It began with a sneeze.
Not Stanley's. Not Calyx's. Rafael's.
A booming, echoing sneeze that reverberated off the pulpy walls and startled an entire school of translucent lime-jellyfish drifting overhead. They glowed red in response, spiraling upward like ashamed ghosts.
"Allergic to citrus monarchs?" Calyx muttered, rubbing his arm.
"No," Rafael sniffed. "Just allergic to being judged by glowing fruitfish."
Stanley wiped a fleck of something sticky from his cheek. "If this place judges as hard as the last, we're going to need therapy vouchers by the end."
The chamber they'd entered was immense. Spherical, humid, and sticky with the scent of aged rind. Pulp-veined columns pulsed gently, exhaling gusts of fermented breath. The whole room vibrated with the slow heartbeat of something ancient and acidic.
In the center stood a low, round platform encircled by fruit-petal steps. On the dais, six figures sat cross-legged—each a hybrid of fruit and humanoid, clothed in robes made of rind, vine, and curled, papery leaves.
"The Conclave," Calyx whispered. "I read about them in the Fruit Codex. Keepers of the Zest Eternal. They're supposed to be extinct."
"Like fruitcake," Rafael said.
"Exactly."
One of the figures—a woman with grapefruit cheeks and a citrus-blossom crown—raised a hand.
"You who carry the nectar," she intoned, "approach with peel unbroken and hearts exposed."
Stanley glanced at his chest. "We're not going to have to… skin ourselves, are we?"
"I think it just means no lies," Calyx said. "Or maybe no hiding our feelings."
"Great," Rafael grumbled. "I left my emotional vulnerability in my other pants."
The figures opened their eyes simultaneously. Six pairs of luminous, pulpy irises settled on the trio. They were sharp. Peeling. But not hostile.
"Be warned," said another member, his voice like a slurp through a straw, "the next segment of your journey will not test your strength, but your palate."
"…Palate?" Stanley asked.
"Your ability to taste the truth," the woman continued. "To distinguish sweetness from rot. To know when the rind lies and the juice deceives."
Rafael sighed. "I knew I should've skipped breakfast."
Six platters of fruitlike items emerged from the ground before them. Each dish shimmered with strange glazes—sparkling pomegranate slime, candied lime cores, pickled mango seeds—all labeled in curling citrus script.
Calyx peered at one. "That's pulsing. Food shouldn't pulse."
"Bottoms up," Rafael said, dunking a spoon into something the consistency of fermented banana yolk.
The tasting trial was unlike anything they had endured.
Stanley's tongue went numb. Then too sensitive. Then started reciting old magical equations from memory.
Calyx cried a little. One fruit burst into song when she bit into it.
Rafael chewed something crunchy that then begged him for forgiveness.
When it was over, they staggered back, woozy and sweating syrup.
"I think my tongue is hallucinating," Stanley gasped.
"One of those had opinions about my childhood," Calyx whimpered.
"Mine tasted like regret and student debt," Rafael groaned.
The Conclave conferred silently. Their thoughts seemed to ripple through the air like the rustling of ancient leaves.
The grapefruit-crowned woman finally rose.
"You have survived the tasting. You are worthy to proceed."
Stanley raised a sticky hand. "Do we get a mint or something?"
"But beware," she said, ignoring him, "the sweetness ahead will tempt you to forget the bitterness behind. And in forgetting… you may become pulp yourselves."
The floor peeled open like a slow blossom. A tunnel was revealed—dark, wet, and lined with slouching segments of citrus flesh. The air was thicker here, syrupy and warm, like breath from a mouth that had never stopped chewing.
As they stepped into the new corridor, Rafael murmured, "So… anyone else feel like we're walking into the world's weirdest fruit salad?"
Stanley didn't answer. Neither did Calyx.
The buzz had returned. A faint sound of wings fluttering just beyond hearing. But beneath it—quieter still—was laughter.
Not mocking. Not malicious. Just… waiting.
They walked in silence for what felt like hours. The tunnel twisted and turned, pulsing faintly with each step. Strange citrus sigils glowed on the walls—some familiar, others warped as if melted in sunlight. Calyx occasionally paused to sketch them.
"I don't like this," Stanley murmured. "It feels too quiet. Like the room is holding its breath."
"Rooms shouldn't have lungs," Rafael said. "That's where I draw the line."
As if in response, the walls released a soft, citrusy exhale. A spray of mist coated their faces, fragrant and sour.
They continued on, deeper. The air became thicker, their steps slower, as though the tunnel resisted their passage. They passed a shriveled mandarin effigy cradling a broken rind bowl—inside it, dried seeds arranged into a spiral. Calyx knelt to examine them.
"It's a warning," he said. "Or maybe a prophecy."
"I'm not loving the idea that citrus has prophecies," Rafael muttered.
Eventually, the tunnel widened into a small chamber. Hanging from the ceiling were countless dried citrus husks, each strung with silken threads. They swung gently despite the stillness.
Calyx reached out to one. It whispered. Not words—just a feeling. Longing. Regret.
"We should go," Stanley said.
"Agreed," Rafael replied immediately.
They hurried through the husk chamber and into another narrow path. The laughter had faded, but its echo lingered.
And somewhere ahead, though none of them could explain how they knew, something was peeling itself free from a long, quiet slumber.
***