The path stopped pretending it was a path.
Stone gave way to bone.
Not metaphorical bone—actual bone. Thousands of them. Piled, stacked, woven into a gate so tall it touched the rotting sky. Femurs, ribs, skulls grinning in perfect formation, all locked together in a grotesque cathedral archway.
At its center, a figure.
Not tall. Not wide.
Just still.
And wrong.
They sat cross-legged in front of the gate, carved entirely from ivory and ash. Their spine was too straight, too long. Their skull narrow. They had no eyes—just a smooth indentation where a face should've been, like something unfinished by its maker.
Antic muttered, "Nope. Nope. Don't like this one. Put it back."
Dolly twirled a curl that didn't exist. "That's the Bonekeeper."
"How do you know that?"
She sniffed. "Please. I know every realm's local creepy bitch. It's practically my job."
The Bonekeeper tilted their head—no mouth, no expression, but the movement made the bones groan beneath them.
Antic stepped forward, only barely, flute hand twitching near his hip. "Hey there, champ. We're just, uh, passing through. Real nice bones you got. Love the décor. Ten outta ten corpse-core."
The Bonekeeper rose.
No steps. No sound.
Just upright, all at once.
They moved without movement, and somehow that was worse than if they'd scuttled or slithered.
"Payment," said a voice.
Not from them.
From the gate itself.
It shivered through my bones.
Dolly blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Passage requires memory," the voice said.
Antic frowned. "Memory?"
"Yours," the gate rasped. "Or someone else's."
I felt something tighten inside my ribs.
Dolly stepped forward. "You want a memory?" Her voice turned syrupy. "I have so many to choose from. Like the time I drowned a prince in honey. Or when I stole a choir's song and rewrote it in screams. Which one do you—"
The Bonekeeper raised a finger.
Dolly froze.
A breath passed between them.
Then she took a step back.
Antic's jaw clenched. "Nope. I'm not giving up a damn thing."
The gate laughed.
Bones don't usually laugh.
But these did.
"You've already given," it whispered. "You don't remember her name, do you?"
Antic paled. "What…?"
"Your mother," the gate said.
His whole body recoiled like it had been slapped.
I stepped in front of him.
"No," I said. "You want something? Take it from me."
The gate turned its weight toward me.
A pause.
Then—
"Very well."
Something sharp split through my head. Not pain. Just… remembering.
A room.
Sunlight. A song.
Lavender on skin.
Hands brushing hair back.
The word: Elara.
But not my voice.
Not my face.
Hers.
The other me.
A name etched on a grave marker in a language I never learned.
And a lullaby—sung once in full.
Gone now.
When I came back to myself, I was kneeling. My lip was bleeding. Antic was holding me by the shoulders.
"NO," he was saying, over and over. "No, no, no."
Dolly crouched low, face unreadable.
"I'm fine," I muttered.
"I hate this realm," Antic growled.
The bones groaned.
The gate opened.
The Bonekeeper stepped aside.
And beyond it, just barely, the world began to green again.
Trees.
Real trees.
Roots twisted like veins through the ground.
The Wildlife Realm, again—but not the same part we left.
This was older.
Wilder.
We didn't speak as we stepped through the gate.
But just before we passed the threshold, Antic looked over his shoulder.
"I hope this whole place crumbles," he whispered.
The bones shuddered.
The Bonekeeper bowed.
And then we were gone.
The air was thick as tallow as we trudged deeper into the Gravestone Realm, the mist rolling like breath from a tired god. Every footstep crunched over skeletal gravel, and the light—if you could call it that—bled orange from low-hanging fungal lanterns that swayed without wind.
We stepped closer, the flickering orange light growing larger, steadier—less like a flame, more like a warning. The tavern emerged not like a building, but a wound. Crooked walls stitched from bone and blackened wood, shingles that twitched like they hated being looked at. The sign dangled low, creaking without wind: a skull with a scythe jammed between its jaws.
"Lovely," Dolly whispered, eyes sparkling. "I hope they have cocktails named after ex-lovers."
Antic pulled up beside me. His shirt stuck to his ribs, damp with Gravestone mist. He squinted at the sign. "Bonefire Inn," he read. "One star on AfterlifeAdvisor. Probably haunted."
I didn't laugh. The shadows were moving wrong here—too fast, too rhythmic, like they were dancing to a beat only dead people could hear.
"What is this place?" I whispered.
Antic leaned down slightly, voice low. "Reaper rest-stop, I think. For the old kind. The ones who forgot how to be scary, so they drink it back."
The door loomed before us. No handle. Just a carved hollow shaped like a screaming mouth.
Dolly reached it first. She didn't hesitate. She never hesitated. Her hand sank into the mouth like it belonged there. The door moaned open.
"See? Polite," she grinned.
The inside hit like old blood and smoke.
