The group passed through the mansion's entrance into a grand hall that stretched endlessly before them, its opulence both magnificent and oppressive. Rich crimson carpet unfurled like a river of blood beneath their feet, leading toward an imposing staircase that vanished into shadows above. Tapestries depicting scenes of bygone splendor hung from walls that seemed to breathe with the building's ancient presence. Grand chandeliers cast everything in a sickly yellowish glow, their crystalline forms swaying despite the absence of any breeze.
Following in the wake of the seven wives and Graves, the group's footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet when suddenly a voice—heavy with dark amusement and barely contained malice—resonated through the hall. The words seemed to whisper directly into each person's ear despite the speaker remaining invisible, as if the mansion itself had found its voice.
"Welcome, my guests, to the true beginning of your evening. You have tasted the appetizer of consequence. Now comes the feast of revelation."
The unexpected announcement brought the group to an abrupt halt. Graves's lips curved into a knowing smile, his pale hands clasped behind his back as he savored his master's words.
"Seven games await you, each designed by my beloved wives to excavate the truth of human nature. Each game claims one participant—the one whose fundamental character proves... incompatible with continued existence. The final survivor earns the privilege of facing me directly in the ultimate trial."
As the voice continued its chilling proclamation, the seven wives arranged themselves around the hall's perimeter like grotesque sentinels. Each revealed herself in her full, impossible horror: Victoria's vine-threaded skin pulsed with chlorophyll that glowed with unnatural bioluminescence; Eleanor's translucent flesh dripped endlessly, each droplet vanishing before it could pool on the carpet; Lydia's mismatched body parts rearranged themselves with wet, organic clicking sounds that echoed off the walls; Sophia's distended belly writhed with internal movement that suggested something alive struggling within; Isabelle's skin shifted between solid flesh and crystalline frost that never melted; Camille's hollow form rustled with shadows that moved independently within her translucent frame; Evangeline flickered between multiple temporal states, sometimes appearing as a young woman, sometimes ancient, sometimes barely there at all.
"But understand—these are not trials of skill or chance. They are archaeological excavations of character. Each game will strip away one layer of pretense, one comfortable lie, one protective delusion. Some will discover they possess unexpected nobility. Others will learn they are monsters wearing human faces. Most will simply learn they are food."
The voice's pronouncement was followed by laughter that shook the very foundations of the hall, a sound so laden with cruel mirth that it seemed to seep into their bones.
Graves withdrew a bloodied handkerchief from his coat pocket, dabbing at tears that streamed from his eyes. "As eloquent as ever, master. Ah, how your words move me to such profound emotion."
The silence that followed pressed down upon them like a physical weight, heavy with fear and creeping desperation. Miss Blackwood's fingers found her locket, clutching it as tears carved tracks down her pale cheeks. "Please, I just want to find my sister. I don't want to die here."
Captain Stone stepped forward, his military bearing evident even in the face of supernatural horror. His broad shoulders squared as he assessed their situation with practiced efficiency. "Listen, we're in a survival situation now. I think it's time we were honest about our capabilities." He paused, his weathered face grave as he weighed his words carefully. "I'm a tier 1 anomalite. I have abilities that could help us navigate this nightmare. I suggest we pool our resources and work as a unit."
Miss Grey cleared her throat delicately, her investigative instincts warring with obvious reluctance to reveal too much. "I... I have some capabilities as well. Nothing spectacular, but useful for investigation and analysis of unusual phenomena."
Madame Ravenwood nodded slowly, her numerous shawls rustling like the wings of roosting birds. "The spirits grant me certain insights. I've walked the boundary between worlds before—this place whispers secrets to those who know how to listen."
Miss Blackwood looked around the group with dawning hope, her grief momentarily overshadowed by the possibility of survival. "If some of you have abilities, maybe we can all escape this alive. Maybe you can help me find Sarah."
"That depends," Adren said quietly, his voice cutting through the group's fragile optimism like a blade through silk. "On whether we can trust each other."
Every eye turned to him, the weight of sudden suspicion settling over the group like morning frost.
"What do you mean?" Professor Thorne asked, his pen hovering uncertainly over his ever-present notebook.
Adren's gaze swept across each face with calculating intensity, lingering just long enough to make each person uncomfortable. "Come on. Look at this place. Look at what's happening here. You really think all seven of us are legitimate humans who entered this plane?"
The temperature in the hall seemed to plummet several degrees, their breath beginning to mist in the suddenly frigid air.
"There are bound to be constructs among us," Adren continued, his voice steady but carrying an edge of cold certainty. "It's common knowledge—every plane tends to have constructs programmed to ensure the original narrative is followed. You three just mentioned you're anomalites, meaning you've done this before. You should know better than anyone how these scenarios typically unfold."
Miss Grey's hand moved instinctively toward her coat, where Erel suspected she kept whatever tools of her trade might serve as weapons. "You're suggesting some of us aren't human?"
