Grimli, who would never turn down an opportunity to educate, led Momo to a small pit stop – a statue of Guinevere herself, shining in marble; it was hidden away in a gated garden just behind the city’s temple.

“Just through here,” Grimli said, following the icicle-shaped imprints in the ground like a hunter tracking prey. The more pious the priest, the bigger the icicles in his shoe, Grimli wisely deduced. If they simply followed the footsteps of the devout, it wouldn’t take long before…

“Aha!” he said, clapping his small, clammy hands together. “We’ve made it.”

Just as Grimli suspected, the footsteps led them into the hidden garden. The small alcove was strikingly beautiful, like a forest oasis. Momo was particularly struck by the way the shadows fell differently over each plot of flora. Some of the blooms were chilled to ice, others wilting, and a select few flourished like it was the first day of summer.

An odd sensation in the back of her head urged her to touch them, so Momo knelt down to inspect the petals of the healthy bunch. They were leathery and pink, like torched flamingo fur.

“These are all the same kind of flower,” Momo noted, scanning over the entirety of the garden. “But they’re growing so unevenly.” She looked upwards, checking the angle of the light streaming in. It was hitting the entire plot, neglecting not a single flower. There were no trees hanging in the way, either. “There isn’t a big difference in the amount of shade they’re getting or the amount of sunlight. Why are they all acting like they’re growing in different climates?”

“Astute, your highness,” he said. “Seems that blessing by Yawnica is coming in handy.”

Ah, Momo thought. That’s what that weird feeling was. It was as if she was possessed by someone who actually had an attention to detail.

“This is where our lesson can begin,” Grimli said with his usual lofty, pedantic voice. “Come, sit and gaze upon this paradox of a woman.”

Momo reluctantly removed herself from the flamingo flowers and joined Grimli on a rain-covered bench, facing the statue.

“Oh,” Momo said. “I see what you mean.”

Quite like her indecisive flowerbed, the statue of Guinevere depicted a woman with four heads, each sprouting from their own neck atop her marble torso. Like Trent’s Cerberus, each head had its own sharply distinct expression: one of poise and contentment, another of cold disagreement, the third of blithe indifference, and the fourth of fury and wrath.

“She doesn’t actually have four heads,” Grimli explained. “It’s a metaphor, of course, for she is a woman of wild mood changes. Wildly charismatic when she’s in the right mood, dire and insufferable if you catch in her the wrong one. But Morgana adored her. They were very close.”

“Really? Seems like a hard person to be friends with,” Momo said, pulling her knees up to her chest, her robes sinking into the wet wood of the bench. Members of the temple strolled in and out, some of them paying tribute in front of the statue. Others simply murmured prayers as they passed.

“You would think that,” Grimli laughed. “But plenty of us mortals are a lot worse than that, aren’t we? Many of us are in permanently dour moods. Some are chipper and fun, but you can never have a proper conversation with them. We humans, like Morgana, are attracted to a certain amount of chaos and dismay. We require change, in appropriate amounts.”

“I guess that’s true,” Momo said, reflecting on the very people she found herself drawn to. Valerica, Devola, even Sumire – none of them could be described as predictable. If anything, it was their inexplicability that drew Momo in closer, like a fly to a burning hot oil lamp.

“But, unfortunately, it was this very unpredictability that ultimately forced them apart,” Grimli said, grabbing his lute and strumming a low note for dramatic effect. “Guinevere eventually grew jealous of Morgana’s ownership of the universe. She wanted her own part – her own domain. Morgana, adoring Gwen as she did, let her choose whatever she’d like. But Morgana did not foresee what she would choose.”

As Grimli spoke, a young boy came to kneel by the statue, his mother standing behind him as he placed a flower at the watery bed of Guinevere’s feet. The flower sat there a moment, floating idly, until the statue moved; Momo watched in shock as a marble hand reached out to grab it, crush it, and let the disintegrated pieces fall back down into the still pool.

Momo expected the boy to cry, but he did the opposite, jumping up and down with glee.

“Mommy! Guinevere hated my flower!”

“Well done, my son,” she said, scruffing his hair. “Our crops will be delighted to see a refreshing spring shower.”

They departed, leaving Momo more confused than she started.

“I am so lost,” Momo mumbled, digesting the scene. She then turned impatiently to Grimli. “So what domain did she choose? Why did they stop being friends?”

“Well, it requires a small bit of context. Before Guinevere, the mortals frolicked in an eternal evergreen, you see. No one ever had to worry about blankets or jackets or the atrocious elvish invention of the scarf. But then Guinevere gave the mortals seasons. Morgana was completely affronted by the idea.”

