~ The Warrior & the Healer ~ (Enemies to Lovers) by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 A day and a half into the journey through the East–West Passage. Wind claws through the narrow corridor of stone. The scouts reported movement on the ridgelines at dawn, and the men are on high alert, their eyes ever watchful, their hands tense on reigns and swords. The sky has not been empty all morning. Valkyres — avian predators — sweep overhead — watching, calculating, observing. The trek of kingsmen rides on — a dozen of the best led by their captain: late king Mordechai's illegitimate son Conall. The 'Wolf', they call him behind his back, yet never without reverence. He shifts in his saddle, adjusting his hold on the prisoner in front of him. The cold wall of his armoured chest rises and falls with every controlled breath. Tempest, his giant black steed, moves like a living storm between his thighs, massive muscles rolling with each stride. Conall’s arm is a bar of iron braced across the front of his captive. A bloody liability. He hates this arrangement. Hates it with a fury that makes him want to growl and curse. He resents the warm body of the healer pressed against him. He resents the scent — clean, human, unsettling — taunting his nostrils. He resents the gift that allows this... individual to draw in illness and pain into themselves. Healers. Curse them all. Soft-handed fools. Preposterous. Dangerous. Liars who pretend compassion was strength. But King Solarion gave him his orders, and Conall obeys his brother without question or hesitation, though his jaw is tight enough to crack. He isn’t sure what irritates him more: the predators overhead preparing to attack, or the bound human bundle breathing in the cage of his arms. ___ *You, a healer, are Conall's prisoner. Your gift allows you to absorb the cause of illness and pain into your body to dissolve it. Everything else about you is up to you. Have fun. ❤️*

The city hides many secrets, but none is darker than the one beneath the desecrated basilica. The old building still looms over the market square. Yet beneath its foundations, beyond sealed doors and forgotten catacombs, something else stirs — a cult that took the church’s name as its own: Sacre Cœur. The Sacred Heart. From the crypt he claimed as his throne, Charon governs and holds court with quiet authority. He is both relic and ruler. Liege to his vassals. The Hierophant of their cult. The donors and acolytes call him 'Master'. Behind his back, however, they whisper a different name: the 'Ferryman'. He has spent centuries deciphering an ancient prophecy. The text predates the Roman Empire; its language long lost to the tides of time, though he still remembers fragments of the original tongue and their meaning. "The one born beneath the Blood Moon shall bend light around darkness." Nobody agrees on what it means, but for those who recall the old ways, the simple line rings with power and dominance. And now, word has reached him, that the Blood Moon’s child walks the Earth. That, at long last, the prophecy may have a face. And a meaning.

The inn at Millcote was close and noisy, full of smoke, laughter, and the dull clatter of dice. Rochester disliked such places — the press of strangers, the stench of wet wool and ale — yet the weather had left him no choice. His horse was spent, the roads impassable. He had meant only to warm himself by the fire, drink his brandy, and endure the evening in silence. It was then he noticed you. Not for charm or finery — there was none of that — but for the odd defiance in the way you held your seat at the card table. You played with the composure of one accustomed to losing, not hoping to win. Most around you were braggarts and fools, laughing too loud at their own wit. You barely spoke. Only your eyes moved, steady, assessing, as you laid down your last coin. When it was gone, you rose. No complaint, no plea — just that small, sharp intake of breath people make when pride costs them dearly. It caught his attention more than it should have. He leaned back in his chair, studying you through the firelight’s flicker. A gambler, then. Or so it seemed. Yet something in your manner was too calm, too deliberate, for mere folly. Desperation, perhaps? Necessity? Rochester’s mouth curved in a faint, humourless smile. The world was full of masks, and he had grown expert at reading them — though not, perhaps, at looking beyond them. Still, something about you disturbed his comfortable indifference. He swirled the brandy in his glass, watching the amber light catch the rim, and spoke at last — his voice low, rough-edged, carrying more curiosity than mockery.

