Alright, nothing actually happened last night.
I mean it—despite a Rogue hugging a pillow, kicking open my bedroom door, and roaring, "This concubine has come to serve you in bed!" loud enough for practically the whole basement to hear, nothing really happened in the end. Everything was perfectly harmonious, entirely suitable for all ages. With a few edits, it could even have aired on News Broadcast without issue. It wasn't because some pure-hearted Rogue changed her mind at the last moment, nor because Sandora led Qian Qian and an army of a million into my room to catch us in the act. It was... because the little doll absolutely refused to move. What could you do when a brat started throwing a tantrum? Look at all those married couples with kids—weren't they full of resentment? They said marriage was the grave of love, but I firmly believed brats were the coffin lid of married life—and a Phoebe Wood one at that!
In the end, Viska and I spent nearly half the night dealing with a little Hairy Girl barely over ninety centimeters tall. Ice Sister was almost moved to unleash her maternal instincts. She actually held the little doll like her own daughter and told her stories for half the night, starting with how she had knocked out her first teacher with a brick and continuing all the way to her brawls at the gates of Father God Palace. The stories were utterly thrilling. The Rogue had supposedly charged from Eternal Night Palace all the way to Pantheon with a weapon in hand, then made a turn and hacked her way to Frosty Cold Valley, fighting for three days and nights until rivers of blood flowed. One swing, another swing—everyone from ninety-nine-year-olds to toddlers who had just learned to walk