Penryn
The silence after Number Three’s disappearance was suffocating. The echo of his final clap seemed to hang in the air, vibrating in their bones. The road stretched forward, but none of them moved.
Andrew broke first, his voice sharp with anger. “You knew. You knew about this City of Dreams, and you didn’t tell us.”
Fox’s jaw tightened. “Because it’s not a place you want to find. The Queen said we’d have to look for it, but I wasn’t going to drag you into that until—”
“Until what?” Andrew snapped. “Until we were already neck‑deep in curses and statues? You kept it from us.”
Nathan’s voice trembled. “Fox… is that why she likes us? Because we’re supposed to find it?”
Michael’s grip tightened on the journal. “The Queen doesn’t like anyone. She uses. If she told Fox we’re meant to find this City, then we’re pawns.”
Fox’s eyes darkened. “Better pawns than corpses.”
Andrew stepped closer, fury in his eyes. “You think you’re protecting us, but you’re just keeping secrets. That’s worse. We deserve to know what we’re walking into.”
Fox’s voice was low, steady. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. The City isn’t just a place—it’s the root of everything. The Queen said it was where the multiverse began. That tower… it shines across every world. You can’t escape it.”
Nathan swallowed hard. “Then Number Three was right. It will find us.”
Michael shook his head. “No. We choose our path. We don’t have to follow the Queen’s games.”
Fox’s reply was cold. “Every road in Dane County bends toward her. Toward the City. You’ll see.”
The signpost loomed again, its letters carved deep into weather‑worn wood: PENRYN – 1 Mile Ahead.
The boys fell into uneasy silence, their boots crunching against the dirt. The fields grew darker, the air heavier. The wind carried faint whispers, but this time they weren’t words—they were laughter, brittle and hollow.
Nathan shivered. “It feels like the county knows we’re coming.”
Andrew muttered, “Maybe it does.”
Michael’s voice was tight. “Penryn’s just another town. We’ve seen worse.”
Fox’s eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. “No. Penryn doesn’t change. It only pretends.”
The road crested a low hill, and there it was: Penryn.
From a distance, it looked ordinary—rows of houses, a church steeple, smoke curling faintly from chimneys. But the longer they stared, the more wrong it seemed. The houses leaned at impossible angles, the windows too dark, the smoke too thick. The steeple twisted slightly, as if it were watching them.
Andrew whispered, “It looks alive.”
Nathan’s stomach knotted. “Like the statues.”
Fox’s voice was grim. “Worse. Penryn breathes.”
They stood at the hill’s edge, the town waiting below. The silence pressed in, heavier than before.
Michael closed the journal, his hands trembling. “Whatever’s down there… we face it together.”
Fox’s eyes stayed fixed on the crooked steeple. “Together or not, Penryn will decide what we become.”
The wind shifted, carrying the faint echo of Number Three’s laughter.
The silence after Number Three’s disappearance clung to them like smoke. The road bent downward, and the crooked steeple of Penryn rose against the horizon.
Andrew’s voice was sharp. “So this is it. Penryn.”
Fox’s jaw tightened. “It pretends to be ordinary. Don’t trust what you see.”
Nathan frowned. “What do you mean?”
Fox’s eyes stayed fixed on the town. “Last time I came here… it was festival day. Music, dancing, food stalls. It looked alive. Too alive.”
Michael glanced at him. “And?”
Fox’s voice dropped. “The feast wasn’t what it seemed. They were eating people.”
The words hit like stones. Andrew swore under his breath. Nathan’s stomach turned. Michael’s grip tightened on the journal.
Fox continued, his tone grim. “They honor a god called Ierōkingu. They celebrate him with blood. I barely escaped with my life.”
Andrew spat. “And now we’re walking straight into it.”
Fox’s reply was cold. “Because Dane County doesn’t give us a choice.”
The boys crested the hill. Penryn spread below them, deceptively normal: smoke curling from chimneys, children darting through streets, banners fluttering in the wind.
Nathan whispered, “It looks… happy.”
Fox’s face hardened. “That’s the trap. It always looks happy.”
