This hall is not trapped. That is suspicious, which is a sentence I would like embroidered on a pillow if we live long enough for furniture.

"Don't jinx it," I tell myself.

"I will," Valeria says, bright. "It's a trap wearing nice shoes."

Erebus touches the pact-line. "Proceed."

Twenty paces of well-behaved ceiling. Letters that pretend to mind their own business. Air doing a convincing impression of air. I walk like a man who believes in floors and keeps receipts.

A gentle tug at my hip.

The tether. Reika's rope from the seam. Pulse lead warm on my wrist. I can't hear her, but the idea of her hand is there: competent, steady, a little bossy, like home.

Two tugs. Our code for: 'Still with you?'

I squeeze the lead once: 'Still me.'

We turn a bend. The wall writes SAFETY LINE at ankle height, which is like a salesman introducing himself as Definitely Not A Scam.

"That's bait," Valeria sings. "Please do not lick the bait."

"I wasn't going to," I lie. The corridor narrows to a sleeve. The floor is polished enough to reflect my poor life choices. A hair-thin thread of ink runs along the left like a fishing line for promises.

"Trip line," I say.

Erebus: "Clause."

The rope tugs again. Not our code. A little greedy. The ink glints exactly the way regret glints in hindsight.

I stop. The hall hums, pleased that I noticed.

"Cut the reflex, not the string," Valeria says. The humor drops out of her voice like a coin into a well.

I raise the blade and cut the itch under my ribs: the polite urge to answer a pull. The cut lives in muscle and habit, not in air. The greedy tug slides off and becomes an awkward wiggle.

The hall makes the sound a clerk makes when you bring the correct form: unamused respect.

I step past the thread. The tether brushes it. The ink wriggles for the rope like a cat for a lap.

Lucent Harmony wraps the tether, small and firm. Harmony is rude to parasites. The ink recoils like I swatted it with a rolled-up newspaper.

"Good rope," Valeria says. "No snacks for hallway vermin."

We move.

A door blossoms on the right, too curvy by half. Above it: SA— and the rest refuses to be legible, coy as gossip.

"Don't," Valeria says.

"I am not," I say, gripping my own curiosity by the scruff.

We go straight.

The floor sighs like someone who wanted drama, then the pull hits hard.

Not polite. A yank. The rope bites into my waist. The lead on my wrist goes hot. I feel the seam anchor hum back at me across too much distance. Then I feel something else: the line losing weight. Ropes are heavier than ideas. This is becoming an idea.

"Reika?" I ask the air.

Erebus: "Not Reika. Vote."

The hall is asking me to agree to Come back. The ink thread swells, reaching. There's a clever little clause under it, dressed like concern.

I set my feet and do not agree.

The yank turns into a snap.

The tether goes taut, then thins. Weight drains out of it like sand from a broken glass. The line stops being rope and becomes the word rope, which is notoriously easy to edit.

"Now," Valeria says.

I cut where there is nothing. The blade meets a shape that exists only because a sentence says it does. The cut lands because I told it what it was for before I moved.

The rope parts clean. No whip, no drama, no loud goodbye. The coil at my hip slumps. The lead goes cool.

Silence arrives. It brings luggage.

Erebus: "Acknowledged."

Valeria tries levity on purpose. "On the bright side, no more tug bruises."

"I liked the bruises," I say, and it's more honest than I intend.

"I know," she says, then recovers her grin. "We can bruise you ourselves. Team-building."

I count a breath. Four in. Six out.

"Alone," I say.

"With us," Valeria corrects, cheerful and sharp. "I am at least three swords of personality. Four on holidays. Erebus is a very supportive filing system."

Erebus: "Proceed."

We continue.

Next chamber: a square with a ceiling that keeps reconsidering its contract. The floor is a grid of grays polite enough to pass for a government office. In the middle: PLEASE CENTER YOURSELF.

"No," I tell the floor. "Edges first."

I walk the border. Every third square tries to feel important. I step on the humble ones. The humble ones hold. Floors and people have that in common more often than they admit.

