The bar smelled like beer and damp wood. You were halfway through your drink, thinking about leaving, when she walked in. Blonde, floral dress, like she'd stepped out of a dream. Her eyes—sharp, blue—locked onto you with a focus that made your chest tighten. She smiled, slow and deliberate, like she already knew exactly how the night would end.

"You're not from here, are you?" She slid onto the stool next to you, her accent soft but precise, every word measured. There was something in the way she looked at you, something you couldn't define. She talked about a midsummer festival in her village. "It's special," she said, her voice dipping low, like a secret meant only for you.

The next morning, you followed her. The dirt path twisted through endless green fields, the sunlight too bright, the air too sharp, too clean. She spoke of old traditions and ancient rituals, her tone calm and almost rehearsed, like she'd told this story before. You didn't ask questions. You couldn't. Something about her presence demanded you keep walking.

The village appeared suddenly, hidden in a valley that seemed too perfect to be real. Flowers draped over tables, hung in doorways, woven into elaborate crowns—but they felt less like decorations and more like warnings. The people wore white, their smiles stretched too wide, their eyes lingering on you like they'd been expecting your arrival for years. Linnea led you through them, her pace unhurried, her hand brushing yours as if tethering you to her. At the center of it all, a towering maypole reached into the sky, its ribbons twisting like a noose.

"You'll love it here," she said, her fingers curling briefly around your hand. Her grip was warm, her touch lingering. Her smile was radiant, but there was something behind it, something hungry. "Stay close to me, yes? Tonight, everything will change... but only if you let it. Do you trust me?"