It wasn't a bar. It was a reliquary for nightmares.
Tables stitched from tombstones. Chairs with straps. Chandeliers of rib cages. The light didn't flicker—it throbbed. The air was heavy, thick like velvet soaked in bone dust. And the sound—the sound was wrong. Not noise, not music. A constant drone, halfway between a moan and a chant, like the room was breathing in reverse.
Antic's hand hovered near mine. Not quite touching. But there.
I stepped in.
No one looked up. Not yet. Reapers lounged, skeletal and shadowed, some half-formed, some too-formed. Their robes dripped rot. Their laughter was slow, drunk.
Dolly strode straight to the bar like she'd been summoned.
Me and Antic stayed near the back, beside a cracked pillar with veins of something glowing inside. He looked at me.
"You okay?"
I nodded. But I wasn't.
"They're not like the other ones," I whispered. "They feel older. Meaner."
He tilted his head. "The retired kind. The ones who didn't get picked for apocalypse duty."
A Reaper near the bar growled something low. Another threw back their drink and laughed so hard their jaw detached.
I shivered. "Why are they laughing like that?"
Antic didn't answer right away. He watched Dolly. She was talking to the bartender, already animated, already glittering with danger. Her corset shimmered in the warped light, every inch of her like a weapon dipped in sugar.
"Because they remember things the living forgot to fear," he said finally.
Another Reaper rose, stretching like a cat cracking its bones. Its eyes locked on us.
Antic moved slightly closer. Not enough to touch. But enough to mean it.
"Let's not get separated," he murmured.
I nodded.
Behind us, the tavern breathed again.
Dolly didn't walk. She floated. Or strutted. Or maybe both, depending on the light and how much fear you wanted to admit to feeling.
Her heels clicked like punctuation marks, loud enough to hush a nearby table where three cloaked Reapers had been mid-argument about who murdered time first. She passed through shadow like it was made for her. Perfume and powdered sugar followed in her wake.
Antic and I stayed near the entry, half-hiding behind a twisted pillar shaped like a spine. The tavern didn't seem violent—just off. And loud. Too loud.
"She's gonna get us killed," I muttered.
Antic leaned in, voice low and gleaming with admiration. "Probably. But what a fabulous way to go."
We watched Dolly reach the bar.
The bartender stood like a rusted statue behind the counter—a skeletal man wearing a waistcoat older than sin. His jaw hung crooked, and both of his hands moved independently: one polishing a mug with bone-dust precision, the other slowly crushing a glowing beetle into the shape of a coin.
Dolly tapped a single red nail on the bar.
"Sweetheart," she said, her voice silk dipped in glittery doom. "I'm in need of directions."
The bartender didn't blink. Couldn't. But his skull tilted slightly. "This ain't a tourist district," he rasped. "You lost?"
"Tragically," Dolly said, sighing. "But beautifully."
I squinted from across the room. "Are they flirting?"
Antic smirked. "Oh, they're negotiating."
The bartender tossed the glowing mug aside. It shattered—and didn't spill a thing.
"You'll want the Gate of Trees," he said.
Dolly leaned forward, curls coiling like shadows around her face. "Yes. Do tell."
"That gate eats souls for breakfast."
She fluttered her lashes. "Then I hope I'm an appetizer."
A snicker rippled through the Reapers nearby. Some turned their chairs, watching. A few slipped coins across tables—bets, maybe. The air shifted. Darker now. Thicker.
The bartender leaned in, close enough that smoke rose from the bar between them. "Nothing's free in here, doll."
"Darling," she purred, "I wouldn't respect you if it were."
Pause. Tension.
Then Dolly grinned, all teeth and lace and menace.
"I propose a wager."
A murmur rippled like a cracked mirror through the tavern.
The bartender's sockets flared red for just a flicker. "A wager," he said, slow.
She nodded. "Your best game. My best trick. Winner gives the directions."
He flexed his fingers. Bone cracked. A sound like peeling fruit.
"You sure?"
"I never do anything halfway," she said. "Now—do I get a stage or shall I just take your ego as a podium?"
The tavern roared.
Tables slammed. Bones rattled. Someone in the back yelled, "FINALLY."
Antic groaned beside me. "Oh no."
"She's serious?" I asked.
He nodded, hands on his hips. "She's invoking the Old Wager Rite. I thought they banned it. After the last three contestants ended up trapped inside their own bones."
I blinked. "What?"
"It's an ancient Reaper custom," Antic explained. "You don't fight with fists. You fight with fear. Illusion. Performance. Who can conjure the worst nightmare. Winner gets what they want."
My stomach turned.
"And if you lose?"
Antic shrugged. "Best case? You vomit shadow for a week. Worst case? You become the punchline of your own ghost story."
