The citrus door groaned open like a tired jaw unhinging after a marathon of chewing. Stanley, Rafael, and Calyx stood shoulder to shoulder, peering into the chamber beyond.
"Smells like... orange oil and bad decisions," Calyx murmured.
Rafael squinted. "Do you hear ticking?"
The chamber was an enormous dome of grapefruit-colored stone, faintly glowing. At its center hung a giant pendulum—a wedge of blood orange the size of a warship, swaying back and forth over a pool of what looked like carbonated marmalade.
Above it, lemon-shaped chandeliers twinkled in sync with the pendulum's swing. Carvings on the walls depicted a series of heroic acts... all undone by petty mistakes. A giant orange knight slipping on a peel. A lime wizard sneezing mid-spell. A pineapple bard choking on his own high note.
As they stepped inside, their boots made sticky squelching noises. The air tasted of nostalgia and cheap citrus-scented cleaning products.
"Welcome to the Hall of Regret," boomed a new voice, calm and unsettling.
From the pool of marmalade rose a being clad in a robe stitched from zest and rind. Its head was a split mandarin, each slice forming an eye, nose, or mouth in shifting configurations.
"I am the Archivist of Acidic Memory," it said. "And you... are late."
Stanley blinked. "We were fighting jawbreakers. Time froze. It was a whole thing."
"Time always freezes when someone touches the Pedestal of Flavor. That's hardly an excuse. Now, you must submit."
The Archivist pointed a spoon-staff at each of them. One by one, memories leapt from their heads in citrus-colored streams and pooled into the marmalade.
Visions swirled: Stanley failing to stand up to his boss. Rafael breaking a promise to a younger sibling. Calyx... well, hers was a blood-drenched orgy of demon politics and betrayals. It splashed extra violently.
"Now, balance the scale of regret," the Archivist intoned. "Or be dissolved in the Pulp of Shame."
From the floor rose a glowing see-saw, each side marked with runes. One side filled with regret. The other... empty.
Stanley reached into the pool, his hands trembling, and pulled forth a memory.
"I lied to my best friend about why I left," he whispered. "Told him it was for ambition. It was really fear."
He placed the memory on the other side.
The scale wobbled.
Rafael added his. Calyx followed, muttering something about demon orgies being poorly planned.
Still, the scale did not quite tip.
The Archivist raised an eyebrow of rind. "Not enough. Regret is not shame unless owned."
Stanley looked up. "Then let's make it real."
He stepped back into the marmalade pool, letting the sticky memories swirl around him, rising to his waist. "I always blamed others. My failures. My weakness. But I made the choices. I chose comfort over growth. I let people walk over me because I was scared they wouldn't care if I said no."
The pool shimmered, turned momentarily clear. The scale tipped. Balanced.
The pendulum stopped.
The Archivist bowed. "Very well. You may proceed... to the final squeeze."
Behind him, another citrus gate peeled open, revealing a narrow corridor lined with desiccated fruit statues and softly glowing pulp veins.
Calyx smirked. "I swear, if the next trial involves lime-based combat yoga, I'm defecting."
Rafael chuckled. "I'm expecting something stupid. Like... sentient lemonade with daddy issues."
Stanley just stared at the door. The glow beyond was dark. Sticky. Rotten.
"Whatever's next... it's not going to be sour. It's going to be fermented."
They took a step forward, the chamber behind them fading into stillness. But as they passed through the gate, a strange rustling followed them—like distant, flapping wings made of dried fruit skin.
The corridor was warmer here, and narrow enough to press their shoulders close. The walls seemed to sweat nectar. Whispered regrets echoed with every step: "I should've kissed her..." "I shouldn't have eaten the whole pie..." "I could've been more..."
Calyx snorted. "Watch us find a fermented kumquat monk preaching the gospel of mold."
"Or a tangerine lich with unresolved issues and a poetry hobby," Rafael offered.
Stanley remained silent. But as they walked, he couldn't shake the feeling that something truly bitter waited ahead. Not in flavor—but in meaning.
A sudden low croak echoed from the distance. Then another. Not quite frog-like, but strained—like something gagging on its own punchline.
"Great," Calyx muttered. "The sorrow toads are warming up their vocal cords."
"Hey," Rafael said, tapping a glowing sigil on the wall, "anyone else notice these symbols are getting... angrier?"
Sure enough, the carvings were shifting from regretful to vengeful—depicting fruits attacking their eaters, citrus revolutions, and a particularly disturbing scene involving a guava guillotine.
Stanley exhaled. "This whole place is a therapy session gone full Fruit of The Loom."
They rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a mural of themselves—except distorted. Stanley looked older, tired, a crown of peel on his head and guilt carved deep into his eyes. Rafael's image was surrounded by broken clocks. Calyx's had her turning away from a demon council, all of whom burned behind her.
"Well," she said after a long pause. "That's not ominous at all."
Stanley touched the mural. It was warm. Alive, almost. And somewhere ahead, a burp echoed again. This time, followed by a giggle.
Calyx gave a sideways glance. "If it turns out the final guardian is just a drunk fruit bat named Kevin, I'm walking."
Rafael grinned. "Only if he's got a tragic backstory and a ukulele."
Stanley gave a tight smile. "Let's just hope he's not the one writing our obituaries."
And from the gloom, a strange citrus glow pulsed—rhythmic, steady, as if counting down.
***