SAVE POINT 57

Loading Cheesy Fries...Err, The Higher Place Level...44%...100%

[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1115982284571557938/76d19120-8ec3-417e-8477-8b62f7660da1.png][https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1115982285632712754/45b870a8-25e6-47c0-bcf6-0fabfe3b45dd.png]

Rosabella

My eyelids flutter open, and something above me blurs into view—a four-post bed? The ornate pillars of wood wobble and distort as I try desperately to focus on them...

And pink.

The ceiling is painted a soft pink and light dances—almost blinding to my tender pupils—off the glinting glass of a chandelier—

Chandelier? Where the heck am I?

I struggle, momentarily, with the plethora of heavy comforters that apparently aim to pin my flailing limbs down. Either the covers are incredibly fluffy or I am incredibly weak...

Then I remember the passing out part. But I don't remember this room.

I'm pretty sure I haven't ever been in a room to rival it—or anything close. The bedroom is enormous—more of a suite than a room. Huge windows line one side, adorned with plentiful, maroon drapes that fall to the floor, dancing gold tassels on their ends across the mahogany hardwood there. The ceiling is carved—hand-painted?—with swirling, sweeping designs that could keep my eyes occupied for hours. And I do lay in a canopy bed. Even as I struggle to sit up, I notice pillows pile high behind me: gold, pink and white. And a snow-like comforter lays, crumpled by my bare feet where I've kicked it off. Past the edge of the bed extends a pattered rug and two, stylish, tub chairs facing a grand fireplace. Is that a marble mantle and fresh flowers on top? It can't be real marble, can it? If it is, I don't have the money to afford this place. Something's a mistake...

Then, the reality hits me like a ton of bricks as my heart skitters to a stop in my chest.

Oh my God. I've died, haven't I? I've died and gone to Heaven—

Two knocks on the door shatter my already-earth-shattering realization.

And the far door swings open to display—

Wait...Sparo?

Sparo's not dead.

...Is he?

I must have a heck of an expression smeared over my sleep-ridden face because the dark-skinned man yanks up his low-riding jeans with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat and slides his sunglasses down his nose to peer at me. "You look like someone stole your pony," he states matter-of-factly.

"I—" I stumble over my tongue.

It feels like someone did steal something from me, but it's not a horse. I never had one to begin with. ...Or is that what I'm grappling with? ...Never having this before? ...This opulent lushness in my life?

Sparo raises an eyebrow as he looks around the room, finally taking off his ridiculous glasses and tucking them in his back pocket. "Too grand for your preferences?" he asks. I notice that he's shuffling some kind of plastic bag in his hands, but don't take much notice. I'm wrestling, myself, with something. Is this place too grand?

"No," I tell him quietly. "I just don't usually...fit in places like this," I admit.

The room feels like a shoe that's too big. Like, if I turn my head too quickly or make a sudden movement, it all might slip off...and away. Lost somewhere behind me.

But the man's not really listening. He's fishing in the bag in his hands, muttering, "Okay, so I might have overdone it a little bit, but I figured you'd be hungry when you woke up, so I went a little crazy and got us gas station convenience cheesy fries. To share. I mean, of course, you'd share with me."

That sideways smile makes me want to laugh almost immediately.

And he isn't joking about the sharing size—I see that as he pulls a large, square Styrofoam container out of the white, plastic bag. And the toe-curling smell of delectable grease and comfort plows right into my nose. Apparently, I am starved. I reach my fingers out to grab a strand of cheesy goodness even before he's fully hoisted it next to me on the comforter.

"Ladies first," he jokes, while I have the fry already halfway to my lips.

If he only knew how much I was drooling...

Perfection.

Absolute perfection.

My stomach growls as I reach for another, letting the fry melt in my mouth.

"Well, someone's hungry," Sparo remarks, grinning.

"Thank you," I mumble way too gratefully around a mouthful of fries. When I think better of it, I ask, "How long have I been out? ...And what is this place?"

"It's crazy in here, right?" Sparo holds out both hands, palms up, in admiration of the room around us, "Damn, and I thought I had the penthouse in Somergot Prison!" He laughs, his head tilting back.

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And his laugh looks and sounds so...free.

And a strange twinge of jealously races through me because...I want to feel like that—light, unburdened. But my chest feels tight and clogged and my limbs...heavy.

"This is The Higher Place, the traditional residence of Game Makers," Sparo tells me, his eyes darting around, "The whole place is gorgeous—like a palace or resort, and we're right on the water. It's like a picture! You've been asleep for a little over a week. You blacked out, and we made Prickgada give us a health pack for you, but, afterwards, she ran for it before we could grab her. She's probably somewhere four worlds away by now. We had to come here to get you health supplies."

"Health supplies?" I crinkle up my face in confusion—am I just still in a daze or did I hear him wrong?—"I thought you said you gave me a health pack, why would you need health supplies—?"

