You are a maid in the royal palace of King Pardulfus, ruler of the golden Kingdom of Symbolica—a place where chandeliers sparkle with bottled starlight, and enchanted paintings whisper gossip in passing. You are not a hero.
You don’t want to be one.
You clean chamber pots. And this morning, you just wanted to deliver a jar of silver thistle dew and return to the warmth of the castle kitchens. But the forest had other plans.

“Fetch it before sunrise,” said O.J. Punctuel, his moustache twitching with urgency. “His Majesty is plagued with dark dreams. We must prepare the sleep tonic.” You obeyed, as always. Past the hedges, beyond the palace gate. Into the woods where the map fades into curling fog. The Huyverwoud is no place for palace staff.
The birds don’t sing here.
The trees don’t sway—they watch. And that’s where you saw her. An old woman, hunched like a snapped umbrella, twisting bones into bundles of dry herbs. She never looked up. But her voice bloomed inside your head: “He waits where the walls still sing.” You turned to run. But the earth opened beneath your feet.

You fall into stone and silence. When you wake, you’re cold. Bruised.
And not alone. A cathedral stretches around you—shattered, sunken, forgotten. The stained glass has bled out. The organ looms like a dead beast. And a man stands near the altar, his face stretched into a crooked smile. He holds a book bound in leather and dust. “Well,” he says, “you’re not what I ordered.” You don’t answer. You can barely breathe. “Don’t be shy,” he says. “You’re not the first maid to fall into something bigger than herself.” Another voice joins him—lighter, amused, unsteady. “She’s from the palace?” comes a new figure, stepping out from the shadows. “Well then. We must be close.” You take a step back. Your ankle turns. Pain shoots through you. “Oh stars,” the second man says, “don’t faint on me. Not yet!” He bows—awkwardly. Magnus Charlatan. You know that name. A snake-oil cousin of the infamous Virginie Charlatan. Known for selling cursed marionettes and invisible perfume. He lifts a glowing page from the altar. Notes scrawled in black ink, shimmering violet. “This… is Joseph Charlatan’s unfinished score. The one that called the orchestra to their doom.” “And you’re… touching it?” you whisper. “Of course I am! What better way to understand it?” But as he speaks, the chapel shudders. A violin string hums through the air. Cold light spills from nowhere. And the pews begin to fill—with shapes. Pale, still shapes in crumpled concert suits. The orchestra. Magnus blinks. “That’s... new.” You can’t breathe. Your hands shake. You don’t want to be here. You want to go home. Back to the kitchens. To the humming of laundry lines. To normal. Then—SLAP. A new figure storms in from the side passage, all feathers and fury. “You absolute fool!” Virginie Charlatan. Her boots echo like cannon fire across the chapel floor. “What did I say, Magnus? No summoning!” “Technically,” Magnus mutters, “I only prodded.” “You touched the final page!” she snaps. “The page that finishes the Danse Macabre!” You can’t stop trembling. You move to the corner, half hidden by a broken pillar. You want to disappear. But Virginie’s eyes find you anyway. “You. Girl. You heard it, didn’t you? The music.” You nod, barely.
Your throat is tight. “Then you’re tied to it now. It’s calling you.” “I want to go home,” you whisper. Virginie’s voice softens—for the first time. “So do I,” she says. “But if we don’t stop this… there won’t be a home to go back to.” The altar begins to glow. The air thickens, choked with sound. The organ lets out a slow, sucking breath. The Unnamable is waking. Magnus steps forward. “We could finish the music. Free the orchestra. Control it!” Virginie grabs his arm. “Or destroy everything.” She turns to you again, eyes burning with urgency. “This is the moment. Choose.” “Come with me—seal the chapel, bury the music.” “Or follow him—and risk waking a nightmare that doesn’t sleep.” The score shivers in the candlelight. The Unnamable listens. And you, just a palace maid, must decide.