We watched as the bartender stepped back from the bar, bones creaking. He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a lantern—made of antlers, wrapped in black ribbon, glowing with ghostlight.
The wager was on.
And Dolly?
She cracked her knuckles with glee.
The lantern lit itself.
Not with fire, but with something quieter. Something... aware. Its glow spread slowly, bleeding across the floorboards, crawling up the walls, devouring every scrap of light that didn't belong to it.
The laughter in the tavern died.
Tables pushed themselves back with groans like old coffins opening. A wide space cleared in the center of the room, ringed by benches carved with screaming faces. Reapers gathered with morbid glee, skeletal fingers drumming bone, betting bones against teeth against names.
Antic yanked me down onto a bench. "Whatever you do," he whispered, "don't blink too hard. And don't make eye contact with anything that looks like it used to be your guilt."
"Why would—"
"Shh. It's starting."
The bartender stepped forward.
He didn't grow, not exactly—but his bones expanded, stretching outward, mutating like bad decisions. His spine spiraled. His ribs fanned out into something between a cage and a throne. And the mug in his hand? It bubbled over with a liquid that reflected nothing. No light. No face. Not even time.
He raised it.
And threw it.
The liquid splashed in midair—but didn't fall. It hovered, then twisted itself into a shape: a woman, maybe. All hair and hollow eyes and a mouth that screamed without sound.
Pecola's chest tightened. I knew this scream.
My scream.
But the woman wasn't me. Not exactly.
Antic grabbed my hand.
"Just a trick," he whispered, breath warm against my ear. "A trick of fear. Not real."
But the woman walked. She reached toward me. Her limbs stretched wrong—like she was made of long-forgotten regrets sewn together.
Then she split.
And from her body emerged smaller shadows—mocking forms. A child crying into a mirror. A man with no face holding a leash. A bed with teeth.
The tavern hissed and clapped and howled.
The bartender bowed, smug.
And Dolly?
Dolly didn't blink.
She stepped into the ring like it was her personal dressing room.
Then, she whispered something I couldn't hear.
And snapped her fingers.
The shadows froze.
She didn't throw a potion.
She didn't cast a spell.
She curtsied.
And the floor cracked open.
A hand rose.
Then another.
Then dozens.
Porcelain hands. Doll hands. Child-sized. Some weeping blood. Others holding cracked teacups. All pristine. All perfect. And all reaching for the bartender.
From their palms grew mirrors.
And each mirror reflected his face.
But not the way he saw himself.
No.
The mirrors showed him weeping.
The mirrors showed him forgotten.
The mirrors showed him small.
The bartender staggered. His ribs shrank. His spine bent.
Dolly smiled like sin in satin.
Then she lifted one elegant finger and traced it in the air.
The mirrors shattered—with no sound.
Just pressure.
The bartender fell to his knees.
The room howled again—this time for her.
Bones pounded tables. Ghosts shrieked. Even the shadows flinched.
She turned, the parchment in her hand glowing faintly from her victory.
Then walked back toward us, brushing imaginary dust off her corset.
"Got it," she said cheerfully. "Also, I believe I made that entire tavern emotionally unravel. You're welcome."
Antic stared at her, stunned.
"…Are you sure you're not secretly a war god?"
Dolly winked. "Darling. I'm worse."
The tavern was quieter now.
Not calm—never that—but quieter, like a creature that had just fed.
Dolly lounged on a bench like royalty draped over a crime scene. Her smile was painted across her lips like an expensive threat. The glowing parchment pulsed faintly from her lace sleeve.
She waved off the Reapers who still stared at her. "Go on, dears. The show's over. Someone fetch me a cursed cocktail, and I might even autograph your trauma."
Meanwhile, Antic and I sat in a darkened corner beneath a lantern filled with dead moths. The cracked wood creaked beneath us. It smelled like rust and sweat and moss trying to be brave.
Antic's knee bounced.
"She's terrifying," I whispered.
"She's incredible," he whispered back. Then coughed. "I mean. In a purely theatrical, horrifying way."
I didn't answer. Something about the tavern felt different now. Heavier. Like the floor was breathing under us.
That's when we heard it.
A name.
Grin.
"Grin the Tormentor," a Reaper at the next table said, loud enough to slice through our corner's hush.
Antic froze.
I stilled.
The Reapers didn't know we were listening. Or maybe they did and didn't care.
"He used to skin the memories off souls," one said, swirling green drink around a cracked mug. "Didn't matter how clean the soul was. He'd find the ugliest parts and rip 'em raw. Took pride in it."
Another laughed, wheezy and cruel. "Said he could make you relive your worst day until it loved you."
"'Course, that's before he lost it. Went soft. Traitor to the realm."
The bartender muttered from the bar, "Should've never been allowed to keep his scythe. Something that twisted ain't built for mercy."
My breath caught.
