Walking along the path, I caught myself smiling. With this thought in mind, I set off toward the castle, ready to meet whatever fate might throw at me. In my hand—a magic pouch, in my heart—wisdom, in my soul—the warmth of that river that flows through the years, carrying the memory of that morning when the boy first tasted true mentorship.
Now, so many years later, I understand: Lejont gave me more than just a magical gift. He taught me a lesson about the value of life, the dignity of choice, and how honor lies not in loud oaths, but in quiet loyalty to oneself. This gift proved more precious than all the treasures in the world.
Maybe this is life—to walk, to fall, to rise, to laugh at yourself, and still believe that something real awaits around the next bend. In a world where every word is a challenge to fate, and every drop of warm water holds an echo of eternal truth, living honestly is the only way to avoid drowning in an ocean of fleeting illusions.
Returning to the castle, I felt the stone walls embrace me with a cool silence—the same silence that only comes in places where centuries have mingled too many secrets in the air. My footsteps echoed loudly in the corridors, as if reminding myself that I had returned—not a ghost, not a shadow, but a living person, with dust on my boots and a vague uneasiness in my chest.
The first thing I did was go to my mother's kitchen—I wanted to tell her about my conversation with Sir Lejont, about how he spoke of duty and honor. I'd keep quiet about the bag, though—the very one he'd told me to hide. Not out of a lie, but from a strange feeling that promises weigh more heavily than the desire to share. We're all masters of half-truths when it comes to things dear to us.
This is, of course, wrong. Is there any right action in a world where every day we have to choose between what should be and what is? Every choice is a leap into the abyss, and no one knows what lies below.
The kitchen was empty. It smelled of fresh bread and herbs, and copper cauldrons reflected the morning light, turning the ordinary room into an alchemical temple. But my mother's usual shadow by the hearth was gone. I decided to look in the garden—maybe she was there among her flowers, musing on how strange life is when sons become knights and mothers remain waiting by the window.
There was a princess sitting in the garden.
Eley sat on a stone bench, surrounded by scarlet flowers, as if the entire world had been created for this moment—for the sunlight to play in her hair, and for the book in her hands to seem not just a book, but a key to worlds inaccessible to me. Her light hair flowed over her shoulders like sunbeams caught in a net, and the setting sun spilled pink silk and golden dust across the sky. Eley always had a knack for transforming the most ordinary places into the setting for a fairy tale, without even realizing it.
" Good evening ," she said, looking up. "I've been waiting for you for quite a long time."