"I'm suggesting we'd be idiots not to consider the possibility. In situations like this, paranoia isn't a character flaw—it's a survival mechanism."
Captain Stone's military composure flickered for just a moment, a micro-expression that could have meant anything or nothing at all.
The implication hung in the air like smoke.
Well, it was tacitly understood among experienced anomalites, but mentioning it so straightforwardly, is it because he is human and intelligent enough to voice what others feared to say? Or is he a construct trying to sow distrust among the genuine participants?
Professor Thorne laughed nervously, the sound echoing strangely in the vast hall. "Surely you're being paranoid. We're all humans here. I, for one, entered this plane specifically to research planar concepts for my academic work."
"Are we?" Adren's gaze fixed on the Professor with laser intensity. "What exactly were you doing before you came here? What's your background in planar studies?"
An uncomfortable silence settled over the group like a burial shroud. Erel could feel the group dynamics shifting with almost audible tension, trust evaporating as quickly as it had formed.
Dr. West cleared his throat professionally. "This kind of paranoid thinking could prove just as dangerous as any external threat. We need to maintain group cohesion and work together."
"Working together is fine," Miss Grey said carefully, her investigative training evident in how she measured each word. "But working smart is better. We should remain observant about... inconsistencies in behavior or knowledge."
Madame Ravenwood pulled her shawls tighter around her diminutive frame, her eyes distant as if listening to voices only she could hear. "The spirits whisper of deception, of faces that are not what they seem. Truth and falsehood dance together in this place."
Great, Erel thought grimly. Now everyone's suspicious of everyone else. But maybe that's not entirely bad. If there really are constructs here, paranoia might keep the real people alive longer.
Victoria stepped forward with fluid grace, her rose-petal eyes blooming with obvious amusement at the growing tension. "How delicious. Trust crumbling before we've even begun to play. Come, darlings. Let's see what grows from seeds of suspicion."
The anomalite revelation complicates stuff. Constructs without a doubt will have false abilities programmed into their personas specifically to confuse and mislead us.
Erel kept his own considerable abilities carefully hidden, maintaining the facade of an ordinary human caught in extraordinary circumstances. In a situation where information was power and trust was scarce commodity, revealing his tier 1 anomalite status could either save his life or paint a target on his back.
Ah, I just wanted to return home, but now I'm stuck in this mess. His priorities crystallized with precision: First, survive the immediate trial. Second, figure out who's real and who's not. Third, ensure the constructs are eliminated before they can coordinate against the humans.
As Victoria led them through corridors that defied architectural logic toward her conservatory, the group walked in tense silence. The easy camaraderie from their earlier introduction had been replaced by wary glances and calculated distances between individuals.
Better suspicious and alive than trusting and dead, Erel thought grimly, observing how people repositioned themselves. Miss Blackwood stayed close to Miss Grey, seeking comfort from the only person who had shown her genuine kindness. Captain Stone maintained his military bearing but kept everyone within his peripheral vision. Dr. West walked with clinical detachment, as if observing the group dynamics rather than participating in them.
The corridors themselves seemed to mock conventional reality. Hallways curved back on themselves while somehow leading forward through impossible geometry. Portraits lining the walls depicted scenes that shifted when not directly observed—cheerful family gatherings morphing into tableaux of violence and despair when glimpsed from the corner of one's eye. The architecture felt alive, breathing around them with subtle expansions and contractions that suggested the building itself possessed some form of consciousness.
"The spatial distortions here are remarkable," Professor Thorne murmured, still scribbling notes despite their dire circumstances. "The dimensional variance suggests reality anchor destabilization on a macro scale. Fascinating implications for planar mechanics theory."
There he goes again with the made-up terminology, Erel noted with growing certainty. Does he think no one would notice? Well, maybe he didn't anticipate someone as distinguished in planar studies as yours truly would be here to recognize what he's spouting is pure fabrication.
"Professor," Erel said casually, his tone conversational, "your research sounds absolutely fascinating. I imagine you've read Dr. Morrison's groundbreaking work on planar mechanics?"
"Oh, absolutely!" Thorne's eyes lit up with obvious enthusiasm. "His theoretical framework on dimensional permeability has been absolutely groundbreaking for the field. Revolutionary, really."
Dr. Morrison doesn't exist. I made that name up on the spot. The confirmation settled like ice in Erel's stomach. Bingo.
Adren, walking nearby, caught Erel's eye for just a moment. There was something calculating in his gaze, as if he'd noticed the same discrepancy and was filing it away for future use.
Is he testing people too? Or is he a construct who caught my test and is trying to appear more human by seeming appropriately suspicious?
Victoria glided ahead of them with predatory grace, her vine-threaded skin pulsing with bioluminescence that cast shifting patterns on the corridor walls. Water dripped steadily from Eleanor as she followed, leaving a trail that somehow never formed puddles on the ornate carpet. The other wives moved with their own impossible physics—Lydia's mismatched body parts clicking and rearranging with wet organic sounds, Sophia's distended belly writhing with whatever lived within.
