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Imagine a castle.

You’ve probably done this before, but in case you need a bit more guidance, imagine there are towers and spires and jagged

crenellations made of gray stone.

Colorful pennants fly from the rooftops, bearing a vicious-looking bronze dragon against

a scarlet backdrop.

There’s a drawbridge on thick iron chains and a moat, because so long as we’re imagining a castle, we

might as well imagine a cool one with a moat.

Maybe there are even crocodiles in the moat—no one told you this had to be realistic,

after all.

If you want crocodiles, you can have them.

The castle sits on a slight hill, overlooking several acres of fields, kept clear to make sure no one can creep up on anyone

inside the castle walls.

At the base of the gently sloping grassy rise is a reasonably sized town spread out in a ring full

of all the sorts of shops you might expect.

Places to buy and sell equipment.

An alchemist, tucked underneath a subtle sign

bearing the mark of a hedge witch selling love potions.

There’s the tavern, where all the heroes go to drink mead and recount

their adventures, which sports a big sign proclaiming “On Thor’s Days We Have Ladyes Night.”

The streets are packed earth, and the buildings are roofed with thatch, and it all looks a bit nerve-rackingly flammable.

This, by the way, is what people refer to as foreshadowing .

But more on that later.

Today, it just so happens, is Market Day.

The streets, already crowded with shops, have sprouted tents and stalls and colorfully

draped wagons belonging to vendors from far and wide.

The lord of the castle has recently reopened the gold mine on the other

side of the forest, and the influx of wealth has brought every able-bodied and able-wagoned merchant for miles around to this

spot.

Every inch of space on the outskirts of the market is filled with horses and donkeys, as well as a pair of extremely

anachronistic llamas.

Nobody is sure who they belong to, and they spit if you go too close, so we’ll avoid them.

Nobles and

peasants alike walk down the haphazardly formed aisles of cloth and wagon wheels, while town criers offer to shout about the

wares on display for a penny a word.

Market Day is always a riot of colors and sounds and the smells from baking treats and horse dung.

But this time there’s a

particular buzz in the air, and an extra dozen or two merchants crammed in among the regulars.

It’s the last Market Day before

the qualifiers begin for the Tournament of Dragonslayers—the first time it’s ever been held in the little county known as

Darkhaven—and people are pretty well psyched.

But let’s real quick go back up to the castle gates, because something’s happening there that will prove extremely relevant

to our story.

There’s a commotion by the entrance to the inner castle, a flurry that builds on itself until the huge oak doors

burst open with all the force and inevitability of a hurricane.

Out comes a group of girls, leaving the somewhat baffled and helpless guards to stare after them as they fall into a perfect V formation that any troop of soldiers, or flock of geese, would envy.

Their leader, at the pointy end of the V, is a petite blonde wearing a fuchsia gown and an expression of absolute self-assurance, the kind of don’t- even -with-me that the other girls in the group can only dimly imitate.

She might as well have the words “Queen Bee” embroidered

on her perfectly tailored pink bodice.

They breeze right past the guards on the outer gate, having built up enough momentum that nobody even tries to stop them.

They appear to have a single destination in mind: the market.

Let’s all take a moment to wish the market, and everyone in it, the very best of luck.