FILIP

Only two soldiers remained, their cumbersome armor feeling like a burden rather than a shield. They were more asleep than vigilant, which perhaps explained why they failed to notice the faint crack of light. The stone hall, engulfed in shadows, had long since shed the bustle of courtiers, regal faces, and servants. The masked ball had concluded as it had begun, with a resounding flourish of trumpets. The guests had trickled in from unknown chambers, some drifting into sleep with exhaustion, others fluttering their eyelashes with the delicate grace of the night.

A lone torch flickered near the grand hilt, a reminder that even torches had their own hierarchy—fixed and immovable. In a corner, a few dried flowers, once prized for their beauty, released their faded perfumes into the smoky air, whispering tales of long-ago splendour. A gaunt dog licked its emaciated body, occasionally gnawing at itself with meager enthusiasm. He recalled a distant dream, where he imagined himself in a kingdom of dogs. The moment he passed through the gate, he encountered a massive pile of meat. Though he had detected the scent of blood from afar, he had dismissed it as mere fantasy. Now, having found the pile, he approached it with growing anticipation. From the shadowy hall, his face radiated pure joy. The subsequent contented clap seemed to echo a deeply-felt satisfaction, even if it was only in a dream. Yet, one soul observed every action, both visible and hidden, from a cloaked corner shrouded in smoke and mist. It was the former castellan, long deceased, drifting among the living like a spectral presence at every banquet, handing out marshmallows to diners who remained oblivious to his existence. The reason for their blindness remained a mystery. Always solitary, he returned to his corner after each gathering with the friends of his beloved castle, longing to be seen, even just once more. And as he sat there, the miraculous happened—whether from heaven or some otherworldly source, it was hard to tell. A nearly extinguished candle dripped its last essence into a tiny pool of wax, its fleeting life lasting mere seconds. In those brief moments, the candle revealed his youthful face: vibrant and untroubled, ascending and descending stairs, lighting torches, issuing commands with fervor, and fully immersed in the life he had once yearned for. As the image, captured in the cold wax, faded away, he grasped the truth of his tumultuous existence. He had lived as he desired, savored the joy of life, and fulfilled all his aspirations. As the sun set, like countless sunsets before, Philip drifted into the night, lost to the shadows.