River
I think we should go to the river. A twenty-minute walk from the castle is enough to reflect on yesterday, but too little to truly understand anything. Does any of us truly understand anything? We only pretend to know where we're going.
The path winds between the hills like a snake escaped from a cartographer's nightmare. The terrain around the castle is astonishing—steep slopes, narrow passages, ravines where you least expect them. Architects of the past understood: beauty and practicality are not enemies, but allies. Every stone could mean the difference between life and death. Now, these slopes are a twist of fate: try capturing the castle if you first spend half an hour scrambling over hummocks, cursing everything.
The most astonishing thing is that a warm river flows nearby. In a kingdom of harsh winters and short summers, it steams even in the freezing cold, as if nature were playing a joke on the logic of geography. Locals say it originated from a dolphin. Not a simple one, of course. Even our stones aren't simple.
The legend goes like this: there once was a remarkable dolphin. He could talk, wield magic, and had a temper more formidable than a king's. In a fit of genius or boredom, he decided to divide the continent into three parts—for ease of travel, he claimed. A noble goal, to be sure. But his name has sunk into oblivion, the river has half-dried up, and the other half of the continent is now inaccessible. Ironically, having intended to make travel easier, he divided the lands even further.
But to us, in this landlocked kingdom, the river brings sea fish and salt water. Geographers are perplexed, merchants are delighted, and cooks ask no questions. We have many such stories—apparently, when life becomes too mundane, the imagination works overtime. We rely on myths—on tales of past greatness that may never have existed.
So I came to the river. It's quiet here—only the murmur of water and the rustling of leaves. A place for reflection, if you want to reflect, and for a blank mind, if you don't. A place where time flows differently—slower, like this water, which remembers ancient magic and gives warmth to all who are ready to receive it.
I sat down on a familiar stone and pulled out a note—crumpled, damp with sweat, smelling of leather and something old, like wisdom itself. The handwriting was familiar, firm, without unnecessary embellishment:
"Child, it seems I made a mistake in giving you such a precious gift.
Even this gift isn't worth your life—there's nothing more precious than it. Not titles, not knowledge, not love, not treasures—all is dust and ashes.
As long as you're breathing, it can matter. The dead don't care.
For us knights, honor and life are synonymous. Live by honor.
Everything can be lost and regained. Everything can be destroyed and rebuilt. Only by momentarily losing our breath or our honor do we lose everything.
Therefore, don't throw words to the wind, value your life. "Honor" can only be lost by yourself—no one can deprive you of it."
I stand there, staring at the lines, and feel something inside me tremble—whether from shame or delight. The words seem simple at first glance, but the longer I think about them, the deeper they become. Like a well—a stone ring at the top, and a whole underground world below.