Page 8 of Level Up for Love

I blink owlishly. “Sign up?” When Mona and I play—played—D&D, it’s always with our friends at my apartment. I know some people love the easy accessibility that store-hosted games offer, but I’ve never played in one before.

Granted, store-hosted games ensure that a campaign isn’t killed by the real D&D villain: scheduling.

Mona nods quickly. “You remember Shay, right?”

“Of course.” I haven’t met Shay yet, but Mona has mentioned her plenty of times now; they met at one of Mona’s sunrise yoga classes over the summer and have been dating steadily since. Mona’s eyes get dreamy every time she brings her up.

“She invited me to play with her and said that the game she joined through Game Knight is looking for a few more players. I know you’re not ready to start a new campaign after what happened to our last one, but—but I really miss playing, and I’d really like to play with her, and…” She bites her lip. “Is that okay? Would you mind?”

But we always play together. Since we were kids, when Dad used to run games for us on the weekends. Since high school, after the divorce, when I stepped into the role of Dungeon Master and started creating my own campaigns, narrating the adventures of Mona and our friends. No one else ever wanted to DM, so it became my go-to role, one I kept up in college and beyond. Mona has been in every single one of my D&D games since the beginning.

But it’s my fault we haven’t played since the Cataclysm earlier this year, when our friend group imploded so spectacularly that I ended our game—and my romantic relationship with Owen—in an arcane explosion that leveled an entire kingdom, killing most of the world’s inhabitants…including all of the party members.

Unsurprisingly, the only relationship that survived is the one I have with my sister.

I’ve hardly been in the mood to run another game after everything that happened, but I didn’t realize Mona was missing it so much. So much that she’d want to play with a group of strangers.

That she’d want to play without me.

I’m reminded to answer when I feel Mona’s fingers weave through mine. I clear my throat. “I don’t care,” I snap. Nope, too harsh, and categorically untrue. More gently, I say, “No, Mona. I don’t mind.” There’s still a funky little ache in my chest when I say it, though. Some of it is guilt, I know—it’s because of me she hasn’t played in months; it was my decision not to start another game with new people. But I feel some wistfulness, too. I also miss playing.

I squeeze her hand and stand up. “Let’s go check it out.”

It’s barely past ten, so the store’s empty. When I push open the glass door, holding it ajar for Mona, the jingling entryway bells echo in the silence. The employee leaning his elbows on the checkout counter to the right doesn’t even look up from his phone. All I see are his wide hunched shoulders and dark curls overgrown past his ears. “Welcome to Game Knight. Let me know if I can help you find anything?” His voice wavers with fear and uncertainty, like interacting with us would be his worst nightmare. Mona decides to do a lap, saving him from his dreaded confrontation for at least a few extra minutes.

All things considered, it’s an adorable store. They’ve playfully leaned into the medieval “knight” theme: the store’s heraldic helmet logo is emblazoned on several teal banners fluttering from the ceiling, weapon replicas are mounted on the walls, and a shiny suit of armor stands guard near the entryway. To the right side of the store, dozens of shelves show off wares suited for gamer geeks of all types: board games, card games, unpainted figurines, an enormous collection of dice, art prints of popular franchises made by local artists, game mats, and much more. To the left stretches a handful of charmingly mismatched tables that are likely full of patrons during peak hours, along with shelves displaying games available to rent by the hour. Past the checkout counter, a stairway descends into darkness, a sign above it proclaiming Rooms Available for Reservation.

It’s immediately clear that pre-Cataclysm, Mona and I might have made Game Knight a go-to haunt for our game group, or a regular stop on our Sunday latte walk. But in the months since everything happened, I’ve stuck with online orders and kept away from gaming spaces that would only bring up bitter memories. Now, however, the smell of cardboard and bound books has me feeling nostalgic and a little giddy.

We meander past the graphic novels, comics, and dice until Mona finds a huge chalkboard calendar mounted on the wall detailing all of the store’s events and hosted games for the month. Her bright eyes fixate on the line written in bold at the bottom.

New D&D campaigns beginning october!

Players wanted

What follows is a list of all their campaigns: Tavern Tales: Beginners Welcome!, Wizard Academy, A Pirate’s Lament, Kingdom Heist…

Every single one is crossed out and marked Full save for the last on the list. Mona points at it and grins. “That’s the one!”

Blood of the Tyrant:

For advanced players looking for a challenge!

She hums a note of intrigue. “Maybe there’s a reason it hasn’t filled up. Must be really difficult, huh?” Her tone is teasingly sarcastic. She’s played too many high-level games with me to let that note intimidate her.

My gaze is caught on the looping cursive letters of the word challenge. Something in my chest unfurls, unwinds—and wakes up. My eyes narrow with interest.

Why do they consider this game to be a challenge, I wonder? Is it designed to be rewardingly difficult, with every encounter requiring the characters to think ahead and use all of their resources and cleverness to win? Or is the Dungeon Master, who runs the games and creates all of the combat scenarios, a tyrant themself who likes to feel powerful by crushing every player at their table?

If it’s the former, then Mona’s in for a treat—and I can’t help but itch with curiosity and a twinge of jealousy. It makes me want to compare notes with this mystery DM—or, better yet, beat them at their own game.

But the latter possibility makes my jaw tighten. I open my mouth to warn Mona, but when I turn, she’s already disappearing around the shelf. I follow in her wake as she sashays up to the counter and pins her most dazzling smile on the nervous employee. “I’m here to sign up for Blood of the Tyrant,” she announces.

He blinks once, twice, and I can almost picture all of his thoughts broadcast in a text bubble floating above his head. Thoughts about her sunny smile, braided pigtails, fuzzy pink sweater. “Are you sure?” he says slowly. “The Dungeon Master for that one, Warlock—his games are known for being especially brutal. And you’re…” He trails off pathetically.

Who the fuck is out here calling himself Warlock? Does this DM want anyone to play his game or not? I glance at the employee’s plastic name tag, half expecting him to sport the ridiculous name himself, but it simply reads Colin.

I look sidelong to Mona, wondering if this mystery edgelord has scared her off, but she just seems amused. I turn back to Colin.