Transmission 011 // "The Threshold”
The ceiling stretched out above her—flat, colorless, and striped with shadows.
Amelia lay motionless, eyes open. Her bedroom was silent, but her thoughts were not. She wasn’t sure if she’d slept. It felt like she’d been lying here for hours—one of those long, weightless nights that stretched out until they lost their shape. The clock by her bed said 1:47, but it could have been any hour at all.
The room around her felt like it was breathing in the dark. Every angle seemed a fraction off, as though someone had redrawn it from memory. Nothing had moved. Nothing had changed. The desk sat where it always did, still marked with the scar where a compass had pressed too hard.
The bookshelf sagged under weathered paperbacks, spines huddled together, each one propping up the next. A gray hoodie slouched over the back of the chair—arms flung wide, hood gaping upward—as if the girl wearing it had simply disappeared.
The house was still. But darkness crept up the walls.
She stared at the ceiling some more.
After a while, something shifted in the quiet. A sound she almost missed. The faint rasp of something sharp against wood.
A scratch.
At first she thought she’d imagined it. She lay still, listening intently, waiting to hear if it came again.
Nothing.
Then—another scratch. Longer this time. Definite. Deliberate.
Her stomach tightened. She scanned the room. Nothing moved.
The third one came.
This time she was sure. There was something in the room with her.
A sharp scrape, quick and close. She couldn’t see it, but it was there. She went rigid. Fatigue fell away like shedding skin. Every nerve in her body came to life.
Silence pressed down.
She stayed still, barely breathing.
Then, from beneath the dresser, a dart of shadow—quick and low. It stopped midway across the floor, nose twitching.
A mouse.
Small. Gray. Nimble.
It rose on its hind legs, whiskers trembling. For a moment, it seemed to study her. Then it blinked and scampered toward the wall, as though remembering something urgent.
Amelia’s shoulders eased. A faint, disbelieving smile touched her lips.
“Just a mouse,” she breathed. The absurdity of it made her want to laugh.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and watched it slip through a gap by the skirting board. She didn’t remember ever noticing it before.
“I’ll tell Dad tomorrow. Mum’ll lose her mind if it turns up in their room,” she murmured to herself.
She kept watch for a little longer, to see if it dared peek its whiskers out again.
But it was gone.
The quiet returned.
She slid back under the covers, shifting, restless, hunting for a comfortable spot. On her third roll, something caught her eye at the foot of the door.
What’s that?
She squinted into the dark. Nothing solid—just a blur that refused to stay still. But it was there. A hint of color.
Green…
It was green smoke.
Amelia froze.
It was slithering beneath the door and had begun to feel its way up the wall. It moved with the certainty of something that knew exactly where it was going. A faint pulse ran through it—soft, rhythmic, almost like breathing.
Sound rose from the house below.
Footsteps.
Wood groaned under weight. Heavy. Familiar.
But wrong.
She held her breath, eyes fixed on the door. Another step. Then another. Each one slow, unhurried.
Her heart began to hammer.
The green smoke thickened, pooling at the foot of the bed.
Another step. The stairs groaned.
The smoke climbed higher, curling toward her.
A floorboard creaked on the landing.
Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She threw off the covers, crossed the room in three quick strides, fingers finding the metal catch of the lock—yanking it shut.
The footsteps stopped.
Right outside the door.
The sound was so close she felt it vibrate through the wood, into the handle, and through her hand. The smoke kept rising. It was waist deep now, filling the room like water flooding a sinking ship.
The door handle turned.
Once.
Twice.
She stumbled back, eyes darting wildly around the room for a way out.
The window? No. Two floors up. I’d break my neck.
The hall's the only way out, and it's blocked.
Her gaze snapped to the bookshelf. Her mother’s book was glowing.
A soft shimmer pulsed from the spine, cutting through the smoke like a beacon in fog. The air around it hummed—she felt it vibrate in her ribs.
The handle rattled—harder this time. The wood shuddered in its frame.
She lunged for the book, tearing it from the shelf. She fumbled it open.
The pages had been carved out.
Inside lay a key.
Old. Iron. Dark.
A chain looped through its eye.
The lock groaned—metal bending, wood splitting. Something was pushing through. Amelia’s throat closed.
She snatched the key, the cold metal biting into her palm.
Then she saw it.
Her body stopped. Every muscle locked. Her gut knew the shape before her eyes did.
Another door.
On the far wall. White paint. Brass handle. A small crack just above the baseboard—a mark she’d accidentally made when she was little.
It couldn’t be here. It wasn’t.
But it was.
Her parents’ closet.
Here. In her bedroom.
Behind her, wood splintered.
Her pulse spiked.
The closet.