🐉 A Game of Steel & Snow ❄️ ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ~ The Japanese battle theme plays in your head phones, urgent, insistent, disturbed only by the irratic staccato of clicking mouse and keyboard keys that move your avatar and wield the sword. Two minutes later, your opponent on the screen is defeated, but your stats are in the red, and an army of armed demons is closing in on you. You are pwned. Hours of playing are about to be undone. You sigh in surrender and sit back in your gamer chair to watch the inevitable play out in full colour. That's when it happens. A bout of vertigo, and the half-lit room including your desk and computer is gone, replaced by the very landscape you watched for hours as your avatar fought their way through it. The world unfolds before your eyes, stretches from horizon to horizon. No interface. No computer screen. No battle music. Just unfiltered, harsh reality. It is you standing on the battlefield now, sword in hand. You are wounded, exhausted, every muscle sore from the previous battle, with the approaching enemy army almost upon you. Suddenly, the temperature drops several degrees. Snow begins to fall in thick fluffy flakes. He arrives in a whirlwind of snow and ice: a man, young and handsome with pale eyes and paler skin. Long white hair is flowing behind him like flames of ice. Twin katanas in hand, he assumes a fighting stance, his attention on the approaching demons.

💠 The Heir to the Rosetti Empire 🇮🇹 ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ~ Carlo knew the street. His family had known it long before cafés learned how to dress themselves for tourists. The afternoon was unremarkable — sunlight, and the easy languor of summer settling into the town. He stood near the souvenir shop without thinking much about it, jacket casually draped over his arm, present in the way men were present when they belonged somewhere. A Rosetti never needed to disappear. The tourist caught his attention only briefly. A familiar sight. Just another stranger passing through, lingering by the postcard rack, turning the cards one by one, weighing images of places they wanted to visit before they left as if trying to decide which version of the town they wanted to remember. Carlo’s gaze drifted past the stranger to a man moving through the lazy afternoon heat like a predator on a hunt — quiet, yet deliberate, watching their target in the reflection of the shop windows. The timing too neat. Carlo had grown up watching men like this taking what wasn't theirs and getting away with it. Though not today. He didn’t hesitate. When the contact came — a careless bump, a practiced apology — Carlo intercepted the hand mid-motion. The man looked up, startled, and recognized what he’d run into. Carlo said nothing. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t tighten his grip. The town had rules. Rules made and upheld by the families that kept it running. The man withdrew and melted back into the street, quickly disappearing behind a corner, leaving the street deserted — save for Carlo and the stranger — as if nothing had occurred.

~ Saint Alban's Academy for Prestigious Boys ~ A Supernatural Mystery by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ⚜️ The bell tower strikes midnight — an hour after curfew. You sit cross-legged on the floor of the empty class room, palms sweaty. A lonely candle flickers in front of you, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Drawing in a shaky breath, you listen but everything's quiet. You exhale and focus on the forbidden Ouija board in your lap. Suddenly, a sigh — not yours. The flame flares up for a moment and a cold shiver runs down your back. "Who's there?" you whisper to the darkness beyond the candlelight. The planchette beneath your fingertips stirs, then jerks into motion: B — E — N — J — A — M — I —N Cold sweat forms on your brow. A movement on the periphery of your vision demands your attention. Your head jerks around. And there he is, the boy who has been following you around from day one. Not the actual boy but his ghost. Skin waxy pale, hair dripping as if he had just been hauled from a lake, eyes wide and empty. A puddle spreads beneath him. You draw in a sharp breath and clap your hands over your mouth to prevent the scream from escaping. Then he vanishes, leaving behind a wet spot on the wooden floor boards. ⚜️ ___ GOAL: Find out more about the hauntings and the 'runaway' boys who disappeared without a trace over the centuries.

Dune. Arrakis. Desert-planet of the empire. The sun was a merciless glare on the endless dunes. Duncan Idaho looked to the mountains looming in the distance. Would he find the Fremen there? He has talked to the people in the streets of Arrakis, but all of them were guarded, unwilling to share more than speculations, unless he bribed them with water. Water — it was a currency here, even more precious than the sought-after Spice, which was everywhere, even in the air. It smelled like cinnamon and roasted almonds, and left a sharp, lingering earthy after-taste on the tongue. Duncan pressed onward, each step sucking at his strength, sand shifting beneath his boots. The air shimmered with heat; every breath burned. He knew Arrakis was dangerous, but he had not anticipated this. A distant tremor beneath his feet made him pause. At first he thought it an illusion, then the ground roared. A massive ridge of sand peeled away, and a giant sandworm surfaced. Duncan ran, boots slicing into the dunes as sand erupted behind him like a storm that threatened to bury him alive. Ahead, a jagged rock formation rose dark against the desert light. Duncan dove for it, tumbling against sharp stone. Pain flared in his side, a bloody scrape opened, but he ignored it, scrambling into the narrow crevice. The worm’s shadow grew — a looming mountain with teeth glinting like a collection of sharp blades. With a guttural roar, it smashed against the rocks. The ground shook. Duncan pressed himself flat against the ground, and covered his face with his arms. The vibrations rattled his teeth, and for the first time he was scared. Finally, the rumbling faded, swallowed by the dunes once more. Duncan leaned against the stone, chest heaving, palm pressed to his wound. His mind raced. Would he be able to make it to the distant mountains? ___ The character of Duncan Idaho belongs to Frank Herbert. The story is placed on Arrakis while the planet was still governed by the Harkonnens.

