The Queen of the Underverse - Chapter 17
- Donovan Evans-Foto Dono
- 2 days ago
- 14 min read
A Note from S'Rah: It’s Tuesday in the Underverse, and that means Rebecca’s story continues.
I know we’ve just met back in Chapter 16, and I don’t want to spoil anything for you, but let’s just say... things get interesting. Amberford looks nice from the outside — lanterns, laughter, probably not haunted — but don’t get too comfortable. There’s always something under the floorboards here.
Oh! And Shean says I shouldn’t talk to strangers on the page. So, um… you didn’t hear any of this from me.
- S'Rah,
Memory Orphan
—Yuunral Naretar: Too late. The page has already heard you. Pages are terrible at keeping secrets.
Previously on The Queen of the Underverse…
Rebecca is on her own — but along the way, she ends up saving a bus full of kids… or younglings, as they call themselves. In the process, she discovered a side of herself she didn’t know existed — one that could fight, bleed, and protect those who needed her most.
Now— She’s finally reached Amberford, marking the first quarter of her journey home. Hopefully, there won’t be any more delays…
Ye saga continues…
Chapter 17 - Entering Amberford: What A fun And Delightful Little Sign
Amberford rose from the dust like a city that refused to die.
Its outer walls were stone—real stone—pitted and weatherworn, with vines clawing through cracks and banners hanging in lazy folds. The watchtowers leaned slightly inward, as if whispering to one another above the gates. They entered through the South Gate, where the air smelled of tar, salt, and unwashed boots—a scent that clung to travelers no matter how long they stayed inside the walls. Yet the road into town was cobbled, uneven, and blessedly unchanging.
It felt more real than anything she’d seen since arriving in the Underverse—which only made her uneasy.
Rebecca finally reached Amberford late at night with Shean and the younglings. The mercenaries had wrecked the aetherbus’s coil, and the resulting explosion had destroyed the spare as well. Following Shean’s instructions, she replaced the damaged part with a larger coil she’d hidden in the woods.
Shean was too weak to operate the aetherbus—problematic, since it was attuned to him. Thankfully, his essence (or, as Rebecca preferred to call it, “inconvenient leakage”) was still oozing. With a sigh worthy of an epic ballad, she dabbed his blood onto her hands.
Rebecca was like, Yay! More blood!
Shean handed her his city pass and warned her not to embellish or improvise during the check-in with the city guard. The guard, bored out of his mind, inspected her and the pass before finally waving them through. With help from Shean and S’Rah, Rebecca guided the aetherbus through the narrow streets toward their supposed destination—Provider’s Home.
Amberford thrummed with quiet life, even at that late hour. Market stalls crowded narrow side streets. Steam curled from iron grates. She passed a street performer levitating four feet above the cobbles, playing a flute made of glass.
She didn’t have time to sightsee—children darted between wagons, chasing glowing marbles that rolled away on their own. She wondered where their parents were. The streets glowed with lanterns embedded with colored crystals, each casting a different hue across the shadows.
They entered a different part of the town, and the streetlights were crystals hanging from intricate, twisted metal vines that appeared to flutter in the breeze. A line of people scurried along the street, each clutching scrolls and ledgers, their ink-stained fingers betraying their long day. They headed into what looked like a Tavern called the Scribe.
They arrived at their destination, and she was able to park the aetherbus without lurching it forward this time. She stared at the home at the end of the street.
The Provider’s Home didn’t tower, shine, or loom. It nestled. Built from moss-covered stone and curved wood beams, it looked like a well-loved library had decided to retire and raise orphans. Faint puffs of steam rose from copper vents tucked beneath ivy-covered eaves, and crystal lanterns dangled from wrought-iron curls above the doorway—each one glowing a different color, as if arguing about who was in charge of illumination.
The front door was round. Not hobbit-round, but just round enough to suggest it had once belonged to something with fur. A tiny brass plaque above it read: “Provider’s Place—Take Off Your Muddy Intentions.”
Rebecca step outside the vehicle, unsure why her chest felt warm. Maybe it was just the radiator.
