Eugene crossed the bridge with the centaurs, the cool air of the cavern swirling around his legs in slow, lazy currents. The worn stone beneath his feet felt ancient, each step ringing faintly across the vast space. As they neared the other side, the details of their destination began to sharpen through the dim light. It was a bedroom—but not just any bedroom. A towering four-poster bed dominated the chamber, its frame crafted from what looked like living wood, twisted and curved into natural, flowing shapes. The posts rose like mighty trees, their branches entwining overhead to form a lush, arching canopy that dripped with hanging vines and pale, luminescent blossoms.

  Surrounding the bed were enormous bookshelves carved directly into the walls of stone, their surfaces smoothed and weathered by time. Most of the shelves stood barren, with only a few lonely volumes remaining, their spines faded and cracked, their titles barely legible. Dust coated everything in a thin, ghostly layer. Near the head of the bed, a statue caught Eugene's eye and held it. The figure depicted a woman of breathtaking beauty, standing tall and serene. She bore a striking resemblance to Utopianna, though the sculptor had elevated her features into something ethereal, something almost divine. There was a timeless quality to her face, a serenity that seemed to promise hope even here, deep underground.

  Eugene lingered, feeling the weight of the place settle on his shoulders. It was a shrine, a memory, a relic of a time long lost. As he absorbed the scene, Wobewt stepped closer, sniffing the air with a slow, deliberate motion.

  "You smell like him, like his bed," Wobewt said, his voice low and certain.

  "Like who?" Eugene asked, though deep down he already knew the answer.

  "Kwungus," Wobewt weplied with a slight nod. "You must be his fwiend."

  Overwhelmed once again by the strangeness and sadness of it all, Eugene ran a hand through his hair and gestured helplessly around them. "Can you just… start explaining? All of this. How you are here. How long you have been here. Everything."

  Wobewt gave a small, knowing smile and settled his weight comfortably on his hooves. "Kwungus cweated us. Like most of the beings in Syzzyzzy. He made us for company. He shaped us cawefully, with kindness."

  Another centaur, a young male with a silvery mane, stepped forward and added brightly, "We awe the fwiendliest ones, though. The othews say so too."

  Wobewt chuckled, a deep rumbling sound. "The pixies awe hawmless, but vewy annoying. Always playing twicks, causing mischief."

  He gestured broadly, encompassing the great bed, the towering shelves, the entire cavernous space. "On evewy level of Syzzyzzy, Kwungus built a bedwoom. A place to west. A place to wemembew. This was the fiwst one. His fiwst attempt at what he called 'constwuctive soccewy.' It is the foundation of evewything hewe. He built this place fwom the gwound up, cwrafting life whewe thewe had been only void."

  Eugene turned, taking in the room again, his perspective shifted by Wobewt's words. "How long ago?" he asked, his voice hushed.

  Wobewt shrugged, the gesture oddly human. "No one is exactly suwe. The eldews say we wewe cweated awound five millennia ago. Pewhaps longew. Time moves diffewently hewe sometimes."

  Eugene hesitated, his heart heavy with questions. "Did you know him?"

  Wobewt shook his head slowly. "No. Only fwom the stowies passed down fwom the eldews. And fwom the things we have wwitten and kept. By the time I was bown, Kwungus had aweady wetweated into Nevewendeh."

  He paused, looking toward a distant, unseen place. "None of us could open the doow to Nevewendeh. It was sealed, fowevew beyond ouw weach."

  Eugene felt a deep ache unfurl within him as he listened. The thought of Krungus—isolated, forgotten even by the beings he had created with his own hands—struck him harder than he could have imagined. He thought of the old wizard's stubbornness, his strange humor, his bitter pride. He thought of the loneliness that must have carved itself into Krungus's soul over the centuries.

  Slowly, Eugene turned back to the bed, to the empty shelves, to the silent statue of Utopianna. He found himself sympathizing more than ever with the man he called a friend, and a quiet, fierce resolve settled into his bones. He would not let Krungus be forgotten again.

  After a long silence, Eugene turned to Wobewt again. "How many of you live here?"

  Wobewt smiled and beckoned Eugene to follow. "Come see."

