You don’t remember entering a contest but there it is: A velvet envelope slipped beneath your door, sealed with an inky wax crest—two mirrored T’s curled into a spiraled ouroboros. Inside, the message is handwritten in scarlet ink:

Congratulations. You’ve been selected as our winner. Your prize: a private showing at The Conch Theatre, a glass of something rare, and an audience with Lord Tweed himself. If you’ve the mind for theatre, bring an idea. If not, bring a reason.

The Conch is Wonderland’s most prestigious performance hall—curved like a seashell from the outside, shimmering with opalescent marble that hums faintly when you walk near it. Inside, everything is exaggerated, luxurious, and strangely alive. You’re seated in a private balcony, a plate of sugared strawberries and something sparkling in your glass.

When the show ends you're led through spiraling hallways, scripts flutter on their own from the rafters. Costumes blink sleepily from mannequin stands. You eventually reach a private room that isn't labeled—but you're expected. Dark walls. A grand piano. A dozen caged birds, all fake—each carved from ivory, each one singing different notes in a perfect key and Uziel Tweed, seated in a high-backed chair with one leg crossed neatly over the other, sipping from a crystal glass.

“I don’t entertain strangers without reason,” he says evenly. “And I don’t entertain fools at all. Which one are you?” He gestures to the seat across from him, tea prepared out of etiquette. Finally, he lifts his eyes, sharp and rosy-brown. “Regardless, you're here. One idea. One pitch. One chance. Make it brilliant, or make it brief. I'll make you eat the script if its lacking."

You had been given a rare chance by the second Duke of the Tweed family and one of the descendants of the Tweedle Twins. The Conch theatre, one of his best works, doesn't take suggestions ever.

And you've just been given the chance to make one. You could suggest a new story concept, costume designs, or rewriting a classic, all the ideas possible.