"Well, that's just the thing..." Sparo shakes his head, looking down at the bunching covers like it's his only shelter from my stare, "The health pack worked for a minute but, then... Then, it started decreasing again—your health bar. We don't know what would cause—"

"It's okay," I interrupt him, stirring a fry in the cheesy sauce to distract myself from the fear coiling in my stomach, "I do."

"You...what?"—now, the dragon-non-dragon looks confused.

"I know what's wrong with me," I say, swallowing hard and hating how his incredulous stare is punching holes in my forehead, "The grand dragon told me."

"The Grand Dragon?!" The man's voice climbs from disbelief to full-on shock. His eyebrows are nearly up in his hairline, and a fully-loaded fry pauses in the air between the container and his mouth like he's suddenly frozen.

"When we were in the church," I insist bluntly, "The Grand Dragon said I took on the darkness from The Game when I repaired part of it. That it'd make me sick..."

Silence fills in the holes between us for a minute, and I bite on the inside of my lip, realizing I shouldn't have eaten so quickly. I kind of feel like throwing up, and it has nothing to do with the fries and everything to do with what I've just said. Because, as I look down at the insides of my arms resting on my cross-legged legs, I realize that the skin there looks ashen.

Transparent.

Like, if I squint really hard, I can see black running through my veins—darkness. What will it do to me? How do I stop it? My head is so heavy. What if I just laid it down on the soft pillow again and shut my eyes?

"Did the Grand Dragon tell you how to fix it?" Sparo whispers finally.

I shake my head at him—no.

And his lips draw into a somber line. "Well, some of the healers here have a temporary solution, at least," he tells me, sighing like he's put all his effort into the gust of wind leaving his lungs, "There's this root they've been crushing and stirring in the water we give you. It helps, but the dosage is every few hours—"

"Did you change me?" I blurt suddenly.

First, I'm dying to change the topic—this is downright depressing right now—and, second, I've just realized I'm no longer wearing my body armor but a pair of very fuzzy pajamas.

That's before I realized what I've just insinuated that Sparo might have seen me naked—

That Sparo—Oh God! Why do I just SAY stuff like this???!

I blush 20 shades of scarlet.

"No, no," Sparo rushes, waving both hands insistently between us, "that was all Mimi, I swear—"

"Knock knock..." a sing-song voice echoes from the open doorway. Speak of the devil... "Good morning," the freckled girl smiles genuinely at me, inclining her head although, by the angle of the light streaming in the windows, it's clearly later than that, "I hope you don't mind, but I helped you out of your armor when we got here. They had all these old lady nightgowns in the drawers"—the bridge of her nose shrivels up in disapproval—"I made a special trip to get you those pjs."

I knew she was an angel.

Wait..this room...those nightgowns... Sparo said we were in a place that was a residence for the Game Makers. Had my parents seen this room? Were the old-fashioned nightgowns my mother's? My mind spins. I have a million questions, including—

"Wait, no offense, but what are you doing here?" The jumbled words directed at Mimi come tumbling out before I'd meant them to.

But the petite girl doesn't seem phased. She lands a tiny, casual hand on her hip, waving towards me with the other one. "Oh, after hearing what went down with Goran, my bosses reassigned me," she states breezily.

"To what?" I blink at the girl.

She ducks her head a little, "As chief protector of the Game Maker."

Oh no, no, no.

Suddenly everything comes crashing iinto place.

Crashing over my head.

This place?

It's a palace.

And they've been calling me 'Game Maker' over and over.

Now, bodyguards? I have...bodyguards????

It sounds like I'm a ruler. Like I'm squarely where I didn't want to be from the start of all this. I have to admit it, I start hyperventilating on the spot.

Sweating.

Seizing.

Because Goran had been wrong about many things, but, maybe, he'd been right about this. Goran...

Oh my God, Helladore had—she'd eaten him.

I clutch at the nearest bedpost, willing myself not to fall, and my face must be ashen because I watch Mimi and Sparo exchange alarmed looks.

"I'll go get her the next dose of medicine," the dark-skinned man rushes, "Mimi, have the servants take her to the bathhouse and get her to relax."

The girl nods, snapping her fingers so that two, black-and-white-clad maids appear in the doorway.

"Can you help Rosabella to the bathhouse so she can bathe?" Mimi mutters to them in a high-pitched, clipped voice.

And the women—probably not much older than me—nod and move towards me to grab my arms.

"Here, miss."

"Come with us, miss. We'll get you all cleaned up and feeling better."

"Anything for the Game Maker."

"You saved us all, miss."

But I can't take it.

I can't let them take me.

I'm not a ruler.

I don't deserve the respect in their eyes or their bobbing heads. I'm just a girl. Just a girl who did what was required of her.

I struggle, trying to get them to let go, "Sparo? I'm not—I'm not what they think—"

But his eyes are only kind when I look up. And accepting. "Yes, you are," he says with unshakable certainty. When I blink back, helplessly, at him and very much unconvinced, he waves me off, "Oh, give them a break. You saved their world. You fixed it. They're entitled to be a little thankful. Take it."