Wobewt found Eugene near the campfire, chewing on a strip of moss jerky and watching the faint glimmers of lanternflies drift up the stone walls. The cavern above them was so vast that it disappeared into blackness, and the pillar they stood on—a narrow mesa surrounded by deep chasms—felt like the last safe place left in a world built from someone else's dreams.

  "You'we thinking about weaving," Wobewt said, not asking.

  Eugene nodded. "I don’t want to stay stuck down here forever."

  The centaur lowered himself to sit, his hooves clinking lightly against the stone. "Then you’ww need the pixies. They’we the onwy ones who move fweely between wevews. They wun twade, gossip, wumows. And if thewe’s an exit—any exit—they’ve sniffed it."

  Eugene looked skeptical. "Pixies? Like little winged fairies?"

  Wobewt let out a sound that might have been a laugh. "No. They’we oldew than stowies and stwangew than you’we weady fow. But clevew. Too clevew. Don’t wie to them. They’ww know."

  He glanced up toward the shadowy edges of the cavern, then added, more quietly, "And don’t speak the name She-Who-Wasn’t unwess you want to be noticed."

  Eugene blinked. "Who?"

  "Just don’t. She wistens in cownews."

  Navigating the maze beyond the centaur camp was like walking through someone else's nervous system. The passageways extended outward like branching nerves, twitching with unseen contractions. Corners blinked open and shut, and entire hallways seemed to change when Eugene wasn’t looking. More than once he had to backtrack after finding himself looped into rooms that felt like old lungs—domed chambers full of stale air and dangling cords of light that pulsed like veins.

  It took hours, or what felt like hours. Time moved oddly in Syzzyzzy, like it was being chewed and re-swallowed. But eventually, Eugene followed a series of faint chimes and trills to a narrow archway, its stone covered in spiral glyphs that shimmered with insect-wing colors.

  Beyond it, the world shifted again.

  The pixie zone wasn’t a camp, and it wasn’t a village. It was a bazaar stretched across fractured stone, like someone had tried to build a marketplace in the ribs of a giant. Tiny stalls were carved into walls or hung from ropes. Lanterns made of carved seed husks swung on threads. The air buzzed with the sound of chattering, clicking, and something like flute music.

  And the pixies—

  They were not what Eugene expected.

  They had wings, yes, but not soft or delicate. Their wings shimmered like oil on water, segmented and sharp-edged. Their bodies were insectile: six-limbed, jointed, and brightly colored in patterns that suggested armor rather than whimsy. Their eyes were multifaceted, and they moved in quick bursts, like dancers halfway through a fight.

  One stepped forward. Her antennae flicked. "You are not centaur."

  "No," Eugene said carefully. "I’m looking for a way out. They said you might know something."

  The pixies around her murmured and shifted. Some took notes. Others tilted their heads. One sniffed.

  "Tell us the story," she said. Not a demand—an invitation. But sharp as a blade.

  So Eugene did. He told them about Krungus, about Earth, about the battle, about falling through space into Syzzyzzy. About wanting to find his way forward, or upward, or just out.

  When he finished, they conferred in a sudden burst of rapid clicks and trills. He couldn't follow any of it.

  The lead pixie returned.

  "We’ll think on it," she said. "We’re not a shelter. And help comes at a cost. Even the truth has weight."

  She turned.

  None of them invited him in.

  Eugene stood there awkwardly, unsure whether he was supposed to leave or wait. The pixies had already dispersed into their chatter and bustle, ignoring him completely. So he stayed—leaning against a chunk of broken stone near the archway, watching the flicker of seed-lanterns and the jittery flight of the insectile people as they bartered and hummed and vanished behind woven drapes.

  Time passed. Then more of it. It felt like hours, then like a day. He had no way of knowing for sure—Syzzyzzy had no clocks, only rhythm, and rhythm here was offbeat and recursive.

  Eventually, Eugene sat cross-legged and let out a sigh. "Okay," he muttered, pulling Cozimia's lantern closer. "Thoughts?"

  Cozimia pulsed gently, her form emerging inside the glass—soft, round, with her familiar warm-eyed glow.

  "They didn’t say no," she offered.