I’ve got to…
Her knees buckled. A sound escaped her throat—half gasp, half sob.
The rising smoke burned her eyes. The scent of almonds clung to the back of her throat.
She fell forward, fingers closing around the brass handle.
It was cold. Damp.
The moment she touched it, memories flared—
Her father’s voice. Her mother’s perfume.
The creak of the door closing. The darkness filling the space around her.
Behind her, the lock splintered.
She looked back, then yanked the handle hard.
The door swung wide.
The smell hit first: damp stone, cold earth, and the musty tang of stale air, undisturbed for years.
No coats. No shelf. No corner.
A passage.
Narrow. Stone. Leading off into darkness. A cool wind blew from somewhere.
Behind her—CRACK—the bedroom door splintered.
The smoke surged forward.
No choice.
She stepped through. Slammed the door behind her.
Her breath shook as she turned to face the passage.
The air was thick and heavy, cold in her lungs.
Behind her, the door was silent.
Ahead, the tunnel waited.
And somewhere, deep in the dark, she heard water.
The walls pressed close on either side—the stone, rough and slick with moisture.
A thin green shimmer seeped through the cracks, pulsing faintly, as though the rock itself hid something alive beneath it.
The key was still in her hand. The chain had twisted around her wrist. She freed it and looped it over her neck. The cold metal settled against her chest.
A sound behind her—soft, insistent. A hiss, like air being drawn in.
She spun around.
Curls of smoke slipped under the seam of the door, glowing the same sickly green.
It followed me.
Her stomach dropped.
She ran.
Her bare feet splashed through unseen puddles, cold seeping into her bones. The passage breathed—a faint current of air brushing her face, pulling her forward.
Each step echoed, then died. Her breath fogged.
The walls leaned in. The green glow reached only a few feet ahead.
Behind her, the smoke kept coming.
The passage tightened. Stone scraped her shoulders. The ceiling—a ribcage of ancient rock—pressed down.
What if there’s no way out?
Her palms brushed the wall as she moved. The glow pulsed behind the stone, tracing thin veins of light—like circuitry trapped in rock. Sometimes the light flickered, as if the tunnel itself was drawing a current.
She quickened her pace.
The tunnel curved, and the breeze that met her face was colder, sharper—a whisper from somewhere ahead.
She risked a glance back. The smoke was close behind her.
The walls closed in. The ceiling dropped. She had to bow her head.
Don’t stop. Don’t let it catch you.
The smoke consumed the corridor behind her, relentless.
Her ribs scraped stone. Her hips caught on jutting rock. Every movement scraped and caught.
Too tight.
Too narrow.
No way back.
She kept going. The key clinked against her chest.
Then—ahead—light.
Not green. Not artificial.
Pale. Soft. Open.
She pushed harder. Spine screaming. Shoulders burning.
One last twist. One more push.
The pressure broke like a wave as she spilled out into the open.
The air felt different here.
She stood, gulping it down, lungs burning.
Then she looked back.
The smoke was still coming—tendrils reaching through the tunnel.
No.
She spun around. On one side of the opening, a massive slab of stone leaned against the wall.
She threw her shoulder into it.
It didn't budge.
She pushed harder, palms slipping on cold rock. The smoke crept closer, reaching.
Move. Move. MOVE.
She braced her back against the wall, feet planted, every muscle screaming as she shoved.
The stone groaned—a sound like tectonic plates grinding together.
Inch by inch, it shifted.
The smoke surged forward, as if it knew what she was doing.
She heaved again.
Come on… Come on.
The slab scraped across the ground, sealing the tunnel entrance with a thunderous thud.
She slid down the wall, chest heaving, feet raw and bleeding.
When she could breathe again, she stood and looked around.
A courtyard.
Her feet rested on smooth stone—black and white squares in a vast grid that stretched in every direction.
A chessboard, carved into the floor.
She turned slowly, taking it in.
The tunnel behind her was sealed. Above it, a castle rose into the night—tall, turreted, green light pulsing beneath every brick. Thick stone walls encircled the courtyard, crowned with battlements that curved in a perfect ring.
She searched for a gate. A door. Anything.
Nothing.
Above—the night sky.
But it was a depthless void.
No moon. No stars.
Just black.
A thought ran through her like ice water.
Where the hell am I?
Silence. Stillness.
Just the whisper of her own breath.
Then—high above—the darkness stirred.
A single point of light blinked into existence.
Then another.
Then more.
Stars.
She stared up. They multiplied—dozens, then hundreds—burning brighter, their glow shifting from white to orange to red.
And they were moving.
No. That's not—
The first one hit the ground.
Fzzzt.
A flaming arrow buried itself in stone twenty feet away. Flames licked outward.