Michael muttered, “Then we go in knowing it’s a lie.”
Andrew’s jaw clenched. “And if they try to feed us?”
Fox’s eyes darkened. “We run. Like I did before.”
The wind carried faint strains of music—flutes, drums, laughter. But beneath it, Fox heard something else: the echo of the Queen’s words. You are like me.
They entered the outskirts, passing stalls where vendors hawked bread, cloth, and trinkets. Fox slowed near a shop with faded shutters, its keeper a stout man with a weathered face.
Fox cleared his throat. “Excuse me. The farmhouse outside of town—the one burnt down. What happened there?”
The shopkeep looked up sharply, his expression hardening. “The Jones place?”
Fox nodded.
The man spat into the dust. “Bad blood. Folks said the family was cursed. They drank, fought, carried on with wickedness. One night it boiled over. An angry mob dragged them out, killed them, and set the house ablaze. Burnt it to the ground so nothing would remain.”
Nathan’s eyes widened. “They killed the whole family?”
The shopkeep’s voice was flat. “Every last one. Said it was justice. Said it was cleansing. But I call it madness.”
Andrew muttered, “So the county doesn’t just rot people—it makes them turn on each other.”
Michael’s grip tightened on the journal. “And the Queen watches.”
Fox’s face was grim. “I told you. Dane County doesn’t forget. It reshapes. The Joneses were the beginning. Penryn is the festering wound that followed.”
The shopkeep leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Best advice, stranger? Don’t linger. Penryn smiles at you, but it bites when you’re not looking.”
The boys moved on, unsettled. The town square opened before them, banners snapping in the wind, music drifting from a gazebo. Children laughed, couples danced, vendors shouted cheerfully.
Nathan whispered, “It looks alive.”
Fox’s voice was grim. “Alive, yes. But not human.”
Andrew’s jaw clenched. “Then let’s keep our eyes open.”
Michael closed the journal, his hands trembling. “Whatever’s down there… we face it together.”
Fox’s eyes stayed fixed on the crooked steeple. “Together or not, Penryn will decide what we become.”
The wind shifted, carrying the faint echo of Number Three’s laughter.
Andrew broke first, his voice sharp with anger. “You knew. You knew about this City of Dreams, and you didn’t tell us.”
Fox’s jaw tightened. “Because it’s not a place you want to find. The Queen said we’d have to look for it, but I wasn’t going to drag you into that until—”
“Until what?” Andrew snapped. “Until we were already neck‑deep in curses and statues? You kept it from us.”
Nathan’s voice trembled. “Fox… is that why she likes us? Because we’re supposed to find it?”
Michael’s grip tightened on the journal. “The Queen doesn’t like anyone. She uses. If she told Fox we’re meant to find this City, then we’re pawns.”
Fox’s eyes darkened. “Better pawns than corpses.”
Andrew stepped closer, fury in his eyes. “You think you’re protecting us, but you’re just keeping secrets. That’s worse. We deserve to know what we’re walking into.”
Fox’s voice was low, steady. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. The City isn’t just a place—it’s the root of everything. The Queen said it was where the multiverse began. That tower… it shines across every world. You can’t escape it.”
Nathan swallowed hard. “Then Number Three was right. It will find us.”
Michael shook his head. “No. We choose our path. We don’t have to follow the Queen’s games.”
Fox’s reply was cold. “Every road in Dane County bends toward her. Toward the City. You’ll see.”
The signpost loomed again, its letters carved deep into weather‑worn wood: PENRYN – 1 Mile Ahead.
The boys fell into uneasy silence, their boots crunching against the dirt. The fields grew darker, the air heavier. The wind carried faint whispers, but this time they weren’t words—they were laughter, brittle and hollow.
Nathan shivered. “It feels like the county knows we’re coming.”
Andrew muttered, “Maybe it does.”
Michael’s voice was tight. “Penryn’s just another town. We’ve seen worse.”
Fox’s eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. “No. Penryn doesn’t change. It only pretends.”
The road crested a low hill, and there it was: Penryn.