  "They didn’t say anything helpful, either."

  A second voice chimed in, higher-pitched and crystalline. Enalia shimmered into view beside Cozimia, fragments of her mosaic-like body drifting in slow orbit. "You told the truth. That counts for something."

  "Not if they’re just gonna ignore me."

  Enalia shrugged—a subtle ripple through her floating shards. "Waiting is not wasted. Sometimes potential is noticed in stillness."

  "Or sometimes you get eaten by something you didn’t see coming," Eugene muttered.

  Cozimia chuckled. "They’re watching you, sugar. I can feel it. Just because they’re quiet doesn’t mean they’re idle."

  Eugene sighed again and leaned back against the stone, closing his eyes. "Then I hope they don't mind me waiting here."

  He didn’t know how long he sat there—dozing, pacing, muttering to himself—but eventually, the ambient hum of the bazaar shifted. A hush, almost imperceptible, settled across the pixie zone. Then the lead pixie returned, flanked by two others whose wings buzzed in perfect sync.

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  "You may approach," she said. "We have decided to barter."

  Eugene stood slowly, dusting off his pants. "Barter what? I don’t exactly have—"

  "Not goods. Not coins. This is not the world you come from. Not the world of ledgers and gold."

  Her multifaceted eyes blinked slowly, wings twitching.

  "You do not know our customs. You do not know our terms. What we ask may not make sense to you. What we offer may not seem fair. But if you agree to trade, you will abide by our exchange."

  The other two pixies spoke at once, a dual voice like wind through reeds: "And once a trade begins, it must end. One way or another."

  Eugene swallowed hard. "Okay. I’m listening."

  The lead pixie buzzed softly. "We can help you find the one who can help you. She moves like a ghost through the seams of Syzzyzzy. If there is anyone who knows how to leave, she is the closest thing to a key."

  "But we cannot move freely on our own," added one of the others. "Not truly. Not without paying."

  "Paying who?" Eugene asked.

  The lead pixie lowered her voice. "She-Who-Wasn’t, the one you seek. She controls the true passageways between floors. Even we must make offerings to stay in motion."

  Eugene felt a chill crawl up his spine. "I was hoping she was just a rumor."

  "No rumor. She was. And now she isn’t."

  The third pixie leaned forward, mandibles clicking. "To pass knowledge to you, to show you her trail, we must make a small trade. One memory."

  Eugene tensed. "What kind of memory?"

  "One you are willing to part with," the lead pixie said. "It cannot be stolen. It must be given. But once gone, it cannot return."

  "You will still be yourself," the second added. "But lighter. Changed. Perhaps less. Perhaps more."

  Eugene looked down at his hands. "And if I say no?"

  "Then you stay here. The floor does not move for you unless she wants it to."

  The three pixies waited, wings whispering in the still air.

  Eugene took a deep breath. "So I just... tell you a story from my life?"

  The lead pixie gave a slow nod. "Yes. One you remember clearly. One that still belongs to you."

  Eugene hesitated, then began. "Okay. This one’s real. I was in Cincinnati, walking to my car after a night out. Wrong side of town, wrong time. I got jumped by three guys. They didn’t have weapons, but they were big. Took my wallet and phone. I remember one of them had a scar across his mouth. They knocked me down and ran. I didn’t fight back. Just laid there, staring at the streetlamp above me, thinking how stupid I was for parking so far off."

  The pixies leaned in, antennae twitching.

  He swallowed. "Anyway... I was okay. Just shaken."

  The lead pixie’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Why were you there, Eugene Calhoun?"

  "I... was meeting a friend," he lied. "We had drinks, lost track of time."

  The truth, buried now beyond reach, had once embarrassed him too much to say aloud. He hadn’t been meeting anyone. He had been standing across the street from an ex-girlfriend’s apartment, hoping to catch a glimpse of her with the man she’d left him for. It was pathetic. He knew it even then. But now that the memory was gone, all that remained was the hollow sense that he had once been someone he didn’t want to be—and had been too ashamed to admit it.

  A long silence followed.

  Then, like wind sucked through a keyhole, something pulled sharply inside his mind.

