It interprets emotional output and builds an environment. Old tech, old magic, take your pick."
"That's comforting."
"Oh, it shouldn't be."
As they turned a curve, the light changed.
The corridor was now lit by small, pulsing sacs embedded in the walls—soft, warm pinks and yellows. They looked like tumors filled with lanterns. One ruptured quietly as they passed, releasing a puff of white spores.
Thale coughed once. Then again.
Vermidge stopped instantly and yanked a cloth over his mouth.
"Don't breathe deeply. Memory-spores. Very volatile."
"Memory?"
"They root in the hippocampus. Try to bloom images. Not yours. Not always. Avoid eye contact with the hallucinations."
Hallucinations?
Too late.
The spores were already working. She blinked, and for just a moment, the corridor shivered into a hospital hallway.
Clean. Bright. Buzzing with fluorescent lights. A white floor.
Her feet were bare. A hand reached for hers—someone calling her name in a voice she didn't know.
"Thale."
She gasped and snapped back.
Vermidge was holding her by the arm, whispering urgently.
"You were gone. Just for a second. But your eyes flickered. Stay with me."
"I saw something."
"You'll see many somethings down here. Don't trust any of them."
"I saw a hospital."
He shook his head. "Too neat. That's bait. This corridor doesn't know you yet. It's throwing up guesses."
"Guesses of what?"
He gave her a long look.
"Who you were. Or might have been. Or could still be."
They walked on.
The air thickened.
Ahead, the corridor widened, opening into a chamber coated in fibrous black mold. It hung from the ceiling like wet hair. The floor was sticky, and each step made a soft tearing sound.
Something moved beneath the mold.
Vermidge didn't stop.
"Don't acknowledge it."
"Why not?"
"Because if you acknowledge it, it's real."
Thale tightened her grip on the mirror shard in her coat.
Her shoulder itched where the wound had been. It was no longer bleeding—but something under the skin twitched.
She looked down.
For a second, she saw light beneath the skin. Like wires.
But when she blinked—it was gone.
She didn't ask. She just kept walking.
The Clockwork Grave
Chapter 1: The Vault of Forgotten Names
Part I: The Awakening Cradle
[...]
Chapter 2: The Corridor of Rot
Part I: The Breathing Walls
[...]
Part II: Glimpse of Nyxalune
The corridor narrowed until they were nearly walking shoulder to shoulder. The mold faded, replaced by a slick sheen coating the walls like resin or sweat. In one section, the wall curved inward into a shallow basin that held a puddle of liquid metal—still, reflective, too bright.
Thale paused. Something in it caught her eye.
She stepped closer, despite Vermidge's warning glance.
"It's not water," he said. "It's static. Don't look long."
But she was already looking.
In the puddle: her face.
Only not quite. Her features were the same—the long black hair, the pale skin, the scar along her temple from the cradle—but the eyes were wrong. They were too wide. Too bright. Too certain.
The reflection smiled.
Thale did not.
"You're not me," she whispered.
The reflection tilted its head.
"Then what are you?" it asked, voice perfectly matching hers.
Thale staggered back.
Vermidge grabbed her shoulder, pulling her away from the pool.
"Did it speak?"
"Yes."
"Then it knows. Keep moving."
They hurried forward. Thale didn't look back, but she felt it. The reflection. Watching. Following through unseen surfaces.
"Who was that?" she asked.
Vermidge's voice was grim. "Nyxalune. One of the echoes. Old as the first loop. They say she only appears to those who could overwrite themselves."
"What does that mean?"
"It means if she's curious about you, we're in trouble."
The corridor shifted again, the walls stretching wide and then closing tightly around them like a throat trying to swallow.
Somewhere behind them, the puddle hissed.