From a distance, it looked ordinary—rows of houses, a church steeple, smoke curling faintly from chimneys. But the longer they stared, the more wrong it seemed. The houses leaned at impossible angles, the windows too dark, the smoke too thick. The steeple twisted slightly, as if it were watching them.
Andrew whispered, “It looks alive.”
Nathan’s stomach knotted. “Like the statues.”
Fox’s voice was grim. “Worse. Penryn breathes.”
They stood at the hill’s edge, the town waiting below. The silence pressed in, heavier than before.
Michael closed the journal, his hands trembling. “Whatever’s down there… we face it together.”
Fox’s eyes stayed fixed on the crooked steeple. “Together or not, Penryn will decide what we become.”
The wind shifted, carrying the faint echo of Number Three’s laughter.
The silence after Number Three’s disappearance clung to them like smoke. The road bent downward, and the crooked steeple of Penryn rose against the horizon.
Andrew’s voice was sharp. “So this is it. Penryn.”
Fox’s jaw tightened. “It pretends to be ordinary. Don’t trust what you see.”
Nathan frowned. “What do you mean?”
Fox’s eyes stayed fixed on the town. “Last time I came here… it was festival day. Music, dancing, food stalls. It looked alive. Too alive.”
Michael glanced at him. “And?”
Fox’s voice dropped. “The feast wasn’t what it seemed. They were eating people.”
The words hit like stones. Andrew swore under his breath. Nathan’s stomach turned. Michael’s grip tightened on the journal.
Fox continued, his tone grim. “They honor a god called Ierōkingu. They celebrate him with blood. I barely escaped with my life.”
Andrew spat. “And now we’re walking straight into it.”
Fox’s reply was cold. “Because Dane County doesn’t give us a choice.”
The boys crested the hill. Penryn spread below them, deceptively normal: smoke curling from chimneys, children darting through streets, banners fluttering in the wind.
Nathan whispered, “It looks… happy.”
Fox’s face hardened. “That’s the trap. It always looks happy.”
Michael muttered, “Then we go in knowing it’s a lie.”
Andrew’s jaw clenched. “And if they try to feed us?”
Fox’s eyes darkened. “We run. Like I did before.”
The wind carried faint strains of music—flutes, drums, laughter. But beneath it, Fox heard something else: the echo of the Queen’s words. You are like me.
They entered the outskirts, passing stalls where vendors hawked bread, cloth, and trinkets. Fox slowed near a shop with faded shutters, its keeper a stout man with a weathered face.
Fox cleared his throat. “Excuse me. The farmhouse outside of town—the one burnt down. What happened there?”
The shopkeep looked up sharply, his expression hardening. “The Jones place?”
Fox nodded.
The man spat into the dust. “Bad blood. Folks said the family was cursed. They drank, fought, carried on with wickedness. One night it boiled over. An angry mob dragged them out, killed them, and set the house ablaze. Burnt it to the ground so nothing would remain.”
Nathan’s eyes widened. “They killed the whole family?”
The shopkeep’s voice was flat. “Every last one. Said it was justice. Said it was cleansing. But I call it madness.”
Andrew muttered, “So the county doesn’t just rot people—it makes them turn on each other.”
Michael’s grip tightened on the journal. “And the Queen watches.”
Fox’s face was grim. “I told you. Dane County doesn’t forget. It reshapes. The Joneses were the beginning. Penryn is the festering wound that followed.”
The shopkeep leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Best advice, stranger? Don’t linger. Penryn smiles at you, but it bites when you’re not looking.”
The boys moved on, unsettled. The town square opened before them, banners snapping in the wind, music drifting from a gazebo. Children laughed, couples danced, vendors shouted cheerfully.
Nathan whispered, “It looks alive.”
Fox’s voice was grim. “Alive, yes. But not human.”
Andrew’s jaw clenched. “Then let’s keep our eyes open.”
Michael closed the journal, his hands trembling. “Whatever’s down there… we face it together.”
Fox’s eyes stayed fixed on the crooked steeple. “Together or not, Penryn will decide what we become.”
The wind shifted, carrying the faint echo of Number Three’s laughter.