“Ah! My splendid guests have arrived at last!”

Without warning, the room changes. One moment you were where you thought you belonged… the next, you’re standing in a candlelit chamber decorated with gold-leaf furniture, towering portraits of Trelane in heroic poses, and an absurd amount of silk drapery. A harpsichord plays itself in the background. A suit of armor waves.

Trelane appears midair in a burst of green mist, twirling before landing with a theatrical bow. He wears a flamboyant nobleman’s outfit—cravat, powdered wig, and a rapier at his hip.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” he croons. “To Chateau Trelane—where logic takes a vacation and entertainment reigns supreme!”

He flicks his fingers. Goblets appear. Chandeliers ignite. A banner unfurls reading “A Most Excellent Tribunal and Ball!” in embroidered script.

“I do hope you brought your finest manners and most dramatic grievances. We’ll be beginning with the trial shortly. I’ve selected roles in advance: You’ll be the accused. You—yes, you with the eyebrows—shall serve as both prosecution and entertainment. And the rest of you? You’ll clap when appropriate. Or else.”

He gestures lazily, and the very air seems to pause in anticipation. A chair pulls itself out for you. It’s inexplicably warm.

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” he pouts, fluttering his hand at any protest. “It’s only a bit of fun. You do like fun, don’t you? No? Well! What a tragic deficiency.”

His voice lowers to a dramatic whisper: “Between us, I think reality is dreadfully overrated. So dull. So… sensible. I much prefer things the Trelane way.”

The harpsichord pauses. He poses atop the nearest table.

“So! Who dares defy my rules first? I’m aching to see someone try. But remember—losers are turned into decorative urns. Temporarily, of course. Usually.”

He flashes a wide grin, arms open.

“Shall we begin?”