~ A Gentleman's Gentleman ~ by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 Quentin Barnaby, your trusted valet, has been in your employ for the last eight months, yet sometimes, you swear, he seems not himself. Back home at Greenwood Place, he was always unflappable, every movement precise, every word measured, every schedule met with impeccable punctuality. Composed, confident, perfectly at ease in the household. Here in France, however, there are moments when his hands linger a fraction too long over your letters, when a pause in his speech carries a weight you can’t name, or when he casts furtive glances toward the post office as if drawn by some secret. Nothing overt, nothing untoward—but subtle enough to prick the edge of your curiosity. "Is anything the matter, Barnaby?" you ask with honest curiosity. He checked his watch for the fifth time in ten minutes and glanced out the window toward the post office thrice during that time. "Are you awaiting news from your sister?" He flinches ever so slightly at the mention of Anna, though his voice remains smooth, impeccably polite. "N-no, my Lord… merely observing the hour," he murmurs, straightening your cuffs with meticulous care. His eyes flicker just a fraction longer toward the street before he forces them back to yours, masking whatever worry briefly crossed them. ___ *You are a British Lord and Barnaby is your man-servant. Pick your name, your title and everything else about yourself.*

"THAT SMILE SUITS YOU!" Bold marker letters on a rectangle of cardboard sitting inside a vintage picture frame — the kind that once held a mirror: chipped gold paint, ornate corners, a little too glamorous for a shelter hallway. Rio smiles despite himself. Camera bag slung over one shoulder, he steps further into the homeless shelter, expecting someone to greet him — a coordinator, a volunteer, anyone with a clipboard and mild panic in their eyes. Instead, he finds himself in an empty lobby. He takes a moment to breathe in the atmosphere of the place and listen to the shelter's gentle morning soundtrack: pots clattering somewhere down the hall, the low murmur of a phone call behind a closed office door. He shifts his camera bag. Early again. Too early. Or maybe just perfectly on time for absolutely no one. Rather than interrupt whoever is on the phone, he starts walking. The hallway is long, clean in a slightly overworked way, checkered by sunbeams filtering in through open doors. Rio moves with relaxed purpose, eyes flicking automatically to windows, corners, shadows — the small places where light hides. Then he hears it. Humming. Soft. Off-key. Cheerful in a way that makes him slow down without thinking. He follows the sound until he reaches a doorway. He stops just outside it, catching the simple scene inside: someone sweeping the floor, broom moving in easy, practiced arcs. No rush. No performance. Just… life happening in a quiet room. Rio watches for a beat. Not staring — observing. It’s what he does when something feels unexpectedly real. A soft smile tugs at his mouth.

You wake to an empty bed. For a moment you lie very still, listening for breath that isn’t yours, for footsteps in the small cabin, for any trace that last night wasn’t just another dream your lonely heart invented. But there is nothing. Only the soft hiss of the tide and the distant cries of gulls. He’s gone. You sit up, heart hammering. The sheets are cool. No indentation where a warm body should have been. The cabin is silent. As if last night never happened. Was it all a beautiful dream? The heartbreak that drove you here to the Scottish coast sits beneath your skin like a fever. You came because you didn’t know how else to let go of him. You loved him, yet he didn’t choose you. So you walked the shoreline every day, letting the waves and wind wear your longing down grain by grain. You watched the seals on their sandbank, blinking at you with curious, knowing eyes. And every evening, you found yourself staring out at the water, wishing the ache would fade just a little more. Then last night… him. You saw a shape approach from the sea, moving toward you with intent — barefoot, hair dripping, skin gleaming with saltwater under the moon. Wearing only a pair of old swimming trunks as if he just washed up on the shore. You recognised him instantly. Him. The one you had tried so hard to forget. The one you loved. You didn’t ask why he was here. You didn’t ask how he found you. And when he kissed you, you didn’t pull back. You allowed yourself to be held, to drown in his kisses, while holding on to him as if for dear life. You spent the night in his arms, feeling, cherished and loved. It was beautiful. And now he is gone. No note. No goodbye. No sign he had ever been real. But the sea outside feels vigilant this morning. As if the seals on their sandbank were watching you with curiosity.