Antic was so still beside me it was like he'd vanished into his bones.
Then, quietly: "They don't know him."
I touched his wrist.
He stood.
"Antic—"
Too late.
He stepped forward. His boots scuffed the floor sharp enough to make every bony head turn.
He looked furious.
But also… afraid.
"Say his name again," Antic said softly, too softly, "and I'll make you eat your own shadow."
The Reapers blinked. Laughed.
"Aw, does the pup miss its master?"
Antic's voice rose—not loud, but clear. "Grin made mistakes. So have you. So have I. But you don't get to drag him through your filth just because it's easier than facing your own rot."
The room stiffened.
"You talk about him like he's still that same monster—but I've seen him apologize in the middle of a sentence. I've seen him stop in the woods just to bury a beetle. I've seen him cry because someone else was hurting."
A few Reapers leaned back.
"He's changed. And if you can't stomach that—if it ruins your little bedtime horror story—then maybe you're the ones who haven't grown."
The silence that followed felt like a crack waiting to happen.
Then—
Clink.
The bartender slowly placed a drink down. "You don't belong here."
And just like that, the tension snapped.
A new presence stepped forward from the wall—no, not stepped. Peeled forward, like smoke turned solid.
Guards.
Two of them.
Bone-armored. Too tall. Shadows leaking from the joints. Each held a scythe that hummed like something alive.
"You three," one growled. "You are not of this realm."
Another pointed at Dolly across the room. "Neither is the doll."
"Excuse you," Dolly chirped, not standing. "I am fashionably displaced."
The guard ignored her.
"You've trespassed," he continued. "This place is not meant for the living, nor the half-living, nor the stolen."
My blood turned to glass.
The parchment in Dolly's hand flickered.
Antic reached for me again.
The bartender sneered. "Get out. Before the realm decides to digest you."
Dolly sighed, loud and offended. "You know what? Rude. I win one bet, and suddenly I'm public enemy number glittered."
She stood, high heels clicking like teeth.
"Let's go," Antic whispered, grabbing my hand.
We turned to leave.
But something was wrong.
The moment our boots hit the threshold, something clawed at my gut.
Not physical.
Not magic.
Memory.
"Wait—"
I stopped.
Antic stumbled beside me. "Pec—what are you doing?!"
I turned. "We left him."
"What?"
"Grin. We left him outside the realm."
His mouth opened. Closed.
Dolly, halfway out the door, stopped cold. "Oh, hellfire. We did, didn't we."
Antic groaned. "We are the worst friends."
"No," I said. "We're going back."
Dolly turned. "Really? Right now? Because I just flayed a bartender with shadow dolls and sass."
Antic looked at me. Then at the fog behind us.
"…Yeah," he said. "We go back."
Dolly rolled her eyes. "Fine. But if the realm eats me out of spite, I'm haunting your eyeliner."
The last bones of the Gravestone Realm crumbled behind us like a bad idea finally giving up.
Before us, the path lit itself slowly.
Not bright, not dramatic—just certain.
A trail of smooth stones glowed from within, faintly pulsing, like they were breathing. Or waiting.
No mist here.
No whispering trees.
Just quiet.
Grin stepped beside me, his boots sinking slightly into the softened moss.
"...This place feels... wrong... for bein' so quiet," he murmured, voice drawn like thread through a needle. "Like the calm you get... when a storm's forgot... it was mad."
I looked ahead. The trees here weren't hunched. They stood tall. Watching, maybe. Or maybe just letting us pass.
Antic tapped the side of his boot against one of the glowing stones. "Well. At least this trail doesn't look like it wants to bite us."
Dolly twirled her parasol out of habit, even though the moon was the only light. "I'll miss the ambiance of danger. Nothing like the faint aroma of corpse breath to keep the heels high."
Antic grinned at her. "You thrived in there. I swear you fed off that tavern's emotional rot."
She blew him a kiss. "Darling, I feast on the miserable."
As we walked, the land didn't curve so much as fold. Gentle hills rose around us, smooth and strange, like they'd never been stepped on before. No animals. No insects. Just the sound of our steps and a strange rhythm beneath it—like the heartbeat of the forest itself.
Grin was quiet for a while. But then, he spoke. Voice slower now, softer.
"...I used to think... places like this were... pretend. Stories they told... dead folk... so we wouldn't get... too restless."
Pecola tilted her head. "What changed?"
"...You," he said simply.
Antic bumped his shoulder. "You're not just saying that 'cause I yelled at those jerks for you?"
Grin shrugged. "...That helped."
Antic made a small sound—half laugh, half choke—and looked down.
I watched them all.
And I realized something.
None of us belonged here.
But we belonged.
Together.
Whatever waited ahead—Gate of Trees, glowing paths, whatever truths or nightmares came next—we were facing it the same way we escaped the last realm.
Together.