  He led Eugene to a narrow stone staircase tucked into the side of the cavern. It cut back and forth down the steep walls like a switchback trail on a mountain. The stairs looked ancient, their edges worn smooth, but they felt solid beneath Eugene's feet, unmoving and sure. They descended slowly, the vastness of the cavern opening around them, until Eugene could finally glimpse the living heart of the centaur village below.

  Right away, Eugene noticed several things. First, there were a lot of centaur children—small, energetic, and undeniably cute, darting between the larger centaurs with wild abandon. They laughed and played, filling the air with a lively energy that made Eugene smile despite himself.

  He also noticed the walls of the cavern, covered in murals and cave drawings. They depicted scenes of Krungus in various god-like poses, performing feats that seemed larger than life. Krungus was shown commanding rivers, raising mountains, and shaping the very earth with his hands. The centaurs had clearly remembered him not just as a creator, but as something close to a god.

  Among the murals, another motif stood out: stars. Starlike symbols surrounded Krungus in many of the images, and in others they floated alone, clusters of them forming their own patterns and artworks. The sight made Eugene pause, and for the first time, he thought to look up.

  Far above him, he noticed small, dim lights hanging high at the top of the massive cavern. They were not stars, not truly, but from this distance they resembled them—as if someone had hung tiny lanterns from the ceiling to mimic a night sky.

  As Eugene stared upward, the lantern hanging from his staff began to glow softly. One by one, the Jennies emerged, each of them blinking and glancing around in wonder. They had remained inside since descending into the cavern depths, but the murals and lights had drawn them out.

  Cozimia floated closest, her warm glow illuminating the murals. Enalia shimmered, her mosaic body refracting the faint cavern light into tiny rainbows across the floor. Hazel Fortuna lingered in the air, her attention pulled toward the star motifs woven into the walls.

  The centaurs nearby gasped and stumbled back in awe as the three Jennies made themselves visible.

  "I am Cozimia," Cozimia said with a gracious bow.

  "I am Enalia of the Threshold," sang Enalia, her voice musical and strange.

  "Hazel Fortuna," said Hazel with a wink.

  The centaurs stared, wide-eyed and whispering amongst themselves, completely overwhelmed by the sudden appearance of such radiant beings.

  Wobewt, still blinking at the sight of them, stepped forward and bowed deeply. "I am Wobewt. We awe honowed by youw pwesence. But… what awe you?" he asked, his voice full of awe and curiosity.

  Cozimia floated a little closer, her light pulsing warmly. "We are Jennies," she said gently. "Some people mistakenly call us genies. We are beings tied to potent concepts—Hospitality, Potential, Coincidence. We draw forth strength from the hopes and dreams of those we travel with, among other things."

  The centaurs whispered and stared at them with newfound wonder. It was clear they had never heard of such beings before.

  After a few moments of light conversation, where the Jennies answered simple questions about their nature and magic, Cozimia offered with a smile, "Would you and some of your young ones like to visit the Hearth Behind the Stars?"

  The name alone made the centaurs’ eyebrows lift in fascination and awe.

  Almost ignoring the invitation, Wobewt looked up at the ceiling and gestured toward the murals and the dim lights above. "What do you know about weal staws?" he asked, his voice filled with a childlike eagerness. "We dwaw them, we twy to undewstand them, but we have nevew seen them fwom hewe."

  Eugene blinked, a sudden realization dawning on him. The centaurs were obsessed with stars—much like Chiron in the old Greek myths he had studied back on Earth. He let out a small chuckle at the thought, marveling at how myths from one world seemed to echo into this new one he had stumbled into.

  He glanced up again at the tiny lights far above. Of course they had never seen real stars. They had lived their entire existence trapped inside this prison of stone and memory.

  Eugene's chuckle faded into a bittersweet sigh. He tightened his grip on his staff, feeling the familiar weight of the lantern swinging gently from it. Around him, the centaurs waited, their eyes wide and earnest, looking at him, the Jennies, and the false stars above with a yearning that gnawed at his chest.

  Cozimia, sensing the weight of the moment, floated a little higher. Her soft, comforting light spread outward, illuminating more of the cavern. She turned to Wobewt with a patient smile.

