I entered a room much like the ones before, except this one held a tree in the center. I noticed immediately that there were no doorways. How was I supposed to move forward with no way out? I knew there had to be something, but nothing obvious revealed itself.

  I examined the walls. There was nothing unusual—no seams, no raised edges, nothing that stood apart.

  I moved to the tree. Its bark was bare of markings, and its branches carried clusters of pink blossoms that looked perfectly ordinary.

  Returning to the wall, I pressed against the stone, searching for a hidden mechanism or a loose block. A faint vibration tingled across my palm, and I let out a small squeak—not a very manly sound, but it caught me off guard.

  I had the same experience at each wall, always at the exact same spot. Clearly, something had to be done there—but what?

  The only other feature in the room was the tree. I ran my hands over its trunk. Nothing. I even checked the blossoms, brushing them with my fingertips, but still nothing happened.

  So, I plucked one for a closer look. To my shock, the color drained away before my eyes—the soft pink fading into a lifeless grey until the blossom disintegrated, leaving only dust that slipped through my now pink-stained fingers.

  What?

  I plucked two more blossoms until my whole hand was tinted, then walked over to the wall. Pressing my palm against the spot that had tingled before, I held my breath. Pink swirls spread from my hand but abruptly stopped.

  I needed more pink. I repeated the process a few times and a pattern of swirls began to look like a doorway but only the picture of a doorway.

  Not that easy… Story of my life.

  I repeated the process on another wall, and the result was the same. With a deep sigh, I turned to the final wall.

  This time, the swirls spread wider, and I caught myself holding my breath. Slowly, they crept into place until at last a doorway formed— not a picture like the others, but a real doorway.

  Thank goodness

  The System sure liked to use long corridors to connect the rooms, and it felt like they were becoming longer and longer.

  I finally arrived at the second room.

  I looked the same but for two differences. The tree had shades of blue blossoms on it and there was writing on the wall.

  Sky at dawn, the faintest hue,

  Noon light deep, but not the last.

  Dusk’s dark veil will follow true

  Step by step, the path is cast.

  I read the words once, then again. Without the earlier rooms, they would have meant nothing—but with that reference, I could piece it together. The colors had to be used in sequence: light blue first, then medium, then dark.

  I plucked a light blue blossom. Just like the pink one earlier, its color bled into my skin, staining my hand. I waited for the transfer to settle, then pressed my palm against the wall. Blue seeped into the stone, spreading outward in curling swirls. Next came the medium blue, then the dark. The colors twisted together, shaping what looked like a doorway—but it was hollow, nothing beyond. No real passage.

  I moved to the next wall and repeated the sequence. This time, the swirls locked into place, and a true doorway opened.

  Here we go again.

  I walked down the new passageway. Once again, it stretched longer than seemed possible, and I wondered if it was just my imagination. Impatience crept in, and for the first time I doubted whether I could finish this quest in a single day.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Claire would start to worry if I didn’t contact her. I frowned. I had assumed the Comm Crystal wouldn’t work while I was inside the quest—but I had to be sure.

  I pulled it out.

  “Call Claire.”

  Nothing. No “out of bounds” message, no flicker of light. Just silence.

  Assumption confirmed.

  I walked until I reached a room, and it held a tree, with three colors of blossoms. Pink, blue and yellow. There was also a small fountain next to the tree. Another clue was printed on the wall.

  Three lights will bloom when colors meet:

  One turns to leaves — its time’s not yet.

  One fades to grey, no blossoms keep.

  The flame of orange is where to step.

  And should your hands the wrong path cast,

  The water flows — it clears the past.

  I stood there for a while, reading and chewing on a snack.

  Thinking is hard work.

  The meaning was clear enough: I had to combine blossoms to create a new color. Three mixes were possible, but only orange was correct. The others I could simply wash away with the water nearby.

  I thought back to art class. Blue and red would give me green—and the rhyme had already warned me that “leaves” were the wrong path. I plucked the blossoms anyway, let the stain creep across my fingers, and then rinsed them clean before the temptation to try it could take hold.

  Blue and yellow would make green’s dull cousin- grey. Another failure foretold. Again, I washed the color away.

  That left the last pairing. Red and yellow. The blossoms bled into my skin, and my palms glowed with a deep, fiery orange. At last. This was the flame the rhyme had promised.

  Only then did I press my hands to the wall. The swirls flared to life, bright and alive, curling together into the shape of a doorway.

  Orange was the key.

  I walked through the doorway, and once again the magnificence of the scene before me stole my breath.

  A wide, circular courtyard stretched out, bathed in golden light. At its center stood a great tree, its branches full and alive, glowing almost as if the sun itself had chosen it as a throne. Behind it, a vast orb of golden light hung in the sky—too large, too close to be anything but unnatural—filling the space with a warm, otherworldly radiance.

  The courtyard was ringed by high stone arches, perfectly symmetrical, their dark mouths opening into shadow. From each arch spilled a waterfall, sheets of clear water pouring endlessly into the turquoise channels that circled the grounds. The air was thick with the sound of cascading water, a constant rhythm, steady and unrelenting.

  A stone walkway led straight from where I stood to the tree, splitting the flowing channels neatly, guiding me forward whether I wanted to move or not.

  It was beautiful.

  The previous room was dead and cold, but this one was filled with life and warmth. I walked to the tree. My eyes were drawn to the back wall. There were writing on it.

  One bucket waits upon the height,

  Make use of it, and do it right.

  Fill at the fall, then to the tree,

  Pluck a leaf — the test shall be.

  If black it turns, cast out the flow,

  Beside the road, let false streams go.

  If clear it stays, the roots may drink,

  Then start anew as you must think.

  But if one stream you use again,

  A chime will sound to mark the end.

  If black on root or spilled away,

  The chime will toll, the price to pay.

  Each fault adds one more round to bear,

  Begin again with patient care.

  Until done true, the task is long,

  One slip, one toll — the count grows strong

  I sighed deeply. The task was tedious, but not impossible. It only required a clear head—and a lot of walking. Still, it could be done.

  I climbed the stairs and found the bucket exactly where the instructions said it would be. Turning to the right, I walked all the way to the end, beginning at the very first waterfall.

  I filled the bucket, then hesitated. It would be far too easy to lose track of where I had been, especially once I started moving away from the end.

  So I took off my shirt and laid it by the second waterfall as a marker. I needed a pattern, a routine, to keep myself from getting confused.

  The plan was simple: fill the bucket, move the shirt forward to the next fall, walk down, test. Then either feed the water to the tree or discard it in the stream.

  I carried the first bucket down the steps and plucked a leaf. The water stayed clear. That was good—this was the water I needed. I poured it carefully at the base of the tree, and the ground drank it in as if the roots had been waiting for it.

  Then back up the stairs again.

  Fill the bucket. Move the shirt. Down again.

  The next test turned the water black. Useless. I carried it to the path that led out of the room and dumped it into the stream, where it was quickly swept away.

  Rinse and repeat.

  I kept my focus, pausing only long enough to drink some water, and at last the task was finished. I was exhausted—but it was done.

  Where the writing had been, a doorway now shimmered into existence.

  All those trips up and down the stairs had given me plenty of time to think. A pattern was emerging. The first room had felt like winter, and the one I had just completed was clearly spring. If I was right, then summer was waiting for me next.

  Hey everyone! ??

  If you’ve been enjoying the story so far, I’d really appreciate it if you could leave a quick ? rating or review. It only takes a second, but it helps a lot with visibility and reaching new readers.

  first Royal Road chapter of each pair. The second one won’t have pictures. If you want to see all the art together (or earlier), it’s on Patreon with the combined chapters!