Day 1

  The Rat King sets off on a journey to explore the world. During his travels, he becomes lost in a strange, ancient forest. The deeper he ventures, the more the trees seem to close in around him—tall, dark, and dense, their branches overlapping to blot out the sky. The air is heavy with silence. No birds sing, no leaves rustle. The quiet is not peaceful but unnatural, oppressive. It feels as though the forest is watching him, twisting around his path, leading him nowhere. His sense of direction fades, and time becomes difficult to track. What once felt like a day begins to stretch endlessly.

  For what might have been days, he wanders, his supplies dwindling, his strength fading. Every step grows harder, and the forest offers no sign of escape—just the same gnarled trees and shadowed undergrowth, repeating endlessly like a maze.

  Then, just as he feels his legs might give out beneath him, the trees suddenly open.

  He stumbles into a clearing bathed in golden sunlight. The contrast is so stark it takes him a moment to believe it's real. The air here is warm, fragrant, and alive. Flowers bloom in every direction—bright, untamed bursts of color spilling over winding garden paths. Towering rose bushes twist skyward beside vines drooping with strange, sweet-smelling blossoms. Fruit trees stand scattered throughout, their branches heavy, their leaves shimmering faintly in the light. Though wild and sprawling, the garden has an unmistakable care to it, as if someone has nurtured it for a very long time—even if it no longer fully obeys order.

  At the heart of the clearing stands a large mansion. Its stone walls are aged and weathered, with thick vines climbing up the sides and curling along its edges. Though plainly old, it holds a quiet, enduring beauty—serene and still, as though untouched by time.

  A winding path, barely visible through the thick foliage, leads from the edge of the clearing to the mansion’s doors. The Rat King, dazed and weak, follows it.

  The Rat King steps up to the mansion’s entrance. The doors are tall and aged, their wood worn from years of weather but still solid. Vines twist and curl around the frame, climbing the stone as though they’ve been growing undisturbed for decades. The mansion, though clearly old, holds a quiet elegance—its form rising from the clearing with a proud, weathered beauty.

  He pauses before touching the handle. Somewhere behind the mansion, the soft sound of flowing water drifts through the air—steady, quiet, and distant. It’s the only sound he registers, unobtrusive against the stillness.

  After days in the forest—wandering, starving, barely clinging to strength—this place feels strange. The garden, vast and overgrown, pulses with vibrant color. The mansion, aged but intact, stands like a relic from another world. It’s beautiful.

  He studies the door a moment longer. He’s survived too many ambushes, traps, and uncanny encounters not to feel a touch of caution. Who lives here? Why here? What kind of person tends a garden like this in a place so remote and hostile?

  But there’s no fear in him—only a steady wariness and a deep, sharpening curiosity.

  With a steady and powerful hand, The Rat King grasps the handle. The door creaks open, and he steps inside.

  The air is cool and fresh, carrying the faintest scent of flowers and old wood. Light filters in from tall windows, spilling across polished stone floors. The entrance hall is vast and quiet, its high ceiling arching above a grand staircase that splits in two directions as it rises to the second floor.

  To his left, wide doorways open toward what looks like a dining room, beyond which a large kitchen glows with warm tones. To the right, a pair of tall wooden doors hint at another chamber—a study or perhaps a library. Behind the staircase, a hallway stretches into the rear of the mansion, lined with doors.

  Though he’s dazed and worn thin, The Rat King registers the space’s calm, almost serene atmosphere—neither abandoned nor lifeless, but still and quiet. Then, a scent reaches him—rich and mouthwatering, drifting from the kitchen. It hits him all at once: warm, savory, overwhelming. His stomach clenches, and his body lurches forward without thought, driven by hunger alone.

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  He moves unsteadily toward the source, passing beneath a wide archway that leads from the main hall into the dining room. The room is long and elegant, with a heavy wooden table stretching the length of it and tall windows spilling soft light across polished floors. At the far end, another open arch leads into the kitchen.

  He steps through.

  The kitchen is wide and warmly lit, with hanging copper pots, stone counters, and open shelving stacked with jars and herbs. A cast-iron stove glows faintly at the back of the room, radiating heat. And in front of it, standing with her back to him, is a young woman.

  She turns at the sound of his footsteps.

  She is striking—not in a loud or obvious way, but like something painted in delicate strokes. Her hair is a soft, pale purple, the color of lilac petals at dusk. It falls in gentle waves past her shoulders, catching the golden light with a faint shimmer. Her eyes are a muted violet, cool and quiet beneath long dark lashes. She wears a flowing dress in faded lavender tones, simple yet graceful, its fabric brushing the floor as she moves.

  There’s a stillness to her presence, composed and elegant, like a figure from a dream. She doesn’t smile, but she seems welcoming nonetheless—radiating a soft, unspoken kindness.

  For a moment, they only look at each other.

  She doesn’t seem startled by his presence—just quietly watchful, taking him in with calm eyes.

  Then, seeing his state, she crosses the kitchen quickly.

  “You look awful,” she says gently. “Sit down—please.”

  She gestures toward a small wooden table near the center of the room. TRK, too weak to argue, does as he’s told and sinks into the chair.

  “Please wait a moment,” she says, already turning back to the stove. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

  She moves with practiced ease. The smell intensifies—spiced and savory, layered with warmth and something sweet.

  TRK closes his eyes, his body slack with exhaustion. The scent alone is enough to make him dizzy.

  After a short while, she returns with a tray of food—fresh bread, hot soup, roasted vegetables, and a colorful mix of grains and herbs. The scent is overwhelming in the best way, warm and inviting. Even at a glance, it’s clear the ingredients are fresh and expertly prepared, full of care and flavor. The Rat King's eyes widen, and without hesitation, he devours it all. Each bite feels like it's pulling him back from the brink of starvation.

  When he finishes, he lowers his head. “Thank you,” he says, voice quiet but sincere. “You saved my life.”

  Her expression softens. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  He studies her for a moment, then asks, “Why are you living so deep in the forest?”

  Her face stills. “I’m not here by choice,” she says, her tone even but distant. “I’m bound to this place. A curse keeps me here—I can’t leave the mansion grounds.” A pause. “Now that you’re here, you can’t leave either. Not yet.”

  His eyes narrow slightly.

  She adds quickly, “Only for a time. Three weeks. Then the forest will open again, and the path out will return.”

  The Rat King leans back slightly. The idea of being stuck doesn’t faze him much—three weeks is nothing compared to the things he’s endured. But something in her voice, in the way she says curse, stirs a quiet sorrow in him.

  He exhales slowly, the weight of exhaustion finally catching up to him. His shoulders sag, and his vision wavers. It takes effort just to stay standing.

  She notices. Her expression softens again. “You need to rest,” she says gently. “I’ll show you to a room.”

  He nods, sluggishly, and follows her down a hallway that branches off from the main living room—left, past ivy-laced walls and tall windows that catch the fading light. As they walk, his steps grow heavier.

  After a moment, he speaks—his voice low, worn. “I never caught your name.”

  She glances back. “Oh. My name is Ophelia.”

  He manages the faintest nod. Ophelia. It suits her.

  She stops beside a door and opens it to a quiet guest room. “You can stay here.”

  “Thank you,” he murmurs, barely audible, and steps inside.

  She lingers a moment at the threshold, then nods. “Rest well,” she says softly, and turns to leave.

  The Rat King looks around only briefly—enough to see the neat linens, the calm stillness of the room—before his legs give way beneath him. He collapses onto the bed and is asleep before his head hits the pillow.