Wrong Script, Right Love Chapter 3: Premium Sunlight DLC

[The Northern Courtyard—Later That Morning]

Snow crunched under my boots as I marched out, still barefoot inside fur boots because dignity had already died in this frozen wasteland. Behind , Baron Sigurd "Lord Belly" Hjelmvik waddled, clutching his cloak like an anxious nanny. Half the staff trailed us, so carrying spears, so carrying frying pans because apparently, that’s what counts as weaponry here.

"Alright," I said, planting my hands on my hips like so divine hero. "Where do these beer-thieving wolves live? Point to their lair, Sigurd Hazzelnut."

"Hjelmvik, my lord," he muttered miserably, "and wolves do not live in lairs. They roam the forests—"

"Forests?" I interrupted with wide eyes. "You an to tell my beer died in a forest ambush? Disgraceful! SOONE BUILD A MAP!"

"My lord, we already have a map," Sigurd said, fumbling with a scroll.

"Then unroll it before I faint," I said, stomping my boot like a spoiled prince.

Sigurd jumped and unrolled the map like he was revealing a treasure. Except... this thing was way too detailed. Lines, dots, squiggles, and symbols—it looked like an art project gone wrong.

I squinted at it. "Uh-huh. Very nice. Looks like a toddler went wild with crayons. Now, tell , how do we find wolves on this abstract masterpiece?"

Sigurd puffed his chest a little—finally in his elent. "Here, my lord. This is the road where the supply carts travel. And this..." he tapped a cluster of trees drawn like so kind of ancient hieroglyph, "this is where the wolves attack. Consistently. Like clockwork."

I nodded sagely, though my brain was screaming I still don’t get it. "Right. Totally makes sense. Except it doesn’t. Honestly, I miss Google Maps."

Sigurd blinked. "Go... gle? What manner of map is that, my lord?"

"It’s magic," I said solemnly. "It tells you where to go and doesn’t require a middle-aged man roleplaying as Dora the Explorer."

"Dora?"

"Don’t ask questions, baron. Just lead the way before my beer goes extinct."

***

[Dense Forest—Later]

FLAP!

THUD!

Another crimson pelt hit the snow. My boots crunched, my breath fogged, and for a mont I almost looked like so battle-hardened legend... except no bard would ever write songs about a lord committing serial homicide on wolves.

"I can’t believe they’re hiding," one knight muttered, slicing through another furred shadow.

I risked a glance over my shoulder. And sure enough—behind , the so-called "brave servants" and "helpful chefs" who had marched in with us, swearing they’d stand by their lord, were now squatting behind a tree like squirrels in debt.

They were clutching frying pans and ladles as if those were legendary weapons. One poor soul was even silently sobbing over a skillet that had sohow gotten dented, as if the wolf apocalypse had personally attacked his cookware.

I didn’t even blink. That was expected. What wasn’t expected were the wolves.

RED. WOLVES.

Not your regular garden-variety gray or white wolves. No. These things were a shade of crimson that scread, I belong in a fantasy novel.

I didn’t even know such things existed. I an, I’ve heard of foxes, sure—but wolves? Bright red wolves? Big enough to scare bears? Yeah. Fantasy world confird.

I sighed and turned to my knights. "So? Are there more of them? Or can I finally go ho and drink the one beer that was left?"

The knights scanned the trees, swords slick with blood. "Seems clear, my lord."

"Excellent," I said, stretching my arms as if I’d just finished light gardening instead of a wolf massacre. "Beer is safe, the world is safe, and I am safe. Let’s go before the frying-pan brigade faints from stress."

They nodded, clearly relieved, and we started back down the snow-packed trail. The chefs followed at a suspicious distance, still gripping their pans like war relics.

But as we walked, I couldn’t help but mumble under my breath, "Strange though... we only killed, what, a dozen? In a forest this dense? That’s barely an appetizer. Where’s the rest of the pack?"

The question hung in the cold air, and even the trees seed to go quiet.

"Maybe I am thinking too much," I mumbled.

Spoiler: I was thinking right.