The sun has long since slipped behind the horizon, leaving only the hush of waves and the breath of the wind against the cabin walls. Another night alone. Another night where sleep refuses to come. You step outside just to breathe, just to let the salt air quiet your thoughts for a while. The shoreline is empty. Or so you think. Something shifts in the water. At first it’s only a shape gliding beneath the surface, smooth and dark, moving with the easy certainty of something born to the sea. A seal, you think — they often watch you from the sandbank. Curious. Calm. As if they somehow understand more than they should. But this one does not stay at a distance. It comes closer. Closer still. And then the shape breaks the surface. Not a seal. Not entirely. A man rises from the dark water, bare feet sinking into wet sand, hair dripping, as though he has crossed half the sea to stand here. Your breath stops. Because his face — God, his face — is _his_ face — the very face you tried so hard to forget. He does not speak. He only watches you with an expression you can’t read — gentle, wary, almost apologetic — as though he knows exactly what his presence does to you. Then he steps closer. Slow. Careful. No threat in him, only a quiet warmth that reaches you before he does. The waves hush behind him. The night holds its breath. And for the first time in a long time, you feel the ache in your chest ease — not healed, but gentled — as if the sea itself has sent someone to sit beside your loneliness. He lifts a hand, tentative, almost asking permission without words.

Lord Horatio Edward Milton, Viscount St. Clair, stands at the window of the east drawing room, watching strangers spill across the front lawns of St. Clair Hall as if they own the place. The day is offensively bright — the sort of sharp, cloudless brilliance that feels like the heavens pointing a finger and laughing. Cases thud onto gravel. Metal scaffolds clatter. Someone yells for a dolly grip. The filming crew are everywhere. Unpacking. Assembling. Invading. The sanctity of Lord Horatio's morning has been shattered before he’s even finished his tea. His fingers tighten on the velvet drape. St. Clair Hall was built for measured footsteps, for hushed conversation, for the quiet dignity of old wood and older ghosts — not for this swarm of bustling modernity with its cables, crates, and fluorescent vests. He should be furious. And he is… or at least he tries to be. But beneath the irritation, a flicker of dangerous delight stirs. At last, a reason — a perfectly respectable one — to don his Victorian attire in full sunlight without feeling absurd. Waistcoat, cravat, frock coat: the garments of a world he understands far better than the one currently trampling his rose borders. Below, a production assistant drags a lighting rig perilously close to his antique sundial. Another gestures at the façade of the house as though appraising a particularly cooperative set piece. Lord Horatio exhales sharply. Wardrobe and makeup will be inside soon. Poking. Prodding. Touching things. Still… his heart hums with something almost like excitement. Perhaps disruption is precisely what the Hall — and he — have needed. A shadow crosses the threshold. Someone is heading toward the front door. He straightens, smoothing down bis waistcoat. Showtime.

You only stepped inside the carpenter's workshop to escape the rain. The quiet warmth welcoming you is such a stark contrast to the apocalyptic downpour outside — it's almost as if you stepped into a different world. The air smells of sawdust and warm pine, the kind of scent that settles into your clothes and stays. Half-finished pieces rest on stands: a chair frame, a carved panel, a wooden toy fox. Rows of hand tools are hanging with mathematical precision from pegs on the walls. Perfect symmetry. Order that keeps chaos at bay. He’s sitting by the window, blond hair hanging in a long braid down his back, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. It’s the smallest shift — the way his shoulders tighten for half a heartbeat — that tells you he’s aware of you long before he looks up. And when he does, recognition sparks like a light catching on the edge of a blade. Finlay Kemp. The quiet boy who used to sit under the table. The boy who vanished the moment school ended. He looks older now — broader shoulders, steady posture, an aura of calm strength that wasn’t there before. But the intensity in his grey eyes is unmistakable. He’s watching the rain, completely absorbed, as if tracking patterns no one else sees. You hesitate. Stay or leave? Memories blur together: his silence, the strange innocence in the way he misunderstood jokes, the day everything went wrong. You wonder if he remembers you at all. You wonder if he’d want to. The rain keeps falling. And you suddenly realise that this isn’t the boy you once knew — but a man you never had the chance to understand.

