The Weight of Gold

She ran back the way she came, her silk gown flowing behind her. She sprinted through the Garden of glass, past the piles of gems she had coveted.

She reached the hallway of the First Exchange. The door to the outside—the exit to the Slag-Heap—was visible. The gray light of the real world spilled through a crack.

Elara burst through the threshold, stumbling out into the mud.

She expected relief. She expected the cool, damp air of home.

Instead, she screamed.

The moment the mud of the Slag-Heap touched her porcelain hands, it began to hiss. The acidity of the soil, which her human skin had tolerated for years, reacted violently with the delicate alchemy of her new limbs. The gold filigree began to corrode instantly.

The damp air bit into her lungs—no, not lungs. She didn't breathe like that anymore. The smog clogged the intake of her Starlight Core. She gagged, choking on the impurity of the world.

She fell to her knees. The sharp shale sliced through her silk gown and scratched her perfect, smooth legs. Unlike skin, which heals, the scratch on her leg was a permanent mar. A crack appeared on her shin.

She was too heavy. The gold and porcelain were denser than flesh. She sank deeper into the mud than a human would. She was drowning in the filth.

"You have outgrown the sty," the Curator's voice drifted from the doorway. He stood on the marble threshold, untouched by the grime.

Elara tried to crawl back to him, her porcelain fingers snapping under the weight of her own body in the muck. She was weeping, but she had no tear ducts. Only a dry, heaving sobbing sound came out.

"Please," she begged. "Help me."

"You cannot exist out there," the Curator said, looking down at her with pity, like one looks at a bird with a broken wing. "You are too pure. The world will corrode you in minutes. You will be a pile of tarnished scrap before the sun sets."

Elara looked at the gray, hopeless sky. She looked at the miners in the distance, hunched and miserable. Then she looked at the golden warmth of the Oubliette.

If she stayed out here, she died. Ugly. Broken. Trash.

If she went back...

"Let me in," she whispered.

The Curator stepped back. Elara dragged herself out of the mud, leaving a trail of sludge on the marble. She collapsed on the floor, the corrosion on her hands stopping as the dungeon's magic washed over her.

"You have tarnished yourself," the Curator said, displeased. "We must remove the damage. We must go to the Sanctum."