For the next seven days, the world trembled between disbelief and wonder.
Some claimed a miracle had bloomed; others, a trap.
And in the quieter corners of the provinces, where hope had gone thin and gray, the invitations gleamed like a promise too bright to trust.
In Wicker Square, Nia kept hers hidden under the floorboards. Her mother had seen it once — the night it appeared — and crossed herself.
"Don't go chasing men's dreams," she had whispered. "Especially not his."
"Whose?"
"The Confectioner's. Ambrose Vellum built his city on sweetness, but every sweetness hides a price. Remember that."
Her mother had once worked in the cocoa mills outside the capital, long before the Chocolate City existed. Nia remembered her hands, always faintly brown with powder, and how she'd flinch at the scent of boiling sugar.
Yet the invitation hummed like a pulse beneath the floorboards. Every night, Nia felt it whispering through the boards: Come see.
Outside, vendors sold imitation chocolate bars molded to look like the invitations. Children licked the golden letters until their tongues turned green from dye. The real chosen ones — those six names printed in the paper — became legends before they had even met.
By the sixth day, the city began to prepare for their journey.
A single train — said to belong to Ambrose Vellum himself — would stop at each province to collect them. Its route was secret, its engine never photographed. It was said to run on a mixture of steam, sugar, and something else entirely.
The morning the train arrived, Nia was already awake.
She hadn't slept. Instead, she'd sat by the window, clutching her patched satchel, staring into the fog. When the ground began to hum, she thought she was dreaming. But then a low whistle broke the silence — long and low and almost mournful — and she saw the lights cutting through the mist.
The train emerged like a creature from another world. Its body gleamed like molten brass; each car was embossed with vines that seemed to shift when you looked too long. Steam hissed from vents shaped like open mouths.
Nia's mother stood beside her, silent.
"You don't have to go," she said.
"I know."
"Then why do you?"
Nia didn't answer. She wasn't sure herself. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the ache of always being left behind. Maybe it was the scent of chocolate that still hung in the air, sweet and dark and dangerous.
The conductor stepped down from the nearest car. He was tall, dressed in a uniform that shimmered like polished caramel, his face pale beneath the brim of his cap. His eyes were the color of cocoa husks.
"Nia Calvert?"
She nodded.
He tipped his hat. "You've been expected."
Her mother pressed a small ribbon into her palm. "For luck," she said softly. "And for remembering."
Nia tucked it into her sleeve and climbed aboard.
Inside, the train smelled faintly of sugar and metal. The corridors glowed with amber light, and the air felt heavy, like a held breath.
She found her compartment easily — her name was embossed on the door in gold script. Inside, five others sat waiting.
Felix Moreau looked up first, his hair perfect even in the dim light. He smiled with practiced charm. "Well. I suppose we're the lucky few."
Aya Kimura sat near the window, sketching something in her notebook. The twins, Lina and Leo, were playing some game involving chocolate coins. Tomas Vega leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"Guess we're all here," Tomas said, voice rough. "Anyone know where we're headed exactly?"
"The Chocolate City," Lina said, as if it were obvious. "Didn't you read the paper?"
Tomas gave her a look that made her giggle.
Aya didn't look up. "They say it has no sky," she murmured.
"What do you mean, no sky?" Felix asked, frowning.
"They built a glass dome over the whole city," Aya said. "To keep the scent inside."
Silence followed.
Nia looked out the window as the train began to move. The landscape slid past in smears of gray and green, then blurred into shadow as they entered a tunnel. The lights flickered.
When they steadied again, Nia realized the air smelled different — richer, thicker, almost intoxicating. The walls of the tunnel were lined with pipes that oozed something dark and viscous. It pulsed faintly, like veins.
Felix pressed a hand to the glass. "That can't be real."
Aya closed her notebook slowly. "It is."
No one spoke after that.