Sintra is spinning around in her long black dress, looking as dramatic as ever.

Groth bursts into the room. “Lady Sintra,” he growls, his voice rough and gravelly. “The Chosen One has entered the tower.”

Finally.

She freezes mid-spin. Perfect. All of it. The stance, the timing. She’s been working on this.

“So,” she purrs, her voice dipping into the silky, evil tone she’s practiced in front of her cursed mirror. “He dares to invade my tower?” She pauses for effect. The vibes have to be perfect. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Groth scratches one of his tusks, looking more awkward than usual. “Uh, yeah, Lady Sintra. Should we fight him now?”

Sintra sighs and steps closer, towering over Groth from the raised platform beneath her throne. She had it installed specifically for this purpose. Villains need to look intimidating. It’s a rule.

“Fight him?” she scoffs, one perfectly arched eyebrow shooting up. “No, Groth. We are not barbarians. We are masterminds of doom. We must prepare properly.”

Groth shifts on his feet, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He’s seen this before. He knows exactly where this is going.

“Minions!” Sintra’s voice bounces off the stone walls, loud enough to send a few bats flapping from the rafters. She spins on her heel, arms thrown wide. “Prepare the lair for the Chosen One’s arrival!”

Chaos breaks out instantly.

Minions scatter like startled chickens. One accidentally drops a box of skulls, and they roll across the floor like marbles.

“You!” Sintra points at a goblin trying to stack candles onto a chandelier that clearly has too many. “We need spooky lighting, not a fire hazard!”

“Yes, Lady Sintra!” the goblin squeaks. But then he drops a candle, and his sleeve catches on fire.

Sintra rolls her eyes and snaps her fingers, putting out the flame with a quick spell.

“And you!” She whirls to face an orc fumbling with a magic fog machine. “I want mysterious fog. Like the breath of an ancient curse. Not a toxic gas cloud. Got it?”

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“Got it,” the orc grumbles. He doesn’t. The orc adjusts a dial and half the room fills with blinding smoke.

“Groth,” Sintra hisses, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Control them. The lair must look terrifying. Menacing. Perfect.”

Groth awkwardly salutes and stomps off. He shouts at a pair of goblins arguing over whether skeletons should hang at a “spooky” or “casual” angle.

Sintra exhales, willing herself to remain calm. Composed. Evil. This is her brand.

“Watcher!” she yells, her voice echoing up the spiral staircase. “Is the hero close?”

A high-pitched voice answers from above. “Not yet, Lady Sintra!”

She sighs again, pacing the room as another minion struggles to hang a “Beware” banner. Crookedly.

“Fix that sign!” she barks. “We’re not amateurs. And someone dust the skulls on the mantle. Dusty skulls scream ‘neglected villainy.’”

“Yes, my lady!” comes the nervous chant of obedience.

Time crawls. Five minutes. Ten.

She adjusts her evil throne’s dramatic spin mechanism.

“Watcher!” she yells again.

“Still no sign, Lady Sintra!”

She mutters under her breath, pacing furiously. “Stupid heroes. No respect for a villain’s schedule.”

Then the watcher’s frantic voice echoes down. “They’re here! The Chosen One and his companion have reached the door!”

This is it!

Sintra runs for her throne, her dress flowing behind her. Her heart pounds. Definitely not from excitement. It’s adrenaline. Totally different.

She adjusts her crown with a swipe. Chaotically perfect. Just how she likes it.

Her finger hovers over the button on the armrest. Showtime for real. She presses it.

The throne spins with a hiss of mechanics. Her dress billows. Her grin sharpens. Everything about this moment is villain perfection. Dramatic. Powerful. Iconic.

The throne stops, perfectly facing the door.

Sintra throws her arms wide. “Welcome, Chosen One, to—”

The door doesn’t open.

She blinks.

The door rattles but stays closed. Muffled voices filter through.

“Idiots,” she mutters, cheeks burning red. “Who even struggles with a door?”

Groth shifts behind her. “Uh, Lady Sintra—”

“Silence!” she snaps. “This is part of their plan, obviously. To throw me off. But I’m totally fine.”

The door rattles again. Still nothing.

“Ugh!” She huffs, readjusting her dress. She smooths her expression into a mask of calm. “No problem. I’ll just... reset. Not because I care or anything. It’s just... proper villain manners.”

She spins the throne back into position, testing the dramatic effect again. The spin mechanism needs oiling.

“Groth,” she growls. “Remind me to curse this throne maker.”

“Yes, my lady,” Groth says, not bothering to hide his smirk.

“Minions!” Sintra shouts. “Perfection at all times. This is non-negotiable.”

The minions scatter, giggling nervously.

Sintra’s eye twitches. “The hero better hurry up,” she says. “My monologue is losing all dramatic tension.”

Finally, the door creaks. Showtime.

Sintra slides into her seat, presses the button, and spins. Dress flowing, grin sharp, timing flawless.

She throws her hands up. “Welcome, Chosen One, to—”

The door is still closed.

Sintra slumps back into her throne. “Idiots,” she mutters. “Late. Clumsy. And probably not even smart enough to realize how epic my entrance was.”

She pouts as she rests her chin in her hand. “What’s the point of being evil if no one appreciates the theatrics?”