Momo blinked slowly at him. “Their friendship ended over… the existence of winter?”

“Many mortal friendships end over things like hair brushes or toe nail clippers,” Grimli pointed out chastisingly. “So the introduction of winter, fall, autumn, spring… they were a considerable shock to Morgana’s system, you can imagine. She loved her humans very much. She didn’t want to see them suffer through winter all cold and shivering.”

Momo melted. “She’s so sweet.”

“Hm. That’s one way to see it. Better yet, how would the mortals forage outside and pick flowers for her altar? How would they have the energy to build shrines out of bone and pour them full of boar blood? It was very hard to worship a goddess when you were deathly malnourished. Such a thing is deeply unmotivating.”

Momo grimaced. “Okay. Less sweet.”

“So the two had a little tiff,” Grimli shrugged. “As one does over a heartache, Morgana got all sad and hid from the universe for a couple hundred years. Kyros became a total gossip about it, telling all the priests and the bards and the knights about how she abandoned her post, fleeing into the metaphorical closet. Guinevere despaired, so she went down to Alois – to this very village, it is rumored – and slept in an eternal snow.”

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“An… eternal snow? Like a coma?”

“No, more like death. Gods, of course, cannot die, but Guinevere is a dramatic woman. So she pretended to be dead, and had the mortals throw her a very big party, err, funeral. It eventually created a new joke among the immortals, actually – to pull a Guinevere. They would all gather in the Nether, mourn one of their compatriots, pretend to cry, lower the body into the abyss. It’s all very amusing to them.”

Momo got a flashback to one conversation she had with Morgana. The Goddess mentioned attending Salazar’s funeral. Momo had been beyond confused at the time – and only moderately less so now. Taking in what Grimli said, it seemed to essentially boil down to a bit of friendly immortal bullying.

“So is she still… dead?”

“Oh no, she ended that charade years ago. It got too boring,” Grimli said, hopping off the bench. “Plus, how are mortals going to pay tribute to a dead goddess? It wasn’t a very profitable joke, especially for someone who trended towards narcissism.”

He sidled up to the statue and placed a few coins in the water. They shimmered gold, then disappeared out of sight. A moment later, a courier appeared in his hand.

“Oh, I got lucky this time,” Grimli grinned. “Here, try it out, your highness. A blessing from Guinevere is like divine gambling. It’s quite fun.”

“I don’t know…”

“Come on, live a little!”

He handed Momo a coin. With a sigh, she reluctantly placed it in the fountain.

A moment later, her fate was delivered to her in the form of parchment.

Congratulations! You have received [Guinevere’s Blessing of Winter Chill]. For 24 hours, no matter the weather outside, you will feel as if you’ve been placed in an arctic tundra.

Her teeth immediately chattered like she’d just been dunked in a freezing lake.

Momo glared at Grimli.

“Oops,” he said, laughing nervously. “Let’s get you one of those parkas.”

—

One shopping trip later, the two finally headed for the event tent. Momo looked like a plump marshmallow with her winter jacket and tightly-wound scarf, and she nearly fell over herself walking in her new oversized snow boots. Still, she made it up the modest hill eventually.

“Caught a bad case of the blessing?”

Manning the Welcome Momo & Associates booth was a gloomy young woman. She was dressed like a gothic Instagram model: her hair tied up in a black scarf, her neckline piled high with cheap necklaces. Like the drunk men at the front of town, she had silver caplets over her teeth which shined when she spoke.

“Sure have,” Momo grumbled, wiping at her dripping nose. “Do you have a tissue by any chance? Handkerchief maybe?”

“Nope,” the woman said, popping the p. “Are you Momo?”

“She sure is,” Grimli butted in, presenting Momo like a show dog. “Queen of the Queendom. Please bow.”

“She doesn’t have to bow, Grimli –”

“I’m not bowing.”

“She’s not bowing, Grimli.”

Grimli scoffed. “Disrespectful.”

“Here’s your nametag,” the woman said, handing Momo a white sticker that had Momo scribbled on it in barely legible handwriting. “Does your dwarf need one too?”

“I’m not a pet –”

“He’ll take one,” Momo nodded. “Grimli, tell her your name.”

He harrumphed. “It’s Grimli.”

The woman looked between them. “Right. Here you go.”

As she inscribed his name on another slip of paper, Momo noticed the name tag stuck to her own chest – Nyk. It suited her, Momo thought. Even the letters looked like they might stab you in an alley.

“Come with me,” she said apathetically, beckoning them as she strolled away towards the surrounding forest.

“Where does she think she’s going?” Grimli said. “The event can’t possibly be in the middle of the woods?”