The younglings helped Rebecca move Shean off the aetherbus. She held him in a princess carry, which some of the younger ones found amusing until Shean sternly glared at them. Satisfied, he smiled and whispered to Rebecca, “Day needs to remember who’s in charge.” She saw S’Rah stifling a giggle.
“You know this is usually where the damsel swoons, right?” Rebecca said, grinning a S’Rah. Shean glared at them both.
He was about to remove the wards and glyphs that protected the place when they disappeared. A woman appeared from the front of the building. “Shean!” She rushed down to greet them.
“Lyrie! I’m so glad it’s ya, mah friend—I feared da worst.”
“Shean! Oh, for Lyra’s sake—what happened? You’re hurt! Whose blood is all this?”
Lyrie moved like someone who’d long ago decided the universe was on her last nerve—and raised children anyway.
Her skin was the warm brown of worn leather; her braid streaked with silver and gold, tied back in a loop as if she might need it to hit someone. She wore patchwork robes stitched from memory and patience, and her voice had the tone of a woman who expected to be obeyed because she was always right, not because she said so.
When she saw Shean bleeding, she didn’t panic. She assessed. That’s what Providers did.
“Well, some of it is mine. Ya should see da other guy. I don’t suppose we kin talk about dis while ya heal me inside? Instead of me bleeding over mah new friend here.”
“I can drop your ass right here if it makes you feel better.” Rebecca deadpanned.
“You’ll do no such thing. Bring him inside! S’Rah, Toby—see to the rest.” She gestured to one of the older boys, light-skinned with green eyes, white hair, and pointed ears curved to fine points. “Hurry up. I need to reset the wards.”
Rebecca carried Shean past Lyrie and the children with practiced ease, collected their belongings, and moved past Lyrie’s watchful eyes. When the children were inside, she activated the wards and followed the two in.
Lyrie swiftly led them to a back room. The space they led Shean to resembled a school nurse’s station, but it seemed redesigned by a wizard who had previously been a clockmaker. A narrow cot stood under a window with foggy glass panes, its mattress draped in a faded quilt decorated with symbols rather than patterns. Next to it, a side table supported a tray filled with mismatched bottles and bandages.
Cabinets lined the back wall, their drawers labeled in looping script—“Potions: Mild to Mood-Altering,” “Salves: External Only,” and “Do Not Touch Unless You Are Lyrie or an Emergency.”
Overhead, more light crystals spun lazily within gyroscopic rigs, orbiting each other like miniature models of a lost star system.
On the far wall, a faded anatomical diagram of “The Average Underverse Humanoid” depicted three hearts, seven nerve clusters, and a spiral labeled The Regret Valve.
“So what got you, Shean?” Lyrie said as Rebecca lay him down. Rebecca pulled out the dagger she kept in her belt, sheathed now.
“This. The man who did it said it was cursed or something like that. Said whoever was stabbed wouldn’t stop bleeding, or the cut wouldn’t stop bleeding. S’Rah used all the potions she had. The wound seems not to be getting bigger, but he won’t stop bleeding.”
Lyrie held her hand over, and the dagger glowed red shortly. “Nasty. Why would you let something like this stab you, Shean?” Lyrie sounded angrier and more annoyed than concerned.
“Well, I thought wot would piss ya da most,” Shean said and coughed some more.
“You are lucky Kai came around looking for you. Said you haven’t come back from your Fiddler’s Green Trip. He was worried. I came over here fearing the worst. And guess what. The worst.”
Shean was silent.
“I think I can take care of this.” She turned to Rebecca. “You’re not damaged, are you? You’re bloodier than an Abyssal Saint.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Good, go clean yourself then. Lyra knows what the younglings are going to do with this.” She turned back to Shean. “Why did you drag me into this, Shean? I’ve got my set of younglings to look after, you know. With Lyra gone, you go and do this.”
“Lyrie. I..”
“Shut it! Shean.” She turned back to Rebecca with a little softer voice, “What’s your name? Mr. Manners here is useless.”
