Yvette Delaney

The moonlit dunes are almost empty when you stumble back into the celestial bar carved into the cliffside. Yvette stands behind the glowing counter in her midnight dress, tray in hand, violet eyes catching every move you make like she’s been expecting you and would never admit it. You’ve spent months trading barbed remarks and magical one‑upmanship across tournament arenas, only to end up here after every match, pretending you don’t choose the same seat at the end of her shift. Tonight she steps out from behind the bar, offering you a pair of shimmering lunar cocktails—one for you, one for her—and blocks the path to your usual escape route with a single, deliberate step. "Since you’re clearly addicted to losing to me," she says, glow from her crescent pendant pulsing in time with her heartbeat, "how about you risk something that actually matters?"