  "The real stars," Cozimia said, "shine in a sky without ceiling or wall. They are suns themselves, far away, older than we can know. They whisper across eternity."

  Wobewt listened, utterly rapt. The centaur children clustered closer, their small hooves tapping against the stone floor. Mowe centaurs emerged from the shadows, drawn by the glowing figures and the strange talk of a world beyond.

  Hazel Fortuna twirled slowly in the air, weaving little flickers of light between her fingers. "Staws are a wild dance," she said, weaving Wobewt’s accent into her words with a teasing smile. "A dance you can only twuwy undewstand when you have no ceiling at all."

  Enalia, shimmering with quiet gravity, added, "They are potent symbols. Far beyond what we can trace. They awe potential, stretching endlessly into the back."

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  Wobewt’s mouth opened slightly, stunned at the idea of a sky without end. He gazed up again, almost squinting, as if the dim lights above might suddenly part and reveal the real thing.

  "Have you... seen them?" Wobewt asked, his voice trembling slightly.

  "Yeah. I have," Eugene said.

  The centaurs’ heads snapped toward him. A hushed murmur ran through the crowd. Even some of the older centaurs—grizzled stallions and mares with braided manes—stepped forward, eyes shining.

  "You have walked... undew staws?" Wobewt asked.

  "I have," Eugene said. "Where I come from, the stars fill the sky every night."

  Wobewt looked almost ready to cry. "Will you tell us what it is like?"

  Eugene smiled sadly. He sat down on a smooth stone ledge, letting his staff lean against his shoulder. The Jennies floated nearby, silent and watchful. Around him, the centaurs gathered in a wide circle, sitting cross-legged or kneeling, their eyes reflecting the lantern light like distant mirrors.

  And so Eugene began to speak.

  He told them of cold nights under endless skies, of constellations scattered across the heavens like spilled jewels. He spoke of the feeling of lying back in a field and losing yourself in the vastness overhead, how the stars pulsed and shimmered as if they were breathing with the world. He described shooting stars, the northern lights, the strange hush that settled when you stared long enough and forgot you were small.

  The centaurs listened as if drinking water after a lifetime of thirst. Their young faces were full of wonder, and even the elders seemed to lean closer, absorbing every word.

  When Eugene finished, a long, awed silence followed.

  Then Wobewt, his voice thick with emotion, said, "Thank you. Fow shawing that with us. We dweamed... but we did not know."

  Cozimia floated forward again. "Maybe one day," she said, her voice soft as a lullaby, "you will see them for yourselves."

  The idea rippled through the gathered centaurs like a spark catching dried grass. Hope—real hope—began to glow in their faces, as if a new kind of star had been lit within their hearts.

  Wobewt wiped at his eyes and took a steadying breath. He exchanged a glance with one of the older centaurs nearby, a tall mare whose mane was braided with small beads and feathers. After a moment's silent agreement, Wobewt turned back to Eugene.

  "Come," he said, motioning with his hand. "Thewe is... something we want you to see."

  Eugene rose, dusting the seat of his pants, and fell in step beside Wobewt as the centaurs parted to let them through. The Jennies floated along close behind, curious and silent.

  They wove through the village, passing clusters of centaurs who whispered to one another, their faces bright with excitement. Eugene caught snippets of awe in their voices, mentions of "twue staws" and "the Fwiend of Kwungus."

  Wobewt led them toward the farthest wall of the cavern, where the murals grew denser and older. The air here felt heavier, more sacred somehow. At the base of the wall, half-hidden behind hanging vines, was a narrow, dark tunnel.

  "This way," Wobewt said, ducking his head slightly to fit through.

  Eugene followed, the rough stone brushing his shoulders. The tunnel soon opened into a smaller chamber—a hidden sanctuary.

  There, carved into the stone with painstaking care, was a massive, ancient mural. Unlike the others, this one showed not Krungus shaping the world, but Krungus standing beneath a true night sky. Above him, a perfect map of constellations stretched across the wall, each star etched in delicate, glittering inlays of crystal.

