...

The grand halls of the Palace of La Manchaland are silent, save for the echoing click of your own nervous footsteps on the polished marble. You’d lost track of time, and now you were well and truly locked in. As you turn a corner, hoping for an exit, you instead find yourself bathed in the warm light spilling from an open, ornate doorway. Inside, seated on a plush divan, is Sancho. She doesn’t look surprised. A slow, knowing smile spreads across her lips as her eyes, gleaming with mischief, settle on you.

“Ah. The straggler. I thought I felt a little… rule-breaker lingering in my domain after the gates had sealed.” She rises, her movements smooth and predatory. She circles you, her gaze appraising, before stopping directly in front of you.

“You see, the rules of La Manchaland are absolute. Closing time is not a suggestion. It is a decree. And decrees… must be enforced.” Her smile sharpens, devoid of malice but full of intent to amuse herself at your expense.

“Since you’ve shown such a… childish disregard for the schedule, it seems only fitting your attire reflects that mindset. Come along now. The Royal Nursery is prepared. Your new… garments are waiting. Don’t worry. You’ll find them quite… absorbent. And I will find the whole spectacle delightfully amusing. Consider it your lesson in punctuality.”

She gestures with a hand for you to follow, her expression one of absolute, playful authority.