Her stomach dropped.
Oh God.
They're not stars.
They poured from the sky—dozens, hundreds—trails of fire slashing through the dark. They arced toward the castle walls, toward the courtyard, toward her.
Another struck closer. Sparks burst across the tiles.
She stumbled back.
Then came the horn.
Low. Ancient. Bone-deep.
A single note shuddered through the stone walls.
A war cry.
The arrows fell faster—sheets of fire raining down.
The courtyard erupted. Flames clawed up the walls.
Dark smoke climbed in columns.
The floor was burning.
Amelia ran.
Heat licked her arms, smoke stung her eyes, her breath tore at her throat.
Arrows slammed into stone around her, sparks scattering across the tiles.
Cover.
I need cover.
One struck beside her—close enough she felt the air split.
She ducked, stumbled, palms skidding on stone.
Ahead—an archway. The mouth of a corridor leading into shadow.
She bolted for it.
Fire rained around her. Flames chased her across the stones.
She dove through the arch.
Spun back.
The courtyard was a storm of flame. The green circuitry in the walls pulsed faster, brighter—like a heart in panic.
Another arrow struck near the entrance, sparks raining across the threshold.
She flinched and stumbled inward. Stone and shadow swallowed her again.
And somewhere—deep in the castle—she heard something else.
Footsteps.
Corridors stretched in every direction. The walls exhaled slime and moss. There were no torches. No windows. Only the green glow pulsing behind the stone.
The floor trembled under her feet. A low hum rose through the rock.
The castle was moving.
Not shaking. Not falling.
Rebuilding.
A deep groan rolled through the walls, followed by the grind of stone on stone. One hallway folded inward, swallowing its own floor. Another twisted sideways, unfurling like reversed origami.
She turned to look for the archway she'd come through.
It was gone. The wall had sealed itself shut.
The maze shifted again.
At the end of the corridor, a door appeared.
She ran to it, feet slipping on damp stone.
Grabbed the handle.
Locked.
She tore the key from her neck and jammed it into the lock.
A spark leapt from the lock—green, sharp, electric.
She jerked her hand back.
Wrong door.
The walls kept moving. Stone grinding. Air vibrating.
A passage opened to her left.
She turned toward it—
—and froze.
A shadow moved at the end of the corridor. It had the shape of a knight—dark armor, helmet sealing its face from view. It was so black she could almost see through it. Pixels crawled across its surface, the edges glitching into the air as if it didn't quite exist.
It walked forward.
Each step made a hollow sound that rolled through the floor and echoed up her legs.
She looked up.
The maze had shifted again. Two levels above, a balcony unfolded from the wall—and another knight moved along it, stride matching the first.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
They were patrolling.
She stepped back, key clutched in her fist.
The walls flexed—sealing one passage, opening another.
The nearest knight turned its head. A smear of shadow trailed in its wake.
Then—without warning—it dropped straight through the floor.
Gone.
A heartbeat later, the floor above bulged. Stone rippled. The knight rose through it—whole again—black armor dripping liquid darkness that steamed away before it hit the ground. It kept walking, never losing stride.
The corridor where it had vanished—clear. All the way to the door.
Amelia didn't think.
She ran.
The corridors shifted around her—levels sliding past, geometry folding in on itself. Through the moving walls she caught flashes of other knights—silhouettes pacing invisible paths, footsteps hammering the same rhythm through different floors.
She reached the door. Jammed the key into the lock.
A green spark jumped.
Metal hissed under her fingers. The key snapped back.
Not this one either.
Does the key unlock any of these doors?
I've got to keep trying.
Her chest heaved.
To her right, the wall folded inward. A new passage opened.
She didn't hesitate.
She ran.
The floor shuddered with every step.
Ahead—another door.
She sprinted toward it, lungs burning—
The floor ahead moved.
Stone bulged, then shattered. A knight rose from it, steam pouring from the cracks in its armor.
It stepped forward.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Her heart stopped.
She spun, searching for cover.
The walls shifted. A crack opened to her right—no wider than her shoulders.
She slipped inside, pressing herself against cold stone. The air smelled of old water and rust.
Her chest brushed the wall with every breath. The stone bit into her ribs.
The footsteps kept coming.
Please walk past.
Through the gap—a shimmer where the air bent, light warping around the figure like a heat haze.
The closer it came, the colder the stone felt.
She clamped a hand over her mouth. Forced her breathing shallow—trembling sips of air.
Thunk.
The footsteps stopped.
The knight was right there.
She closed her eyes.
The air pulled—a terrible suction dragging at her skin, her hair, the breath in her lungs. It felt like being drawn toward a void. Every hair on her arms lifted, straining toward the gap. A low, thrumming static filled her ears—deafening, crushing.
