Sintra reclines dramatically on her throne. The room is filled with purple light from the magic currently trapping Bob in midair. He dangles there, arms pinned to his sides, legs flopping helplessly. He sways slightly every time he tries to shift. It’s not his proudest moment.

“So,” Bob says, trying and failing to sound calm, “what are you planning to do with me? Torture? Turn me into a frog? Force me to do your taxes?”

“W-Why would I need you for taxes? I already have a tax guy! Not that it’s any of your business!” She flicks her fingers, and the magic tightens around him just enough to make him squeak. “Maybe I’ll just keep you as a decorative Chosen One. You’d look excellent as a chandelier.”

Bob grins nervously. “You think I’d add to the vibe?”

She glares at him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He glares right back. “You started it.”

Sintra narrows her eyes and stands. Her black dress flows out behind her like it has its own fan.

She stalks toward him, heels clicking on the stone floor. “You know, you’re taking this whole ‘captured hero’ thing rather lightly. Do you even understand the gravity of the situation?”

Bob nods. “Yeah. Gravity’s what’s keeping me dangling like this, right?”

Sintra groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Ugh, you’re lucky I’m so talented or this would be a real waste.”

“Hey, this magic is top-notch,” Bob says, twisting in his glowing bonds. “Really secure. Zero wiggle room. A solid nine out of ten.”

“Only nine?” Her voice is icy, but there’s a twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth.

“Well, it’s purple,” Bob says. “I’m more of a blue guy.”

Sintra stares at him, her eyes narrowing.

Then, with a frustrated huff, she turns around and walks back to her throne. She slumps into it, looking less like a terrifying villain and more like someone who just found out they have to work on a weekend. “I don’t even know why I’m bothering with you.”

“Oh, I know why.” Bob grins again. “It’s the prophecy. You’re scared I’ll defeat you.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She snorts. “The prophecy? That riddle nonsense? Please. I’m more afraid of the rising real estate prices in this area than I am of you.”

Bob blinks. “Wait. What?”

Sintra gestures grandly at her surroundings. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to maintain a castle like this? Towers don’t come cheap, you know.”

Bob tilts his head, interested despite himself. “You’re saying being a villain isn’t profitable?”

“Oh, it’s very profitable,” she says, tapping a finger against the armrest. “But only if you’re lucky enough to inherit a castle. I had to buy this one. Do you know how competitive the market is for evil lairs? Everyone wants a tower these days.”

Bob nods supportively. “That does sound rough. Did you at least get a good deal?”

Her eyes darken. For a moment, she looks genuinely pained. “Don’t get me started on the bidding war.”

There’s a long pause as Bob dangles, processing. Finally, he asks, “Is this the part where you start monologuing?”

Sintra perks up immediately. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? A classic villain monologue, just for you.” She stands, flourishing her dress again. “Fine. Let’s talk about the traps.” Her voice drops into a dangerous tone, and Bob can practically hear the invisible thunderclap. “Do you know how many traps I’ve set up in this castle?”

“Nope,” Bob says. “But I’m guessing it’s enough to make a hero hate his life.”

She smirks. “Exactly. The Spikes of Impending Doom. Classic, I know, but they never fail to intimidate. The Endless Hall of False Exits? Truly underrated. And, of course, the Room Where the Floor is Lava. Because what’s a villain’s lair without lava, am I right?”

Bob raises an eyebrow. “You ever think these traps are a little… cliché?”

“They’re not cliché! They’re iconic! There’s a difference,” she snaps. “Oh, and let’s not forget the minions.”

Bob raises an eyebrow. “The ones who keep tripping over their own feet?”

“Don’t insult my minions! They’re… they’re just clumsy sometimes, that’s all!” she says defensively. “And besides, your friend… What’s his name? Grog? George?”

“Greg,” Bob corrects, his voice suddenly sharp. “And he’s coming for me.”

That makes her laugh. A deep, rich laugh that echoes around the throne room. “Greg? The gate guard? The one whose most impressive achievement is pulling a lever?”

Bob glares at her, his jaw set. “Greg’s more than just a gate guard. He’s… he’s resourceful. And clever. And… and…”

Sintra leans forward, her smirk growing. “And what? Conveniently nearby?”

Bob sputters. “You’ll see. He’s probably on his way right now.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, I’m shaking. Truly. Do you really think your friend is going to make it through my traps? Past my minions? To me?”

“Yes,” Bob says firmly.

“Well, he’d better hurry,” Sintra says, standing and raising her staff. Purple magic crackles around her, the light growing brighter and more menacing. “Because I’m done waiting.”

The magic around Bob tightens, and he gasps. “You’re bluffing,” he says, though it sounds more like a plea than a challenge.

Her grin widens. “Oh, sweetie. I never bluff.”

She raises her staff higher, and the purple light swirls into a vortex above her head. Bob squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for whatever comes next.

And then… the castle starts to shake.

Sintra freezes, her magic flickering. “What in the—?”

Bob opens one eye, then the other. “What was that?”