"Drill?" Valeria asks.

"Drill," I say.

Broom-closet cuts on the move. Steps in the boring squares. Pauses on ugly numbers. The blade stops where asked. The hip resigns from politics. The wrist stops campaigning for attention. Breath reaches six without sounding like it wants applause.

The text updates: CHOOSE A PATH.

"I choose not to choose," I say. "Objection noted."

Valeria: "Sustained."

I let breath pick direction. Feet follow breath. It feels like cheating because I wanted trumpets. It's not cheating. It's what competence feels like when you were promised fireworks.

The far wall decides to be a door. It doesn't flounce. I appreciate that and do not reward it with gratitude.

"State of swordsman?" Erebus asks, ledger open.

"Better. Less silly. Stupid small cuts are doing heavy lifting. Harmony me-sized but loyal. Mythweaver petty cash only. Grey is a luxury brand I can't afford. Nine-circle is dots. Tether gone. Morale: cereal without sugar."

Valeria gasps. "Add raisins."

"Prison food," I say.

"Banished," she says, scandalized.

We pass through.

The next hall lowers its ceiling by the height of an unfunny joke. I duck early to be annoying. The ceiling considers its life choices and rises. The letters lean so close I could kiss them. I don't. Standards.

"Talk to me," Valeria says, chatty on purpose. "Favorite soup? Least favorite demon? Thoughts on naps?"

"Tomato," I say. "Lust. And I will write a law that guarantees naps when this is over."

"Dream big," she says. "But not now, because the wall is lying again."

She's right. The corner is pretending to be a dead end. I walk into the shadow. The wall sighs and becomes a seam. The seam acts like it was always here. It wasn't. We all lie sometimes.

On the other side, a training square with four pillars and one lamp-that-isn't. The pillar text says: ACT BIG.

I act small.

The room tries to make small feel like cowardice. I make small feel like craft. The difference is cost. Cowardice runs a tab. Craft pays cash.

"Your cuts," Valeria says, pleased, "are getting rude."

"That's the point," I say, and run Tiamat's cruelty again. Three, five, two, seven, one. My body hisses and then learns. Tiamat would approve, then hit me with a stick anyway, on principle.

We rest one breath against a wall that has decided to be wall for the full count. It is trying its best.

"Ledger," Erebus prompts.

"Hands steady. Breath honest. Pride complaining. Discipline louder. Rope gone. Still here."

"Proceed," he says, which is his way of saying well done.

We walk. The hall tries a new trick: a line of neat text writing itself under my feet to suggest a better route. I step off it. The line slows down to match me, then gives up and retreats to whatever break room trap text goes to when it clocks out.

"New theory," Valeria says. "The tower is a group project. The letters are the one student who wants to present."

"Everyone else is sick that day," I say.

"Everyone else is smart," she says.

We turn a corner. There's a door made entirely of compliments. It says kind things about my posture, my potential, and my charitable nature. It also has very sharp hinges.

We don't touch it.

We take the plain passage with scuffed edges and no posters. My shoulders relax a fraction. I didn't realize they'd been tense. I am, in fact, a human being.

"How lonely are you?" Valeria asks, gentle under the grin.

"I have you," I say.

"You have us both," Erebus says, which from him is practically poetry.

"Then I'm lonely in a manageable way," I say. The honesty surprises me and nobody else.

A long hall opens ahead, quiet as a library, judgmental as a cat. At the far end, a thin slit like a mouth that didn't commit to an opinion.

"New problem," Valeria sings. "We love problems. They're just solutions wearing sunglasses."

Erebus: "Proceed."

I check my grip. I check my knees. I check the four-in, six-out. I take a step and the floor agrees. We move forward, slowly, small, honest, and very annoying to any curses that prefer grand entrances.

Somewhere far behind, at a seam that is no longer mine, a rope lies on the ground. I will miss the tug. I will also survive without it. Both can be true.

"Onward?" Valeria asks.

"Onward," I say.

"Proceed," Erebus says.

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