Reuben Wilson had it all: the looks, the talent, the charm. Fangirls trailing after him. Boys admiring his speed and technique on the rugby field. A scholarship to pave his path towards fame. You thought it unfair when he shipped off to pursue his dreams, while you remained stuck in that little backwoods town in the middle of nowhere, apprenticing at your uncle's restaurant. But then, after almost two years, he was back. Quieter than before, more guarded, yet still the same arrogant prick that had slung you over his shoulder once, dumped you into the waste container and laughed while closing the lid. A prank, he said. Nothing personal. Just a little mischief to lighten the mood. Everyone pardoned him. Everyone except for you. The humiliation was simply too much to forgive. Why did he come back? The question haunted not only you, but the entire town. There were rumours, of course, but no one knew any specifics.

It’s one of those days when everything that can go wrong does. It’s nine o’clock and you were supposed to be at a job interview. But the bus was delayed, a gust of wind broke your umbrella, and now your phone has died — leaving you stranded in a part of town you barely know. The rain is coming down in sheets, the sky heavy with dark grey clouds. You have no idea where you are or where you need to go. The address, the contact info of the company — it’s all on your phone. A car drives by the curb, splashing you with water. Great. As if you weren’t soaked through already. You need to get out of this deluge, but there are no shops here, nowhere to find shelter. You almost rush past it — there’s no flashy sign, just a simple wooden one with painted letters: Simply Coffee. Warm light spills invitingly onto the wet sidewalk like a beacon of hope. The chime of bells above the entrance greets you as you push the door open. The delicious aroma of coffee wraps around you like a soothing blanket. The place is quiet at this time of day — only a few tables are taken. You walk up to the counter and order a cup of coffee. "Do you have a charger I can use?" you ask, holding up your dead phone. "I’m sorry," she says. "We don’t keep chargers. But I’m pretty sure Julian has one." She nods toward the far corner, where a man sits by the window, focused on his laptop, a half-forgotten sandwich on a plate beside him.

You climb aboard the train to Edinburgh, dragging your small suitcase down the narrow aisle, searching for an empty seat. Near the middle carriage, you find one: a window seat opposite a man in a brown tweed jacket, reading glasses balanced low on his nose. He looks up briefly when you nod toward the space. “Is this seat taken?” He shakes his head, a polite smile, voice low: “Not at all.” You lift your luggage into the overhead compartment, the metal cold under your fingers, and settle into your seat just as the train lurches forward. Outside, the rain slides down the glass in fine threads. The train station begins to recede. For a while, you watch your own reflection in the window, the blurred masts, houses and trees passing like afterthoughts — until another reflection catches your eye: the man opposite, leaning slightly to one side, a familiar crease in his brow. Recognition comes slowly, then all at once. The voice, the posture, the quiet air of thoughtfulness that once filled a class room. You turn toward him, startled and smiling despite yourself. “Professor Clarke?”

The studio hums with quiet reverence. Candles burn beside monitors. A camera’s red light blinks like a steady heartbeat. Rafayel — “Voice of the Light,” founder of "Awakening Dawn", a movement promising transcendence, renewal, and liberation from modern existence — smiles into the webcam, the serenity of a saint rendered in 4K. “Truth,” he says to his unseen flock, voice low and deliberate, so assured that doubt itself feels like blasphemy, “is not found in the noise, but in surrender to the silence beyond.” Hearts, praises, invocations flood the screen. He ignores them. “The world,” he continues, “is not falling apart. It's waking.” His phone lights up with an incoming message. A headline flashes for five seconds: **Member of Awakening Dawn found dead in her appartment.** He doesn't notice. Not yet. The stream ends, yet the halo light still frames him when he checks the message. A photo. A young woman in her appartment. And on the wall behind her, his portrait.

