The sheer scale of the FantasyVerse Summit caught me off guard—a blinding explosion of lights that shimmered off towering banners, each decorated with iconic characters, and a thunderous clash of voices that rose and fell like waves. I had attended many conventions before, but this one stood out from the rest. The air was thick with anticipation, an energy that promised something exhilarating. But under all the excitement, anxiety clawed at my gut.

I needed a story—something good, something different.

FantasyVerse was the ultimate nerdvana—an epic convergence of sci-fi and fantasy writers, word wizards, and creative legends, all colliding under the high vaulted ceilings of a grand, open auditorium. Massive displays towered on every side and costumed fans swarmed the aisles like characters stepping straight out of a dream. Somehow, this magical world ended up in the heart of New Orleans.

This was my chance to mingle with industry giants and legendary authors. It was an invitation to absorb every insight from the panels, to brush shoulders with creators whose work I devoured, to feed my craving for something beyond the insignificant, safe pieces I wrote for the local news. Sure, the paycheck was steady. But what I really wanted—what kept me up at night—was the dream to write something fresh, something that could make people stop and think. And, maybe one day, publish my own book. Maybe this convention held the spark of inspiration I was looking for.

A thrill buzzed through me as I elbowed my way to the front row of the discussion panel featuring the Illuminates. As I wedged myself into a seat, I found myself sandwiched between an overly enthusiastic fangirl and a weary older man who seemed like he was here against his will.

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