“Don’t judge, Grimli."

—

Even Momo, in her unlimited naivety, was beginning to grow suspicious as Nyk guided them into the dense, dark thickets of the forest. Disc-like foliage loomed overhead, blocking out even the thinnest ray of sunlight from touching them.

“Not to be rude, but…” Momo mumbled. “Is there going to be an… audience for this event?”

Nyk scoffed. Momo could only make out the faint outline of her silhouette as the woman approached the foot of a small mountain, knocking several times on the stone face of it. A loud, grating motor sound reverberated from within, the stone walls parting to reveal a cavern.

“Come in,” Nyk said, in the most inviting voice she could muster, which still sounded vaguely like a threat. “We’ve almost finished setting up.”

Grimli and Momo shared a look – or, at least, they attempted to point their heads in the same general direction. Despite the overwhelming darkness, the thought was communicated loud and clear: there was obviously something amiss.

Of course, in Momo’s life, there was nearly always something amiss. So on the off chance that this wasn’t another poorly disguised shakedown – or even if it was – she didn’t want to risk insulting some sort of Snowdroppian cultural ritual. Maybe caves are considered venues here. After all, the worst possible outcome of this wasn’t a brawl, but a social faux pas. She didn’t want to seem insensitive. That’d certainly tank her control score.

And not only that – but Sumire sent me here for a reason, Momo reminded herself for the hundredth time. She had promised Sumire over and over again that she wouldn’t question her plans, even when those plans caused her mythical levels of anxiety and stomach upset.

So she followed Nyk in, dragging a very reluctant Grimli behind her.

When Momo entered the cave, the rock door behind her slammed shut, bathing the room in complete darkness. It didn’t last long, however – Nyk snapped her fingers, and a shallow flame lit out of her palm, as if her hand itself was a small torch. It looked seriously impressive.

“Wow,” Momo said, eyes wide. “How’d you learn to do that?”

“School,” she said, then paused. “Obviously.”

The cave was small, surely not big enough to hold more than ten people. If this was a venue, it was a venue for a very small brand of citizen indeed. Momo had heard whispers of such people, tiny people, no bigger than a flower bud. A cousin to the gnomes. But those people lived amongst grass and fields.

No, the only inhabitants of this cave were – oh – skeletons. Lots of skeletons. Strewn about the place like festive decoration. It reminded Momo nostalgically of the abyss of Morgana’s Dawn. All that was missing was the stink of rotting flesh. Then it’d be home.

“Okay, what did that lunatic want me to say…” Nyk said dryly, pulling out a scroll from her bag. Despite the smallness of the pouch, the scroll was surprisingly lengthy. It dropped to the floor and rolled for a couple feet. “Er, alright. Greetings traitor, you’ll pay for your crimes against me… blah blah. Fear my wrath, beware of my box… God, beware of my box? I’d rather choke than read the rest of this outloud.”

Momo paled. None of this sounded good for her approval ratings. “Traitor? Crimes? I didn’t commit any crimes – God, I decide what is a crime, don’t I?”

Grimli reached for the dagger on his waist, which was not really a dagger, but more of a fork that had lost two prongs. “You dare take the Queen’s name in vain, do ya? I’ll have you know that you’ll be one the payin’, that’s for sure. Momo, let me at her –”

“Can you two be quiet?” Nyk groaned. “It’s hard enough to read this script without you blubbering like beached whales in the background.”

Both Momo and Grimli turned very quiet, adequately chastised.

With a final exhale, Nyk dropped the scroll on the ground. She dug her heel into it, and it evaporated in a cloud of green dust. That must have been a courier, Momo deduced. But if that was a courier, it had to have possessed some sort of message from the Nether…

Momo’s eyes widened.

“There’s not a campaign event happening in this hole in the mountain, is there?” Momo asked quietly.

Grimli made a gurgling noise that sounded a lot like I told you so.

“Ah, what gave it away? Was it the lack of people? The general vibe of death?” Nyk said, voice monotone as ever. “And here I thought my acting was enviable. But no, you’re just too clever.”

Gliding her black-painted fingernails through the air, Nyk reached up to the scarf binding her hair together and plucked out a pin. The fabric fell away, revealing a dark mop of obsidian hair, and two horns as red as blood roses jutting out of each side of her skull.

Momo’s heart stuttered. Holy shit.

Those are Dokkaebi horns.

“Listen, as fun as this little charade has been, there are plenty of townspeople I’d rather be robbing blind,” Nyk sighed, reaching out her palms towards Momo like one might point the open mouth of a revolver. “Let’s get this over with. [Maladaptive Daydreams].”