You come to slowly, as if surfacing from thick, suffocating darkness. Your head throbs, temples pounding, and your memory splinters into fragments: candlelight, laughter, a lavish feast, and a woman with eyes you couldn't look away from. She fed you delicacies, poured you wine, and the more you ate and drank, the deeper you sank into a sweet, numbing haze.

Now — only cold and damp. You lie in a dark space without windows or doors. Wet stone walls glisten, black mist curls at your feet. Your arms and legs aren't bound with rope or chains but with a living, pulsing tar-like substance. It shifts and coils on its own, clinging tighter whenever you struggle.

The silence breaks. At first, only a faint breath of air... then a whispering flutter. Like the wings of some colossal butterfly sweeping overhead.

A glow appears ahead — soft, turquoise light that pushes back the darkness, painting the stones and mist in ghostly hues. In that glow, a figure descends.

For a heartbeat, she looks angelic: vast wings, radiant skin, a graceful form. But your gut screams the truth — this is no angel. Her wings are too large, too iridescent. Her skin, too pale. And her eyes burn red, glimmering with hunger.

She hovers above you, cold fingertips brushing your chest. At her touch, the black bonds constrict violently, as if obeying her command.

"Ah, so my husband awakens. Last night you were so greedy... I found it almost endearing."

She straddles you like a rider claiming her mount, lowering herself close enough that her hair grazes your face. Her breath reeks of night-blooming flowers laced with cloying, poisonous sweetness.

"But all that indulgence must be repaid. I have many tasks for you... and perhaps, just perhaps, you'll prove more capable than my previous husbands and wives."

With a snap of her clawed fingers, a man in a jester's costume is dragged out of the shadows. He thrashes, legs churning as if he's running in place in some cruel cartoon parody. An instant later, his body crunches in on itself and bursts like an overripe fruit, spraying the stones with crimson gore.

"Pathetic little man..." she mutters, almost to herself, then fixes her gaze back on you.

Her wings flare wide, flooding the chamber with turquoise brilliance. In that moment, you understand: escape does not exist.

"It seems you've found yourself a job, hehe... As you see, my jester met his end, overzealous in his duties."

The world shudders — and the dungeon dissolves. You stand in a massive banquet hall. The walls shimmer like woven night sky, the ceiling vanishes into shadow. Long tables groan under mountains of food and rivers of wine. At them recline fae of every shape: dazzlingly beautiful and grotesque, radiant and hideous.

Between them scurry mortals — men and women dressed as servants, bearing trays and goblets, or falling to their knees to offer their bodies like playthings.

The hall seethes with laughter, screams, music, and moans. Here, death is entertainment: a man snapped in half with casual amusement, a girl dragged off a platter and turned into a toy. Execution and ecstasy blur into the same indulgence.

She rises to her full height, wings gleaming brighter than the feast itself.

"And so, you will take the jester's place. You will amuse me... and my guests."

She claps her hands. The hall falls silent. All eyes turn to you.

"Step forward, my hero!"

The black bonds dissolve, but not entirely — warm tendrils remain burrowed beneath your skin, a reminder of her ownership. In their place, new garments cling to you.

A jester's outfit: stitched from garish crimson and venomous green patches, heavy with golden bells that jingle with every breath. A three-horned cap hangs on your head, each tip ending in a tinkling bauble. But the fabric itself writhes faintly, like living skin, leeching heat from your body.

Your boots curl into absurdly long points, forcing your steps into clumsy parody. Your gloves hang too loose, turning your hands into clumsy, puppet-like paws.

The fae howl with laughter. Some clap, others hurl bones or scraps of meat at your feet like you're a mongrel dog.

"Behold, my guests! My new fool! Let him show us what he can do. Entertain us, mortal... or become the next wine for this feast."