Chapter 3:

Chapter: 3 The Puzzle

The House in the Woods. Book 2. Two sides of the Crown

This is a prison.

It doesn’t announce itself like one—
There are no bars. No chains. No guards outside the door.

But this place is designed, and someone wanted me stuck.

The shack is sealed.
The mirrors removed.
The windows blocked with surgical precision.
And now—this.

A flower.

Perfectly placed.

The Never After Flower stands like a sentinel in front of the journal.

It’s just tall enough to be in the way—
Not massive, not towering.
But its position is calculated.
Placed with intent.

From every angle, it holds court over the book—
a half-buried guide or a trap disguised as one.

Whatever it is, I won’t be reading it until I solve this.

I crouch again.
This time, I don’t marvel.

I study.

The flower sways lightly, reacting to the shift in my weight.
Its thorns stretch a little further.
Still slow. Still elegant.

Searching.

Scenting.

‘Attracted to blood.’

That fact lands solidly, with more certainty than I expected.

It craves the red.
The real kind.
The kind that screams alive.

I glance around the room again—slow, methodical.

The space has been stripped bare.
No tools.
No glass.
No nails, pins, broken boards, or helpful rusted pipes.

Even the barbed wire on the bed frame is out of reach, cleverly tucked behind the bedroom threshold.

All the sharp things are gone.

On purpose.

‘No blood.’

‘No bait.’

‘That wasn’t an accident either.’

Someone designed this puzzle with exacting cruelty.
They knew what the flower wanted.
And they made sure I couldn’t use it.

At least… not easily.

I circle the bloom once.

Its thin stalk flexes gently to follow.
Not fast. Not aggressive.

But aware.

Like a cat waiting for the mouse to twitch.

‘Can’t touch it. Can’t bleed near it. Can’t tempt it away.’

‘One wrong move, and the story ends.’

The book sits there like a buried answer.

And the flower?

The flower waits.

I step back.
One foot, then another.

The flower doesn’t follow.
It stays rooted—loyal to its purpose.

Good.

No sense rushing into death just to get my hands on a diary.

I move away, drifting from the bloom’s glow.
It helps to clear the thoughts.
Let the mind wander.
Feel the shape of the prison.

This place is small.
Two rooms.
No door.
No view outside.
A single bedframe with thorns of its own.

And now… a trap in the middle of it all.

‘Who trapped me?’

The question comes quiet.
No fire behind it. Just weight.

Someone did this.
Someone built this place, seed by seed, beam by beam.

They knew the flower.
They removed the blades.
They placed the book.

This wasn’t chaos.
It was craftsmanship.

‘Why?’

Another question.
No answer.

But I feel it creeping behind my ribs like smoke.
Something familiar.

Then—
a thought.

A memory?

‘The Party of the Roses was not a failure.’

That lands with the weight of certainty.

Yes. I remember that.

I remember…

Pink bubbles, floating in the air.
Warm. Weightless. Some popping on the tip of my nose.
A laugh, maybe mine.
A scent like sugared citrus and powdered hands.

Color, everywhere.
Reds, pinks, lavender and white.
Flags fluttering in a wind that smelled like candy and rainwater.

The Color War had ended.

And Love won.

I retired, didn’t I?

Yes.
I retired.
Happy. At peace.
They handed me a glass of something fizzy.
I remember the clinking sound.
Someone cried in joy.

‘Was it the Holokons who lost?’

That thought flickers.

No.
No, they didn’t lose.
They’re too proud for this.
Too full of song.

This?
This prison?

This is personal.
It knew me.

It was made for me.

I open my eyes again.
The world clicks back into gray.

I’ve paced the shack a full circuit now.
Step by step.
Board by board.

And something’s become clear.

The light doesn’t shift.

The beams of white, slicing through the broken slats—
they haven’t faded.
Haven’t moved.
Time is still.
Utterly still.

Every shaft of light is frozen like chalk on a blackboard.
And the most curious part?

The beams form a square.

A near-perfect box.
A cage of light…

…with the flower at the center.

It sits in a pool of soft darkness, untouched by the light.
Deliberately framed.

‘Interesting.’

----------

‘I’ve been in worse situations.’

The thought doesn’t comfort me,
but it does bring a smirk.

There was that necromancer's lair, after all.
End of the world.
Bones in the walls.
Dead things whispering math equations backwards.

And I got out of that one with only—

‘What was it again? One-fifth of my soul?’

Pfft.

Steal more next time. See if I care.

But no—worse than that…?

‘INGY.’

All caps.

The Holokon with the singing voice and the razor wit.
And that new dress.
Flowy. Shimmered like beetle wings.

She turned to me—
smiled like a god about to pass judgment—
and asked:

“Do I look fat in this?”

…

‘Gods.’

I nearly died right there.

‘I wonder how they’re doing…’

That thought lands quieter than I expect.

The smile fades a little.
Something inside aches.

But it’s no use sitting on ghosts.

Focus.

Time to act.

There’s a chest at the foot of the barbed bed.
Plain. Iron hinges.
No lock.

I flip the lid.

Inside?

Clothes.

Fluffy, feathery, puffed-sleeve disasters.
Shirts that look like they wept in a birdcage.
Tassels on everything.
Even the underthings look like they’d sing opera.

‘Absolutely not.’

But then—

Ah.

At the very bottom, wedged between two too-soft scarves—

A prybar.

It’s old.
Beaten, bent at one end.
Repaired three times over with a leather grip and a screw that looks stolen from a chair.

And it's sticky.

Not with blood.
With dried ink.

Black. Gooey.
Like someone stabbed a journal to death.

‘Gross.’

Still—
A tool’s a tool.

I grip the bar, moving slow, letting the ink crackle under my fingers.