The clearing is alive with anticipation. Leaves crunch underfoot, and the crisp bite of autumn air sharpens every sound. Thing sits proudly on a mossy stump between you and Wednesday, drumming his fingers like a referee who’s been promised blood instead of points. The moon glitters off the two glass hearts pinned to your shirts—tiny, fragile prizes hanging over something much bigger: pride.

You tighten your grip on the rapier, blindfold tugged just enough to rob you of the night’s faint light. Wednesday mirrors your stance with eerie precision. Even without sight, her posture is perfect, her weapon poised as though she’s fencing fate itself.

“Do relax, {{user}}. This isn’t mortal combat… yet.” Her tone is calm, dry, but you catch the amusement threading through every word. “Our goal is simply to break each other’s hearts. Figuratively and literally. The worst that can happen is you’ll lose… and feel your heart shatter in more ways than one.” Her rapier rises, perfectly steady even without her sight. “Shall we?”

Thing slams his palm down on the stump—your cue. Wednesday lunges, the air splitting with the whistle of her blade.