27. Vael-Torin
VAEL-TORIN
The stone corridor empties into an environment that makes no sense.
I blink, trying to get my bearings.
This is the strangest, most soulless space I’ve ever seen.
We are no longer in the lava pit, and for that, at least, I am grateful.
A winding black road stretches for miles before disappearing into a thick grey fog. On either side of the road are hundreds of identical, boxy structures with pitched roofs, small squares of too-bright green grass.
Small wooden signs hammered into the dirt read: FOR SALE
The air smells wrong.
Toxic. Unnatural.
"Oh, no," Poppy whispers beside me, her small hand tightening in mine. "No, no, no. It’s a suburban subdivision. It’s an architectural nightmare."
A lamppost above us clicks on, and we both flinch.
I spread my wings around Poppy. “Can’t be too careful,” I tell her. “Strength in mathematics.”
“Strength in mathematics,” she repeats, laughing a little.
Her laugh in this awful situation feels like a fucking treasure.
"Welcome to the Forever Home Test," Ken’s voice booms. "According to my database, eighty percent of human domestic partnerships dissolve during the psychological trauma of a home renovation.
To escape this sector, you must successfully navigate the Open House Labyrinth.
You will tour three distinct fixer-upper pods.
To unlock the exit doors, you must make a unanimous design choice.
Choose correctly, and the path opens. Choose poorly, and the house flips you. "
Behind us, a steel security gate drops, sealing the road behind us, forcing us toward the door of the nearest structure.
"Stay close," I growl. "The defensive fortification of these structures is non-existent."
"It's drywall, Vael," she says. “Trust me, I know.”
We ascend the wooden steps of the porch, and each footfall is met with a loud creak that speaks to structural horrors beneath.
The front door swings open with an agonizing whine.
Poppy’s grip tightens on my hand.
The interior is dim, joyless.
The floorboards are warped, covered in some kind of peeling plastic.
The walls shudder, and a digital neon display flickers to life on the far wall.
PROTOCOL: LIVING ROOM
·Option A: Install Modern Farmhouse Shiplap.
·Option B: Expose the Industrial Structural Brick.
·CRITICAL TIME LIMIT: 01:30
A horrible grinding noise begins, and it doesn’t take me long to see what’s happening.
"The walls are closing in,” I tell her, my boots sliding on the slick plastic as I brace my shoulder against the left wall, attempting to stop the the momentum. "Poppy, which human material offers superior defense?"
“Neither. It’s a landlord-special felony.
” Poppy scans the moving walls, running her fingers along the doorframe.
“Think, Poppy, think,” she murmurs to herself.
“Ken wants us to argue about home decor because he thinks that’s what humans do...
Vael, look at that column in the corner.
Is that real masonry or a cheap facade?”
I glance through the dust at the central pillar. “It is garbage.”
“I knew it. It’s a house-flipper death trap.” She flashes me a grin. “Ken expects us to choose the brick because it sounds sturdy, but it would be held together by prayer and liquid nails. Select the shiplap. Smash the panel for Option A and pray the Gaines don’t find us next.”
I do not question her logic, nor do I ask who these Gaines monsters are. I release my hold on the wall, pivot my weight, and drive my fist straight through the blue icon for Option A.
The glass shatters. Instantly, the gears in the walls seize, stopping mere inches from my wings. A groan echoes from the floorboards, and the deadbolt on the kitchen door clicks open.
“You did well.” I cup the back of her head, pulling her against my chest.
“I’ve watched three lifetimes worth of HGTV.” A breathless laugh escapes her as she leans into my heat. “I know a corner-cutting contractor when I see one. But don't get too comfortable. The kitchen is next, and that’s usually where the real murder happens.”