A new chapter every afternoon at three. You're the main character.
He doesn't know your name yet. He will.
The cold gnaws at your hands first. The Hollow Hall looms ahead, grown rather than built, and thirteen silver masks turn as one when you enter. The dagger strapped to your thigh is iron — forbidden, poison to them, and the only reason you're still breathing. Then a voice like a blade against your throat says your title, and you turn, and he is looking at you as if he's already measuring the distance between your ribs and the hilt.
You said the words before you understood their weight — everyone does, that's how the court likes it. Now he owns one hour of your life, to be collected whenever he chooses, and he has chosen tonight. He arrives at your door in the rain and doesn't come in. "Walk with me," he says, and you know that whatever happens in this hour, you will spend the rest of the story wanting it back.
Six questions, about two minutes. Your first chapter arrives tomorrow at three.