the Story
Page 1 — The Pulse Below
Yarrow Glyn, a cartographer of uncharted moons, set camp on the sunless expanse of Kryst V’s equatorial plateau. Under a sky black as spilled ink, seismic tremors drummed through the basalt floor like a slow‑beating heart. When the ground exhaled a plume of cool lavender mist, Yarrow saw pinprick lights wink beneath the fractured crust. Curiosity eclipsed caution; he opened his portable fissure drill and carved a narrow shaft downward. The stone parted easily, as though eager to divulge secrets, and a spiral staircase of naturally fused obsidian revealed itself—each tread glowing faint cerulean in his presence. With every step the surface hush faded, replaced by a rising chorus of subterranean echoes that somehow sounded like laughter remembered from a dream long forgotten.
Page 2 — Descent into the Chromatic Cleft
The staircase led to a cavern vast enough to cradle a mountain. Roof slabs the size of continents pressed together like slow tectonic gears, leaving jagged skylines overhead. From seams between those slabs leaked streams of spore‑lit air, and the spores shimmered in chromatic gradients—turquoise to gold to ultraviolet hues the retina invented on the spot. The radiant motes spiraled around Yarrow, mapping his silhouette in fireworks of quiet light. When he brushed one, it dissolved against his glove and painted a fleeting memory—himself as a child, racing paper boats down a city gutter after rain. More spores drifted in: his first heartbreak; the fear that chased him off Earth; the moment he first signed his name, trembling, on his interstellar visa. The cave wasn’t merely space; it was an archive of unclaimed feelings, and it read him as easily as breath fogging a pane.
Page 3 — The Crystal Hologlyphs
A gentle rise led Yarrow into a hall of columns shaped from translucent crystal. Each column revolved slowly, unpowered yet alive, projecting hologlyphs—geometric sigils that contorted into script each time Yarrow blinked. He touched one and felt a neural aftershock: A map of possible tomorrows. Paths branched like neurons: some broken, some luminous, none labelled. The glyphs reshaped until a corridor highlighted itself in molten amber. Trusting impulse, he followed. Footfalls set the entire hall into motion; columns glided aside in choreographed precision, revealing locked chambers that opened then resealed behind him. The path tightened into a ribbon bridge strung across an abyss so deep even sound feared to fall. Halfway across, gravity faltered. He floated above the bridge, limbs rowing in syrupy air, while the abyss below burst into constellations—galaxies nestling inside one another like Matryoshka dolls of fire. Yarrow realized he hadn’t left the cavern at all; he was walking inside a mycelial mind, and it was teaching him the dance steps.
Page 4 — The Shuffle of Starlight
A horizon of living quartz unfolded, each facet reflecting versions of Yarrow dancing—some laughing, some wounded, some aglow with futures he could scarcely fathom. The ground pulsed in sync with his heartbeat; every step sent ripples of argent light sprinting across the floor. Spores ignited mid‑air into tiny suns, then fell upward, drafting spiral shells of radiance. Yarrow surrendered to the rhythmless rhythm: a shuffle between gravity’s ebb and flow, between what had been and what almost was. Time frayed; the cavern walls became curtains of shimmering probability. Through them he glimpsed deserts blooming into coral reefs, ruined cities mending themselves, children he might someday meet. With widening grin he spun, a solitary dancer beneath skylights stitched from nebulae. The cave answered with thunderless applause—waves of luminescence that surged, then stilled, waiting.
Page 5 — Seed of the Further Night
Light sheared away as swiftly as it had bloomed. Yarrow stood in velvety dark as spores settled like dust. A single glow remained—a seed, no larger than a teardrop, humming with internal starlight. It floated to his palm and stayed there, warm with gentle urgency. Far above, he sensed the staircase closing, the basalt sealing any retreat. Yet dread failed to claim him; the shuffle had rewritten the cadence of his thoughts. He placed the seed inside a breast pocket wired to detect vital signs; it pulsed in time with his own, as if confirming the partnership. Ahead yawned a tunnel dappled with faint, newly lit crystals, forming an arrow deeper into Kryst V’s heart. Yarrow inhaled, tasting spearmint and ozone, then stepped forward.
Behind him the cavern whispered—a soft, delighted exhale—as the chronicles of the Subterranean Starlight Shuffle turned their first page, and a saga born of spores, shadows, and possibility stretched into the further night.
the Gallery
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