CHAPTER 5 — The Gilded Maw
The Spires let us leave.
That should have worried me more.
The bridge unfolded ahead of us like a polite suggestion, crystal reconfiguring itself into a graceful exit ramp leading away from the city. No alarms. No dramatic farewells. Just elegant permission.
"I don't trust it," I said, limping slightly as we crossed. My head still felt like someone had tried to alphabetize my thoughts with a hammer.
Valerius didn't slow. "Nor should you."
Behind us, the City of Omen resumed its beauty with unsettling enthusiasm—as if eager to prove its usefulness, its compliance. Towers sparkled. Citizens posed. The realm had learned a lesson.
Perfection survives by cooperation.
Puck sat on Valerius's shoulder, tail flicking. "The Curator always leaves an exit," he said. "It's how he convinces himself he's fair."
"That's not comforting."
"It's not meant to be."
The bridge ended in fog.
Not mist—gold.
Liquid light pooled ahead, viscous and warm, stretching into a vast valley of molten radiance. Hills of polished metal rose and fell like frozen waves. Far above, a false sun burned softly, its glow too even, too generous.
I swallowed. "Tell me this isn't another aesthetic realm."
Valerius's wings flexed uneasily. "No."
She paused.
"It's a reward structure."
The air hummed—not loudly, but intimately, like a voice speaking directly behind your eyes.
WELCOME, the world whispered.
YOU MAY REST HERE.
The ground beneath my boots softened—not physically, but emotionally. Each step felt… justified. Earned.
I hated it immediately.
"This place," I muttered, "feels like it's trying to sell me closure."
Puck grimaced. "The Gilded Maw. One of the Curator's favorite holding zones."
"Maw implies teeth."
"Oh, there are teeth," he said cheerfully. "They just smile first."
Figures emerged from the golden fog.
People.
Human. Elf. Things that had once been one or the other. They wore simple, beautiful clothing and carried expressions of gentle satisfaction.
A woman approached us, her smile warm, eyes kind.
"You must be exhausted," she said softly. "You've done so much already."
Valerius's grip tightened on her rapier.
I felt it then—the pull.
Not magical coercion. Something worse.
Validation.
"You don't need to fight anymore," the woman continued, looking at me. "You changed things. That's enough."
My heart stuttered.
It sounded reasonable.
Dangerously so.
"I—" I started, then stopped myself. "No. Nope. I recognize this tone."
Puck leaned close. "Careful, Artie. This place feeds on deserved rest."
The woman frowned—not offended, just confused. "Why struggle? You can stay. Be appreciated."
The fog thickened.
Images bloomed around us.
A quiet library.
Sunlight through tall windows.
A desk with my name engraved.
No Curator. No Editors. No bleeding realities.
Just peace.
I swayed.
Valerius stepped in front of me instantly, wings flaring—not aggressively, but protectively.
"He doesn't belong to you," she said coldly.
The woman's smile tightened.
"None of you belong anywhere else," she replied. "That's why you're here."
The ground rippled.
The golden valley opened.
Not tearing—inviting.
A massive, curved structure rose from beneath the fog, lined with soft glowing ridges.
Teeth.
Polished. Perfect. Welcoming.
The Maw.
"You don't consume people," I whispered, understanding dawning. "You consume endings."
The woman tilted her head. "We preserve them."
The pull intensified.
I felt my fatigue deepen, my fear dull, my anger soften into acceptance.
This place didn't want to kill me.
It wanted me to stop.
Valerius cried out as a golden tendril wrapped around her ankle, dragging her toward the opening.
"Arthur!"
I moved without thinking.
I didn't reach for Beauty.
Didn't reach for Structure.
I reached for Betrayal.
The concept burned—sharp, bitter, familiar.
This realm promised safety and delivered erasure.
That was betrayal dressed as mercy.
I grabbed the tendril.
Reality flinched.
I pulled the feeling into myself—the false kindness, the comforting lie.
The gold dulled.
Cracked.
The Maw shuddered, its smile faltering.
"Oh," I hissed through clenched teeth, pain spiking behind my eyes. "You don't get to eat my ending."
I yanked.
The tendril snapped, dissolving into dull ash.
The woman screamed—not in pain, but in loss.
The illusion shattered.
The valley darkened, gold draining into sickly yellow. The Maw recoiled, teeth retracting, its hunger exposed and ugly.
Puck laughed sharply. "He learned a new flavor."
Valerius tore free, wings flaring as she landed beside me, breathing hard.
"You absorbed betrayal," she said. "That's—Arthur, that's dangerous."
"I know," I gasped, knees buckling. "It tastes like regret."
The Maw began to close, retreating into the fog, its voice no longer soothing.
YOU WILL RETURN, it whispered.
EVERY STORY DOES.
I looked up, vision swimming.
"Maybe," I said softly. "But not today."
The fog thinned.
A narrow path appeared—crooked, unpolished, real.
Valerius took my arm, steadying me.
"You should not have done that alone," she said quietly.
"Yeah," I admitted. "But you were busy being eaten."
She huffed—a sound halfway between anger and relief.
Puck stretched. "Congratulations, Artie. You've officially angered a metaphysical retirement plan."
We stepped onto the path.
Behind us, the Gilded Maw sealed shut—silent, patient.
Waiting.
And far away, I felt it again.
That attention.
Not annoyed this time.
Curious.