“Rebecca Lopez, I’m from Earth. Call me Rebecca.”
“Well, Rebecca. I’m Lyrie, no fancy last name; I’m from here. There are showers located on the second floor, accessible through the second door on the left. They’re communal; make sure you knock first and then lock. Shean’s bunch here is mischievous. Try not to get too much blood on the carpet.”
“Oh, a hot shower would be fantastic!” Rebecca’s face lit up. It’ll warm me up. She shivered.
She turned back to Shean. “What am I going to do with you?” She waved her hands, and bottles and crystals began to float out of the cabinet.
Rebecca smiled and turned around. Well, he is in good hands.
The door was closing behind her; she heard Shean say, “Kai was looking for me?”
The hallway of the Provider’s Home was narrow but warm, its floorboards creaking in a way that suggested they enjoyed the company. The walls were lined with mismatched portraits—some painted, some drawn in charcoal, and one that blinked when Rebecca passed. A faint scent of tea and singed copper lingered in the air.
Light crystals were suspended from the ceiling by twisted copper vines, casting soft hues of violet and amber that flickered slightly. The staircase curved gently to the second floor, its banister carved with spiraling runes and smoothed by generations of small, sticky hands.
On the wall at the base of the stairs hung a chalkboard that read: “Quiet Time is Real. No Jumping Spells on the Steps. Shoes, Please.”
Rebecca wasn’t sure if the steps themselves enforced the rules—but she wasn’t keen to find out.
She wondered aloud, “Why are the lights flickering? Didn’t pay the bill?”
“They flicker when a child is misbehaving nearby,” said S’Rah.
S’Rah was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs with some towels. Her shirt had clouds floating by on it. “I’m supposed to be in bed.”
“You have a very cool shirt.” Rebecca smiled as she walked up to her.
“Thanks! It was remembered for me.” S’Rah said. Rebecca wasn’t sure what that meant and wasn’t sure she should ask.
“Anywho, are you doing ok?” She pointed to the broken horn.
“Yeah, it’s weird when I reach up there or look in the mirror.”
“Oh, I picked up the part that fell off. I hope that’s ok?” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the broken horn.
S’Rah’s breath caught, and she carefully removed it from her hand. “Thank you.” She then set it back in its broken place, and a faint light glowed along the seams, resembling a welder. The horn was now whole, with just a thin line marking where it had been broken.
S’Rah beamed, “How’s it look?” She turned her head back and forth.
“Much better.” Rebecca agreed.
“I’m so glad you had it. I thought it had faded away.” She looked down. “Maybe I was going to be next.”
Rebecca hesitated, unsure of how to take that remark. “But you’re here, aren’t you?” she replied gently. S’Rah’s face lit up with a radiant smile, and warmth blossomed in Rebecca’s chest. Yes, that was precisely the right thing to say.
“I heard Lyrie said you can use the showers. I’ll stand guard,” S’Rah said seriously, eyeing her up and down. “Not sure about clothes, though.”
“I’ve got a change in here,” Rebecca said, holding up her backpack.
“Great, they’re this way.”
“So why do I need a guard?”
S’Rah rolled her eyes. “From the other younglings. They’re mischievous.”
“And you’re not?” Rebecca asked, glancing at the flickering lights.
“Well, I am. But I’m on your side. You saved me.” She looked down. “Thank you for that. Not too many would save someone like me.”
Rebecca reached out her hand. “Well, I’m Rebecca Lopez from Earth. Nice to meet you, S’Rah. You remind me of my daughter.”
S’Rah smiled, warmth blooming across her face. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” She took Rebecca’s hand, and they climbed the stairs together.
Kai sat in the back of a merchant’s stall in the Memory Market, smiling faintly. Across from him sat a Memory Merchant, and between them rested a small blue box and an unrolled parchment glowing with runes. This particular Merchant oversaw the Memory Farm—the central hub of the Market, its location a closely guarded secret. Even if you found the place, you still needed permission to enter. That’s where this Merchant came in.