  Eugene gasped as the memory tore free. It wasn’t violent, but it was sudden—like a deep tooth quietly yanked. A faint thread of glowing mist lifted from his brow, swirling upward. The pixies stepped back.

  The memory hovered, pulsing once—then zipped away, vanishing into the deep corridors beyond the bazaar.

  "You lied," the lead pixie said softly. "We told you not to."

  "What—?"

  "The trade failed. The memory is gone, but the path remains closed."

  Eugene felt hollow. The memory was gone—but so was any benefit he might have gained.

  "Lies don’t weigh the same here. They rot from the inside out," one of the others whispered.

  Eugene touched his forehead, still dizzy from the extraction. "I don’t even remember what I lied about."

  "Of course not," said the lead pixie. "You gave us a story with rot in its bones. The lie was part of the memory. Now it is neither yours nor ours. It belongs to She-Who-Wasn't."

  Eugene sat down heavily. "So what now?"

  The lead pixie stepped forward, her wings folding with a faint rustle. "You may try again. One more story. But tell the full truth this time, or we will not ask again."

  The other two echoed, their voices eerily synced. "No half-truths. No omissions. No lies softened by shame. If you cannot offer truth, you offer nothing at all."

  Eugene nodded slowly. "Okay. One more. And this time, I’ll be honest."

  He closed his eyes for a moment, took a breath, and then began.

  "The fungal attack on the City—it was chaos. People were dying in the streets. Buildings collapsed under rootwork. I remember being terrified. More than I’d ever admit to anyone. I kept thinking, 'I don’t belong here. I’m just some guy who got yanked out of his life and dropped into a war.'"

  The pixies leaned in.

  "But I didn’t run. I reached out to the Veiled Pinnacle. I didn’t know if it would work, but I felt it. The same way I felt Potential. It was like I’d been handed a key to a lock no one else could see. I amplified my magic through it. I poured everything I had into shielding the city and pushing back the bloom. I saw people cheering and thought they were wrong—I wasn’t a hero. I was just scared and lucky."

  He looked up at the pixies, eyes wide with emotion.

  "But that’s the truth. I was scared. I was desperate. But I helped save the City. With Hospitality. And Potential. And Coincidence. And maybe a little with Krungus too."

  At the name, all three pixies flinched.

  Their wings buzzed sharply, and they exchanged a burst of rapid clicks.

  "We do not speak that name lightly here," the lead pixie said, her voice suddenly brittle.

  "He broke things we cannot fix," added the second.

  "But you have spoken truth," said the third. "And for that, the trail opens."

  A glittery path alighted in front of Eugene, in the same direction as his lie-memory had gone.

  The pixies had already begun to drift back to their own business, leaving Eugene alone. The bazaar resumed its strange rhythm of motion—flute tones, chittering, and glowing trinkets exchanging hands. Whatever ceremony had passed between them was already forgotten by the crowd.

  Eugene stepped toward the path, lantern in hand.

  "Well," he said aloud, "I guess we follow it."

  Cozimia floated beside him, her glow gentle but firm. "You did good, sugar. That one hurt, but it was true."

  Enalia hovered above the path like a prism blown by a breeze. "The truth is not always pretty. But it makes the trail more real."

  "Do you think they actually trust me now?" Eugene asked.

  "No," Enalia replied, "but that isn’t required. This isn’t about trust. It’s about permission."

  Cozimia bobbed slightly in agreement. "Besides, trust comes later. After you prove you ain’t just full of stories."

  Eugene smirked and began walking. The lit stones flickered one by one as his foot approached, always guiding him forward.

  "Let’s go meet the ghost who isn’t."

  A sudden clatter of hooves behind him made Eugene turn.

  Wobewt was there, silhouetted against the strange lights of the bazaar. His coat was dusted with glitter-mote and grit, his brow furrowed with something between worry and resolve.

  "You shouldn’t go awone," the centaur said. "Not to hew. Not to She-Who-Wasn’t."

  Eugene blinked. "I thought you didn’t want to say her name."

  "I don’t," Wobewt replied. "But I’ww say wowse things befowe the end, I suspect. I’m coming with you."

  He took a step forward onto the glittering path. "How ewse awe we evew gonna see the staws?."