Years ago, Threadbare and his friends had learned the secret of removing cores from dungeons.

These mysterious crystals, left to their own devices, created powerful pocket dimensions that grew into dungeons, places where enterprising creatures could set themselves up as immortal 'bosses,' and lure in adventurers and other optimistic victims with magical trinkets.

But with the right guidance and mindset, dungeons could be shaped. Dungeons could be turned to useful purposes.

Purposes such as building a laboratory for the most dangerous experiments and a school for training creatures who were born with a luck so low that they would be a hazard if released into the world too early. If something went really wrong here, it would be confined to the dungeon, instead of wreaking havoc on the world outside.

That was the theory, anyway.

And to be fair, it had worked pretty well for almost three years. Yes, there were problems, yes there was the occasional mishap, but nothing serious enough to warrant a threat to everyone inside the dungeon that was the Rumpus Room.

Until now.

“What's happening?” the Mousewife squeaked.

“Someone's replaced Reason,” Graves stood. “This wasn't on schedule, so it's an attack. Threadbare, do you have your adventuring gear with you?”

“No,” Threadbare said, as he hopped off the chair. “I packed away most of it years ago. Or passed it on to younger people who needed it more.”

“I'm mostly strapped too,” Graves said, as the central chamber twisted and reformed. The doors disappeared one by one, leaving behind blank patches of wall. The balconies rose into the ceiling, as the room lost its roundness, and developed corners. And liquid gurgled as the padded mats in the center sunk away, replaced by what appeared to be bubbling lava.

“Run! Hide!” The Mousewife screeched, and bolted for the nearest remaining door—

—Only to be caught by the petticoat and held fast as Threadbare used strength far out of proprotion to his frame to hold the larger golem back.

“That is the mouse part of you talking,” Threadbare kept his voice gentle and soothing. “Panic is a bad idea in a dungeon. Stay with us and keep us between yourself and all the threats. We'll take care of this.”

The Mousewife gulped, and edged to the side, putting Threadbare between her and the lava. “Sorry sir.”

“You're forgiven. Besides, this is scary,” Threadbare said, glancing back to the lava. “But if someone had truly wanted us dead, the entirety of the floor would be lava. We've still got this ring around the edge to... stand... on...”

A hole opened in the wall across from them, and a large clock emerged, ticking down seconds.

Bits of furniture and random objects, everything from telescopes to beanbag chairs to pillars of carved stone bobbed to the surface of the lava.

A single door opened up under the clock, and opened, revealing a pleasant looking lava-free hallway beyond.

And the lava burbled, as every part of the floor save for the small bit they were standing on shuddered, broke free, and sunk into the roiling molten stone.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“Someone's playing cheeky buggers,” Graves muttered, studying the clock. “I think the general idea is that we hop across the items in the lava until we get to the other side.”

“I could probably make it without too much trouble,” Threadbare said, searching among the items for the easiest path. “As long as that wardrobe didn't tilt when I landed on it... whoops no, it's burning and sinking now. Well maybe that mirror could... no, it's melting away.”

“Or I could do this,” Graves said, as he picked both of the little golems up. “Float.”

One slow, magical ride across the lava later, Graves deposited them on the floor of the hallway beyond. It went straight on for as far as the eye could see, lined with doors on either side.

“Strange that whoever did that deathtrap didn't have countermagic set up,” Threadbare mused. “I would have put a dispelling trap right in the center to stop what we just did. I'm almost disappointed that they didn't, I had a backup plan ready just in case.”

The Mousewife clutched him tightly. “Oh, don't talk that way, it was scary!”

“Whoever's doing this is rearranging things in a hurry, so they might not have been able to set up a perfect deathtrap this early on,” Graves mused. “Alternatively, they might not be able to. This dungeon doesn't have a lot of power to it. Dungeons feed off of the energy of the slain, and the magical items left in the core chamber. This one hasn't had much death, and we've been careful to limit items in the treasure slots. It's quite possible that our unknown enemy doesn't have the power to set up traps that can dispel magic.”

“Or that they're saving their power for something more lethal later on,” Threadbare pointed out. “But just in case it's the time thing let's get a move on. We need to save everyone and either get out or kick whoever's in the core chamber out.”

“How are you so calm about this?” the Mousewife whispered. “We could die here!”

Threadbare nodded. “That is true. And I am a little afraid. But the juveniles could die here if we don't save them. So I have to do that, and it's more important than being afraid.”

“Oh. Oh! Oh no. They could die, couldn't they? Oh dear, that won't do at all,” the Mousewife said. She quickly tucked her skirts into her bloomers. “Let's go save them.”

The hallways stretched on, lit by glowing stones in the ceiling, and the first few doors they opened revealed small and simple rooms full of furniture. But the furniture was off in bizarre ways. Chairs the size of beds sat next to tables that a cat couldn't perch on. Fireplaces in the ceiling dropped soot to floors that had pictures attached to them. Some rooms were simply full of beds, mattresses smooshed together and frames tangled and linked together like a magician's ring trick.

But there was no sign of anyone among the objects.

“These look like the standard quarters,” Graves muttered. “Our foe is repurposing them, or just shuffled them off here in the same place to get them out of the way for something else on the map.”

“I think I see a sign at the end,” Threadbare pointed.

“The end of the hallway? You can see it?” the Mousewife squeaked.

“Yes. The stones stop before the hall does, and there's a sign there in the darkness that says I.H.O.M. There's writing below that but it's too small to read from here. Graves, does that mean anything to you?”

The mage shook his head. “Nothing, sorry. It could be a fragment of one of the other signs we had about.”

Midway through the hall, two of the doors opened to cross corridors. The one to the left was hot and steamy and gave off thumping sounds. The one to the right descended into darkness, concrete walls giving way to carved stone as it went.

But the sign still intrigued Threadbare. “I think we have time to go and read it,” he decided. “It could be a clue of some sort.”

“Before we do, it occurs to me we might get split up, here,” Graves decided. “Want to form the party, or shall I?”

“I've got it,” Threadbare said. “Form Party. Invite Graves. Invite Mousewife.”

Herbert Graves has joined your party!

Karen Mousewife has joined your party!

The three of them headed further along the hall, past the last glowstone light and into the edge of the darkness.

“Stop!” said Threadbare, not half a minute later. “Oh dear.”

“Oh dear?” Graves asked, squinting to see in the dim light.

“There's things moving behind us!” The Mousewife squeaked, pointing back the way they'd come. “The beds and chairs and thingies are coming out of the rooms!”

Of course they were.

Because now that Threadbare could read the sign, the words on it made a sort of grim sense.

I.H.O.M

And below it in smaller letters:

International Hall of Mimics.