CRUNCH!!

SNAP!!

The forest went quiet. Too quiet.

We trudged back toward the path. Snow fell soft, crunching under boots, and for a heartbeat it almost felt calm—until a low, bone-deep growl froze the air.

It ca from the left. Then the right. Then everywhere.

"...Anyone else hear that?" I said, very casually.

"Yes, my lord."

And right on cue, the sound ca.

SNAP.

Branches broke sowhere deep in the woods, followed by a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the ground.

"Oh co on!" I snapped. "Do these things respawn like video ga mobs?"

"Oh no," one servant squeaked, his frying pan shaking like a tuning fork. "Oh no, oh no, oh no—"

Then we saw it.

Lumbering out from the treeline like a nightmare made of fur and muscle ca the biggest wolf I had ever seen. Red fur like molten iron, teeth glinting white, and eyes glowing like two coals that wanted personally dead.

"That’s... that’s not a wolf," one knight croaked.

"That’s a tax problem," I said, stepping back. "That thing needs its own postal code."

Before we could do anything—before we could even scream properly—the forest erupted.

HOWLS. LOTS OF HOWLS.

From every side, more red wolves poured in, teeth flashing, snarls echoing—a dozen, maybe more. The servants instantly folded like wet paper, collapsing behind their pans. One actually tried to cover himself with a soup pot lid.

"My lord!" one knight shouted, raising his sword.

"Yeah, yeah, draw your sword; I’ll write your eulogy later!" I barked, yanking mine free.

We braced ourselves for a bloodbath.

And then—

BOOM.

Not thunder. Light. A single spear of sunlight split the clouds, hitting the snow like a holy stage spotlight.

"What the hell—?" I shielded my eyes. "Did soone pay extra for weather effects?"

Through the glow, a figure appeared.

"Is that—" I squinted harder, "—a person?"

It was.

Out of the blizzard, walking like he owned the forest, ca a man. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Black hair that caught the light like ink in motion. Blue eyes so bright they might’ve been illegal. Every step radiated this stupidly confident, sparkling aura, like the universe was applauding his existence.

"By the gods," one servant whispered, awestruck, "he’s... glowing."

And he was. Glowing. Literally glowing.

The wolves didn’t even hesitate—they charged straight for us. But before they could get close, the glowing man moved.

Slash.

One wolf dropped.Thrust.Another fell.Spin, slash, slash.

Red fur and snow filled the air. The man was a whirlwind of steel and light, his sword cutting arcs so clean they could’ve been choreographed. The knights froze, jaws slack. I froze too—mostly because he was stealing my dramatic mont.

Then, to top it all off, more knights appeared behind him like so perfectly tid stage entrance. They weren’t even dirty. They looked like they’d walked straight out of a recruitnt poster.

By the ti the last wolf hit the ground, the man just stood there, sword gleaming, not even breathing hard. The servants? Silent. My two knights? Silent. ?

"...Well," I said finally, "guess soone skipped the mo about ’fashionably late.’"

The glowing man turned, and those ridiculous blue eyes landed on . He smiled. It was annoyingly heroic.

"Leif," he said, voice calm and deep like so ancient hymn. "It seems I arrived just in ti."

And just like that, the frying pan brigade burst into applause.

And you guessed it—because of course, the universe loves irony—this man was none other than Alvar Ragnulfsson.

Yes. The male lead. The walking spoiler. The spotlight-stealing poster boy for "look at , I’m perfect."

And oh, he didn’t just show up; no, this man arrived like he had paid for premium delivery. The sunlight? Paid DLC. The heroic glow? Clearly an add-on pack. I swear he must have slipped a few gold coins to so celestial intern because the sun itself had no business being this generous in the middle of a frozen hellscape.

anwhile, ? I was trembling like an underdressed tourist at the North Pole.

But you know what really rattled ? It wasn’t his perfect bladework. It wasn’t the way the servants suddenly looked like they’d found religion.

It was this one tiny, infuriating question buzzing in my brain like a mosquito on caffeine:

Why. The heck. Is he here?