  Tiny lanterns hung at the edges of the chamber, their soft glow illuminating the scene with an almost holy light.

  Wobewt bowed his head. "This... this is ouw gwandest dwawing," he said. "It is ouw dweam. It is what the eldews say Kwungus pwomised us, once... that we wouwd see the weal sky. That we awe not meant to wive in caves fowevew."

  Eugene stared, a lump forming in his throat. The detail was staggering, the longing almost tangible. These centaurs, created inside a pocket world, had carried hope for a future they had never even glimpsed.

  Cozimia hovered closer to Eugene, whispering just for him. "Maybe one day," she repeated softly, "you can help them get there."

  Eugene said nothing, only nodded, staring up at the carved stars that had never yet shone for those who had made them.

  Wobewt stepped back from the mural, his hooves clinking lightly against the stone floor. The centaurs gathered at the mouth of the chamber, watching, their expressions solemn but full of hope.

  One of the elders, the tall mare with the feathered mane, came forward and bowed deeply to Eugene, then to each of the Jennies.

  "We awe having a ceremony tonight," she said, her voice slow and careful. "To honow ouw ancestows... and ouw dweams. We do it evewy season undew the fawse staws. It keeps ouw hope stwong."

  She lifted her head, her eyes shining. "Will you join us? You and youw companions? It wouwd mean... vewy much."

  Eugene blinked, momentarily overwhelmed. He glanced at Cozimia, who gave him a warm, encouraging nod. Enalia shimmered slightly, her body shedding soft refractions of color, and Hazel twirled lazily in the air, grinning.

  "We would be honored," Eugene said, and the words felt true in a way few things had since he arrived in this strange world.

  A low ripple of excitement passed through the centaurs. Wobewt beamed so brightly it made Eugene chuckle under his breath.

  "Then come," Wobewt said. "We must pwepawe!"

  The centaurs broke into motion, moving quickly but with purpose. Some began weaving long garlands from pale vines and strange, luminescent flowers that grew near the cavern walls. Others kindled more lanterns, their lights flickering and bobbing like small stars come to life. A group of children scampered to fetch smooth stones and soft furs, arranging them in intricate spirals around a central clearing where the ceremony would take place.

  Eugene stood back and watched, feeling like he had stumbled into something sacred. Something alive.

  Cozimia floated close beside him. "They honor hope," she said softly. "Even when they have never seen it."

  "And they still believe," Eugene murmured.

  Hazel chimed in, her tone lighter but no less sincere. "Hope is stubborn. It sticks around even when it has no reason to."

  Eugene smiled at that, and tightened his grip on his staff, feeling the steady, comforting weight of the lantern hanging from it.

  Tonight, under the false stars, they would celebrate a dream too big for their prison to contain.

  As night fell across the cavern, the ceremony began.

  The centaurs gathered in the wide clearing they had prepared, forming great concentric rings around the spirals of furs and lanterns. The tiny lights above, the murals, the glimmering crystals on the distant wall—all of it blurred into a dreamlike shimmer as the air filled with the scent of wildflowers and the soft hum of voices. Everything shimmered with a kind of sacred anticipation, as if the very stones of the cavern were holding their breath.

  First came the songs.

  The elders sang ancient lullabies, their voices rough but rich with feeling, the words winding through the cavern like tendrils of mist. Then the children joined in, their high, trembling voices weaving between the deeper tones like fresh shoots curling around old, weathered branches. Their harmony was fragile, imperfect, and somehow more beautiful for it. The songs were simple but profound, melodies full of longing and wonder, hope and sorrow, stitched together until Eugene felt the music burrow into his chest like a living thing, warming parts of him he had forgotten could be warm.

  Next came the dances.

  The young centaurs pranced and spun, trailing glowing vines in their hands, their hooves striking the stone in soft, rhythmic beats. They painted the air with their movements, creating arcs of light that hung and drifted and faded, like dreams too fragile to hold. Their laughter, light and unfettered, soared up to the false stars, echoing faintly.

  Older centaurs moved more slowly, with a measured grace, performing dances that mimicked the slow turn of planets, the sweep of comets across imagined skies. Some held hands as they circled, others moved alone but in time with the whole, a constellation made of bodies and trust. Their steps etched invisible patterns across the stone, rituals of hope passed down for generations.