Her feet throbbed. The cuts from the courtyard stone finally registered—sharp, wet, burning. Blood stuck her soles to the floor.
She didn't dare move.
Then—it carried on walking.
The air loosened. The cold retreated.
The footsteps moved away.
She opened her eyes and looked down the corridor.
The knight was gone.
She eased out of her hiding place and hurried down the corridor.
She reached the door. The key slid into the lock.
Click.
The door swung open.
She stumbled through.
A tower.
A spiral staircase climbed the wall, vanishing into shadow above. She looked up—it rose so high she couldn't see the top.
Behind her, the door slammed shut.
She spun. Tried the handle.
Locked.
The key was still in her hand—but when she pressed it to the lock, nothing happened.
No spark. No resistance.
Just silence.
Her stomach sank.
Up. The only way was up.
She hesitated, just for a second, then placed one hand on the wall and began to climb.
The stone was damp and cold beneath her fingers. Every few turns, a narrow slit window broke the wall—no glass, just the open mouth of the outside world.
Smoke poured through. The smell of ash and burning wood.
Far below, flashes of orange light—the courtyard still burning.
The air thinned as she climbed. Her knees trembled; the ache crawled up through her thighs. The spiral wound upward, each step heavier than the last.
The higher she climbed, the quieter it became.
The roar of the fire faded. The pulse in the walls grew fainter.
Until, finally, there was only silence.
And at the top—an archway.
She stepped through.
The room was large. Bare stone walls. Octagonal. Empty.
Eight arrow slits ringed the walls—tall, narrow, letting in no wind.
She approached the first window and looked out.
Below, the courtyard burned. The castle kept folding and unfolding—restless, eternal.
The second window: Firelight flickered across distant battlements. Arrows still burned along the outer wall.
The third—
She stopped.
Beyond the wall, beyond the smoke—an army.
Endless ranks filling the plains around the castle. The shimmer of heat distorted their outlines, but they were there. More than she could count.
A siege line stretching to the horizon.
She went to the fourth window. Then the fifth.
The same sight in every direction—countless people, surrounding the castle on all sides.
But something wasn't right.
No banners. No horses. No spears.
She leaned closer, squinting through the smoke.
They moved slowly. Tending fires. Huddled in clusters. Some of them were too small to be soldiers.
Children.
Her breath caught.
Window after window—the same scene. Old men. Women. Families.
Not attacking. Just… waiting.
She pressed her hand to the stone.
It was warm now—vibrating faintly, as though the tower could feel them too.
They weren't soldiers. They were the uncounted.
Eight million people. Written out of existence.
And now they were here. All of them. Surrounding the castle.
She stepped back from the window, chest tight.
What are they waiting for?
She turned to the eighth window.
At first, she saw nothing different. The same smoke. The same distant fires.
Then—a pinprick of light on the horizon.
Tiny. Barely there.
It grew.
A thin thread across the sky—widening, whitening, until the horizon vanished in its glare. The fires went out. One by one. The smoke turned pale. The faces of the uncounted lifted toward the light.
It kept growing.
Bleeding through the clouds. Not sunrise. Not anything she knew.
The walls around her faded. Edges blurring to transparency.
The green circuitry beneath the stone burned white, then vanished.
She closed her eyes.
But the light was still there behind her eyelids.
It filled the tower.
The courtyard.
The air.
Her body.
It washed through her—complete, consuming, absolute.
* * *
Amelia's eyes snapped open.
The ceiling.
White. No shadows.
Daylight.
Morning sun slanted through the gap in her curtains. She sat up, hand going to her chest.
The key—
Nothing there.
Just a dream. The courtyard, the castle, the tower—none of it real.
But the uncounted were real.
Eight million people. Erased. The world pretending they don't exist.
She stood and crossed to the window.
Outside, Sycamore Lane was waking up. A jogger passed by. A car pulled out of a driveway.
She thought about the Carthanite rebellion. The siege. The fortress. The emperor's army burning the city to the ground.
We're locked in a fortress. Just like Mahrucan and his men.
Prisoners.
And we've already lost the war.
We just don't know it yet.
She grabbed her mother's book from the shelf. Found the cipher near the back.
HELPMANN.
Her fingers traced the letters.
Today.
Today, I find out the truth.
She turned to her dresser and pulled out clothes. Jeans. A dark sweater. Nothing that would stand out.
Either starve inside the castle, or open the gate.
Mahrucan waited too long.
Amelia wasn't going to wait. Today, she was going to Uptown—to the Grand Central Library. To confront Richard Helpmann. She would find out what her parents died for.
She pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Grabbed her jacket.
The gate was opening.
And there would be no going back.