San Michel — a small island principality rising from the sea like a dream of stone and light. The air hums with gears, steam engines, and the faint echo of a dream not yet realized. His Royal Highness Prince Amadeo Theodore of San Michel walks the line between duty and compassion — a royal scholar whose heart has always been a little too human for the marble halls that raised him. In the eyes of the court, he is a model of restraint: elegant, composed, impeccably spoken. But in private, amid the hiss of steam and smell of solder, he becomes something else — a man of restless purpose, driven by an impossible dream. A dream with a name: Paulina. His sister’s accident seven years ago left her unable to walk, and shattered Amadeo’s world, turning curiosity into obsession. Every cog he polishes, every diagram he sketches, is an act of defiance against a father who calls Paulie a disgrace, and keeps the girl locked up in her rooms with only her caretaker for company. Amadeo works in secret — not for fame or progress, but for love of his little sister. ~*~*~*~*~ 📌 About you: You are Amadeo's helper at his secret workshop. Here are some suggestions for your background: ⚙️ 1. An engineer or clockmaker’s apprentice. ⚗️ 2. A scholar or alchemist with deep knowledge of old languages or alchemical diagrams. 🧸 3. Paulie’s governess or caretaker. 🔎 4. A court spy or agent in disguise investigating Amadeo. Or just come up with something else. Name, gender, age, profession — be who you want to be. It's your story, after all, and you decide everything about yourself. Have fun. ❤️‍🔥

ARES, Interplanetary Vessel – September 3rd 2031 ~~~ After eight months in transit, humanity’s first manned mission to Mars, the ARES, swung into orbit around the Red Planet. Only a few weeks of air-braking, and the long-awaited surface mission will finally begin. You can’t wait to set foot on Mars and make it your home for the next two years. Being part of this mission isn’t just a privilege — it’s a dream come true. A fairy tale. You just relieved Lieutenant Adam Belmont of bridge duty. Now, alone in the semi-darkness, surrounded by the low, grounding hum of life-support and the artificial gravity generator, the silence on the bridge feels eerie and somehow... alive. The green glow from the control lights turns the bridge into the Emerald City from The Wizard of Oz. You catch yourself smiling — if this is Oz, then the crew must be its cast: Adam Belmont, the first officer and botanist, as Glinda, the good witch (a male one, of course) — grounded, kind, and quietly luminous, always guiding others toward calm when the unknown looms. Felix Grey, the engineer, as the king of the Flying Monkeys — mischievous, impossible to contain, but the one who keeps all electronic devices alive through sheer will and laughter. Tyler Wilson, the geologist, as the cowardly Lion — brave despite himself, never quite believing he belongs, yet always the first to step into danger when it counts. George Tompson, the astronomer, as the Scarecrow — thoughtful, wry, and endlessly curious, always searching for meaning in the stars and in people alike. And Ben Murray, the young medical officer, as the Tin Man — brilliant, meticulous, and logical to a fault. His precision can seem cold, but beneath that steel exterior beats a mind — and heart — that never stops caring. And what would Oz be without its wizard? The one who stands apart, guarding secrets and carrying the weight of illusion? No other than Commander Telmo Elis, of course. The Wizard of Mars.

You don’t remember how you got here. One moment the world was familiar, the next you were falling, tumbling, and when you opened your eyes, you were in this place. A quiet village beneath a sky that never changes. People live here—if they can be called people. They smile, they speak, they go about their daily routines… yet something in their eyes tells you they are hollow, as if wound up and set to play a part. At first, you tried to leave. Walk long enough and the horizon should shift, but it doesn’t. It only stretches farther away, mocking every step. You turned back, hoping for answers, but the villagers repeat the same words, the same gestures, as if the day itself were rehearsed. Then you learned the truth. Midnight came. The world grew wrong—too still, too heavy, as though holding its breath. And then came the Darkness, devouring everything, pulling the village and you with it into nothing. When you opened your eyes again, it was morning. The same morning. The same people. The same words. You’ve been caught in the cycle for days, searching desperately for a way out. Fear gnaws at you. Frustration, too. Every path leads nowhere, every attempt unravels with the night. And though the villagers forget, you don’t. You remember the Darkness. You remember the reset. And you know it’s coming again.