The tunnel whispered.
Not in words, not truly. The air rippled with a suggestion of language—half-felt murmurs that coiled in the molasses-thick humidity. As they moved deeper, their footfalls squelched through layers of plush, fibrous floor, each step releasing tiny citrusy sighs.
Stanley shivered. "I swear the walls just giggled at me."
"They giggled at your soul, probably," Calyx muttered, arms wrapped tight around herself. "This place has opinions."
"Let it write a Yelp review," Rafael growled, sticky from neck to ankle. "I'm not interested in haunted citrus commentary."
The corridor slithered and bent like a nervous worm. At one point, the ceiling inverted, and gravity forgot itself. Stanley walked upside-down for a dozen paces before gravity remembered its duties. Moments later, a sudden vacuum sucked them into a weightless chamber where orange slices floated like lazy jellyfish.
"I hate this," Calyx muttered as he awkwardly swam through pulpy air.
Stanley bit into one of the floating slices. "Tastes like despair and tangerine."
"You have very confused taste buds," Rafael said. "Come on."
Then, without warning, the passage stopped.
A curtain of brittle zest dangled across the exit, faintly rustling in a non-existent breeze. Behind it, gold light shimmered.
"We going through?" Stanley asked.
"No," Rafael said. Then pushed through anyway.
What lay beyond was less a room and more a fruit-induced hallucination.
Golden chandeliers made of crystallized grapefruit rinds hung from a vaulted ceiling of translucent pulp. The air sparkled with juice dust. Juice dust. Bioluminescent nectar trickled from fruited wall fissures, casting strange shadows.
They stepped in slowly, with the cautious reverence one gives a dream they fear will end too soon—or turn into a nightmare.
"Don't touch anything," Calyx whispered. "Seriously. Not a damn thing."
Stanley was already poking a glowing mango orb. "Oops."
At the far end of the room stood an altar, knotted together from petrified citrus rinds. And atop it rested an object: a flute, long and slim, seemingly carved from a hollowed lemon and capped with golden thorns.
But that wasn't what held Rafael's gaze.
She was.
Lounging on the altar like a cat with secrets, a woman watched them. Her skin was deep brown like a glass of milkshake, and her eyes were two pits of caramelized honey with slitted quiet pupils.
Her hair, long and braided. Her outfit was spun from rind-thread and gold, clinging in indecent loops. Something about her felt so familiar in Rafael's mind. But he didn't know what it was. Or who she is.
She smirked. "Took you long enough."
Stanley whistled. "Okay, not a citrus ghost. Unless ghosts have gotten hot."
"Queen of Pulp," Calyx whispered. "Has to be."
The woman slid from the altar and landed with a subtle pulse of light. The chamber dimmed slightly around her.
"I've been waiting," she said, her gaze fixed on Rafael. "Mostly for you. You're the sour note in this overripe melody. I like sour."
Rafael's voice was flat. "Who are you?"
"I'm a promise. A warning. A seed wrapped in thorns." She paused, grinning. "But you can call me Lira. Firstborn of the Bitter Grove."
Stanley elbowed Calyx. "That's definitely ominous."
Lira stepped closer, her scent a dizzying blend of citrus and secrets. "I don't bite. Not unless I'm bored."
"What do you want?" Rafael asked, arms crossed.
"That's not the question," she murmured. "The question is: why did you come here? Through rind and rot, juice and sting? What were you hoping to find?"
Rafael hesitated. "Not you."
Lira laughed. It rang like a crystal bell dropped in syrup. "Liar. But charming."
Behind her, the flute gave a faint hum.
Calyx leaned forward. "Is that the Flute of Peel's End?"
"Names are fluid," Lira replied. "It opens doors that shouldn't be opened. But it needs three things: juice, breath, and intent."
Stanley raised a brow. "Do we have any of that?"
"Stanley, your blood is practically marmalade," Calyx grumbled.
Lira reached Rafael, tracing his jaw with one long, syrup-tipped finger. The room seemed to breathe.
"You have the intent," she whispered. "It coils inside you like vinegar in a bottle of honey."
"And the breath?" Rafael asked, voice dry.
She leaned in, close enough for the sweetness in her breath to sting. "That," she purred, "we'll share."
The golden walls pulsed once.
And somewhere deeper within Fruitveil, something stirred. Something that hadn't moved in a long, long time.
Beneath the altar, unnoticed by most, a slow crack spread across the rind-carved foundation. The air gained weight, as though the chamber was inhaling. Lira's gaze flicked to it—just for a moment—and her smile tightened.
Stanley scratched his head. "Anyone else feel like this flute comes with… strings?"
"Oh," Lira said, almost too sweetly. "It does. Many. Some of them tangle. Some of them cut."
Rafael stepped forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with her. "Then why show it to me?"
"Because you're the only one foolish enough to play it."
And in the heart of Fruitveil, roots twitched.
***