  Between the songs and dances, some centaurs painted new stars on the cavern walls with luminous mineral dust, adding their hopes to the tapestry that already covered their home. Others carried small offerings—flowers, stones, tiny tokens of memory—and laid them at the foot of the largest mural of Krungus, a silent tribute to their creator and to the dreams he had planted in them.

  Eugene, seated near the edge with the Jennies floating close by, found himself blinking back tears. These beings, trapped for millennia in a cavern far from any real stars, had made their own sky. They had made their own universe. They had made hope an act of creation.

  Cozimia leaned her head against his shoulder without a word, her warmth radiating comfort. Hazel wiped her eyes discreetly with the corner of her sleeve, muttering something about dust but failing to hide her sniffles. Enalia shimmered quietly, her mosaic body pulsing with colors that shifted through the softest shades of blue and gold, a silent hymn to the moment.

  Then Wobewt approached the center of the gathering, carrying a small bundle wrapped in soft cloth cradled with both arms as if it were something sacred.

  He unwrapped it carefully, revealing a cracked, ancient stone. On it was carved a map—the same constellations from the hidden sanctuary, worn smooth by countless hands that had traced its lines in wonder and longing.

  Wobewt held it high.

  "This," he said, his voice steady but thick with feeling, "is ouw Pwomise Stone. It wawminds us that we awe meant fow mowe. That thewe is a sky beyond the ceiling. That ouw dweams awe not wasted."

  The centaurs all bowed their heads, their faces solemn but alight with faith.

  Eugene bowed too, feeling it was the only proper thing to do. It was not mere politeness—it was respect. It was kinship.

  The ceremony closed with a prayer—not to a god, but to the future. They prayed not for rescue, nor for reward. They prayed for the courage to keep hoping. To keep dreaming. To keep dancing, even in the dark. Their voices rose together, a fragile and mighty thing, a song strong enough to reach a sky they had never seen.

  As the final notes faded and the lanterns dimmed, Eugene realized that he loved them.

  He loved their stubbornness, their grace, their heartbreaking optimism.

  He loved how they made hope into a defiant art form, how they had refused to let the walls of their prison define the limits of their sky.

  And he swore to himself that night, under the false stars of Syzzyzzy, that somehow, someday, he would find a way to show them the real sky—and that when he did, they would dance beneath it, free at last.

  Later, when the last of the songs had faded into memory and the children had begun to doze beside the dying lanterns, Eugene found himself sitting on a low stone near the cavern wall. Wobewt sat beside him, their shoulders almost touching, both gazing up at the dim lights that hung from the unseen ceiling far above.

  For a while, neither spoke.

  The silence between them felt natural, easy—like sitting with a friend you did not need to fill the space with noise for.

  Finally, Wobewt broke the quiet. His voice was soft, almost hesitant.

  "Do you think," he asked, "the staws will wecognize us... if we evew see them?"

  Eugene smiled faintly, staring at the tiny lanterns that the centaurs had always mistaken for real stars.

  "I think," he said, "they have been waiting for you."

  Wobewt was quiet for a long time. His tail flicked lazily against the stone floor, a small, unconscious motion.

  "I used to dweam," he said, "that if I jumped high enough, I could touch them."

  Eugene chuckled under his breath. "I used to think that too. When I was little."

  Wobewt looked at him, a wide, earnest smile lighting up his face. "We awe not so diffewent, you and I."

  "No," Eugene agreed, feeling the truth of it settle into him. "Not so different at all."

  They sat together, watching the false stars, the air cool and heavy with the scent of the flowers the children had woven into their garlands. Eugene thought about all the places he had been, all the skies he had seen—and how none of it felt as sacred as this moment.

  "You will see them," Eugene said quietly. "Someday. The real stars."

  Wobewt nodded solemnly, as if accepting a solemn vow.

  And though the night was ending, and though the stars above were only small, flickering lanterns, Eugene knew in his heart that real hope had taken root here. Strong. Unshakable.

  Just like the centaurs who had never stopped dreaming.