"How much further?" Miss Blackwood asked shakily. The poor woman looked ready to collapse from the accumulated stress and grief that weighed on her slight frame.
"Patience, darling," Victoria's voice carried the rustle of leaves in an autumn wind. "My garden doesn't reveal itself to those who rush. Beauty requires proper appreciation."
They passed through an archway carved with botanical reliefs that seemed to grow and change as they walked beneath it, stone leaves unfurling and flowers blooming in their peripheral vision. Beyond lay Victoria's conservatory—a space that violated every law of physics Erel had ever studied.
The conservatory stretched impossibly far in all directions while somehow maintaining an intimate, enclosed feeling. Glass walls soared beyond visual comprehension, containing an ecosystem of evolutionary impossibilities that defied natural selection. Plants grew in complete defiance of biological law—flowers with human teeth that tracked their movement with predatory interest, trees bearing fruit that resembled vital organs still pulsing with life, vines with visible circulatory systems pumping luminescent fluid through translucent vessels.
The air was thick with oxygen and humidity that made breathing feel like drowning in reverse, carrying scents that triggered memories Erel didn't recognize—childhood summers he'd never experienced, gardens he'd never visited, moments of peace that belonged to someone else's life.
"Welcome to my domain," Victoria announced, her rose-petal eyes blooming and closing with each breath like living flowers. "Tonight we play the Garden of Choices."
In the center of the conservatory stood seven plots of rich, dark soil, each roughly the size and shape of a grave. They were arranged in a perfect circle around a central pedestal holding an ornate watering can that appeared to be carved from living wood, its surface crawling with tiny rootlets and budding leaves.
"The rules are beautifully simple," Victoria continued, gliding between the plots with predatory grace, her vine-threaded fingers trailing through the air. "Each of you will receive a seed—special seeds that I've cultivated over centuries of careful breeding and selection. But these seeds don't simply require water and sunlight to grow."
She gestured toward the waiting plots with fingers that terminated in thorns. "They require intention. Purpose. The absolute strength of your will to survive. Each seed will grow into something that reflects the planter's true nature—their deepest desires, their hidden shames, their fundamental essence."
Of course it's not straightforward, Erel thought with bitter resignation. It never is in places like this.
"But here's where it becomes truly interesting," Victoria's smile was beautiful and terrible, like a rose blooming in a graveyard. "The seeds are... competitive. They will actively work to prevent others from growing. They'll whisper your secrets to the group, reveal your deepest fears, attack your psychological weaknesses. Only the strongest will flourish while the others wither."
Captain Stone stepped forward with military directness. "What happens to the person whose seed doesn't grow?"
Victoria's laugh was like wind chimes made from delicate bones. "Why, they provide fertilizer for the others, of course. Nothing goes to waste in my garden."
Miss Blackwood whimpered, a sound of pure terror that seemed to please Victoria immensely.
"There's more," Victoria continued with obvious relish. "The watering can contain a very special liquid that responds to truth. Lies will poison your seed, causing it to blacken and rot. Half-truths will stunt its growth, leaving it vulnerable to stronger plants. Only complete honesty will provide the nourishment your plant needs to overcome the others and reach maturity."
A game designed to force vulnerability, Erel analyzed with growing unease. In a group where trust has already been shattered, being forced to reveal personal truths could be fatal. The constructs could use any revealed information against the humans.
"How long do we have?" Miss Grey asked, her investigative mind already working on potential strategies and escape routes.
"Until one plant has grown tall enough to reach the light above," Victoria gestured upward to where impossibly distant sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling like golden honey. "Or until all but one have withered and died, leaving only the strongest to claim victory."
Adren was studying the soil plots with obvious calculation, his analytical mind already working on the angles and possibilities. "And we choose our own plots?"
"Oh yes, darling. Choose wisely. Your life quite literally depends on making the right selection."
This is where the real game begins, Erel realized with crystalline clarity. Not just surviving Victoria's trial, but figuring out who's real and who's not before the constructs can coordinate to eliminate the humans systematically. So far, his suspicions centered heavily on Thorne, but should he make a move? What if the Professor was genuinely human, just poorly educated in his supposed field?
Erel knew that survival likely depended on eliminating the constructs quickly, but human confidence was a fickle thing. One seed of doubt planted in the wrong mind could bloom into catastrophic uncertainty that would doom them all.
Let me probe him more thoroughly before deciding on a course of action.
The seven plots waited in their perfect circle, rich soil ready to receive whatever seeds—and secrets—would be planted within their dark embrace. Each plot seemed to pulse with its own hunger, eager to taste whatever truth or lies would be fed to it.
Time to see who wilts under pressure and who blooms with deadly intent.