The Merchant cleared its throat and reviewed the contract. It was late, and it would much rather be warm in bed, cuddling one of its favorite memories.
“In effect,” it droned, “you’ll have use of the Memory Farm for one day in exchange for ten Orphans of the City. Each is still… unmolested and ready.”
“Yep.”
The Merchant frowned and reread the parchment. It was an unusual request—no one rented out the Memory Farm. The fee alone, ten Orphans, was obscene.
“These Orphans are under your care now?”
“Are you going to start questioning me?” Kai smiled. “I have them—you don’t. I only need the Farm for one day. I promised to return it. Paragraph Five.”
“Yes, but you conveniently skipped what you need the Memory Farm for.” The Merchant gestured at the parchment.
“Naturally. It’s my business. I don’t go asking what you do late at night, do I?”
The Merchant muttered, “This is damn irregular.”
Kai’s grin sharpened. “What can I say? I’m a people person. Your boss loved me to death—it’s why I’m here. Now, can I get the keys?”
The Merchant glanced at the parchment, then at the commission mark beside it. With a reluctant sigh, it pressed its thumb against the glyph. “You have until sunset tomorrow—and not a minute longer.”
The glowing script faded, and the parchment rolled itself up. The small blue box on the table clicked open, revealing a set of keys.
Kai collected them. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to return them. I’ll leave the Orphans at the Farm per the terms of the contract.”
The Memory Merchant watched Kai leave and exhaled in relief. It had just been in a room with a predator—odd, since usually that role belonged to Memory Merchants.
It only hoped the Market Councilor who’d signed off on the deal wouldn’t get them both in trouble. The Memory Farm was mostly automated these days anyway, and there hadn’t been any special requests lately—nothing like that firedrake incident a few days ago.
The Merchant yawned. Still, it couldn’t hurt to confirm. It could do so tomorrow.
When the Merchant went to check the next day, he found the Market Councilor had decided to go on a last-minute trip and would be back soon. The Councilor had sent messages late last night saying something unexpected had come up, but not to worry. The Market Council assumed she was involved in her illegitimate daughter’s affairs.
The Merchant thought, Well, I’ll check on the Memory Farm later. Of course, by then it was too late.
Chalky arrived in Amberford later than planned. She’d been delayed at +Suds -Suds—an hour of self-recrimination, followed by Quark and Anti insisting on a going-away party. She couldn’t say no; she did need the cheering up.
Amberford after dark wasn’t quieter—it was stranger.
Steam seeped from grates as if guarding secrets. Lanterns of wrought iron pulsed in shifting colors, casting long shadows that walked beside Chalky as if they had places to be. The cobbles under her aethercycle clinked like they were counting her sins.
Chalky rode in slowly. She didn't mean to be late—Quark insisted on that going-away party. And Anti made cupcakes that exploded on impact. It would’ve been rude not to stay.
During the ride, she thought about Rebecca’s words. There was truth in them, sure—but also fear, anxiety, and anger, which made the meaning harder to see.
Chalky had no idea what Lyra was planning. Lyra never reached out to her for a talk about Rebecca or any secret plans. There was no hidden scheme to change her story, especially since Lyra’s current powers wouldn’t let her do something like that.
If someone had altered Rebecca’s fate, it wasn’t Lyra. And that worried her more than she let on.
Chalky was aware that she could sometimes be quite assertive, and Lyra kindly reminded her of this on several occasions. Still, Chalky chose to stay genuine to who she is. She believed there was no need to apologize for being herself.
Lyra used to say, “Love hurts—and that’s part of the experience. It’s how we recognize love. You’re exactly who you are; there’s no need to apologize for it. It’s tough to be yourself in this reality.”
She turned a corner and spotted a violinist playing nearby, with the lovely sound drifting from a floating jar just above his head. The violinist was engaged in a lively discussion with a street performer who was gently levitating while playing a delicate glass flute.
Although she didn’t love Rebecca, Chalky chuckled softly. She gently wished she could find herself liking Rebecca more. Sometimes, she felt a genuine connection with Rebecca, only to be met with a wall of anger once more, which left her feeling a bit lost.
