No treasure chest. No glowing reward core. No magical door to the next floor.
Not even a congratulatory "You tried."
Just suffering. Cold. And more cold layered on top of the first cold, sprinkled with seasonal depression, garnished with pain and emotional instability.
And then—Lady Seraphine's nightly story sessions.
Gods above, gods below. If the spiders didn't kill me, the plot twists nearly did.
Every night—after campfires were lit, wounds stitched, elven warriors traumatized, Coffi done crying about snowflakes touching her hair, and someone (usually Henry) downed enough brewed coffee to threaten divine visitation—Lady Seraphine would sit by the flames with the serenity of a bard who feared nothing and said:
"Okay. Chapter three. TWILIGHT. Buckle up, medieval people."
And we did.
Against our will.
Under duress.
Under threat of Chubby's moral judgment.
Night One
The topic: TWILIGHT and the Vampires that sparkle.
Not burn. Not combust. Not turn to ash.