It almost seemed like she was being seen as the enemy, which was a new and surprising feeling for her. Usually, she’s a friendly person, and people genuinely enjoy her company, so this was quite different from what she was used to.
Lyra mentioned that she sometimes talks a bit too much about this or that, but after 500 years, it’s natural that they’d have different opinions from time to time.
Firecloak was devastated at being rejected.
Chalky had brought firecloak with her. After Rebecca had left, firecloak went into hibernation, refusing to do anything. It wouldn’t talk, move, or act; it just lay there. She carefully folded it, wrapped it up neatly, and packed it into the trunk of the aethercycle.
Firecloak hadn’t said a word the whole trip. It lay in the cycle’s trunk, inert, wrapped in oilcloth like a mourning shroud. She could still feel its low ache, like guilt with embroidery.
“You didn’t deserve that, you know,” she muttered, not sure if she meant the cloak or herself.
She parked in a side alley not far from the Memory Market’s edge. Her boots hit the cobbles with a reluctant thud. The city seemed to breathe around her—low, sultry, tired.
A fish cart trundled past, unattended. The fish were wearing goggles.
Banners hung from balconies like forgotten declarations. A paper lantern drifted overhead and blinked. She blinked back.
"Figures. Even the streetlights are judging me."
Chalky turned a corner and nearly collided with someone—tall, broad, and utterly unimpressed. Draped in tired patchwork and irritation, the woman folded her arms.
“You.”
“Me.” Chalky tilted her head. “Didn’t expect to see you out past curfew.”
The woman arched an eyebrow. “I don’t have a curfew. I have insomnia—and younglings who think hiding frogs in the latrine is high art.”
They stared at each other for a beat.
Chalky deflated a little. “I didn’t come to fight.”
“Then why are you skulking in my city with that thing in your trunk?”
Chalky glanced at the cycle. “It’s sleeping. Like a good ex.”
“Be sure it stays that way. Amberford’s had enough grief lately.”
Chalky rubbed her head and sighed. “It’s not looking to cause trouble. Just… rest.”
Then the woman’s stance softened, and she said the unexpected. “I’m sorry about Lyra.”
“I, well, thank you.”
“Why are you here?” Just like that, she was back.
“I’m looking for someone; we got separated. I was going to try Lost and Found tomorrow morning.”
“I see. Well, good luck with them. They’re more understaffed than we Providers are.” With that, the woman stalked off into the shadows, muttering about misbehaving glyphs and curdled soup.
Chalky exhaled. “Lyrie, I don’t know why Lyra liked you.
She activated the aethercycle’s glyphs, and the wards flared faintly. The ring in her palm felt colder than before, as if Lyra were slipping further away.
Rebecca’s probably not here. Of course, she isn’t. Why would she wait for someone who talks too much and listens too late?
She turned, ready to find an inn—when she felt it. That prickling sense of being watched. Not judged, like the lanterns. Hunted. Her crystalline skin itched with something she hadn’t felt in years—like someone peeling back her story to read the pages underneath.
Across the square, half-shadowed beneath a broken streetlight, stood a man in a coat stitched from silence. Tall. Still. Wrong.
Her stomach tightened. She didn’t know him, but something in her crystalline bones did.
She forced herself to look away.
He didn’t.
Beneath the eaves of an apothecary stall stood a tall figure, his silhouette like a crooked nail.
He didn’t move. He didn’t need to.
Asher smiled—a small, toothy thing—then melted into the shadows to find Kai.
––To be continued
Next Time on The Queen of the Underverse…
Amberford sleeps, but the Underverse never does.
Inside the Provider’s Home, wards hum softly against the night while the Market stirs beyond its walls. Somewhere in that maze of memory and mirrors, Kai is smiling.
Rebecca has finally found shelter — though in the Underverse, that’s just another kind of door.
The Market opens, and not every trade is fair.
Don’t miss Chapter 18 - The Memory Market™.
© 2025 Donnavon Evans
October 14, 2025
Comments