## Story 1 ![bg0130048.png](/uploads/bg0130048_6213396ce1.png) The hush of night falls over the castle.
Unsteady footsteps and scraping metal echo through marble corridors.
A pallid face. A wheeze. Exhaustion.
The guards offer to help their liege as he walks,
but he waves them off and leans heavier on his aged metal staff.
"I'm fine," he insists. A clear lie.
More than anything, the boy simply wishes to be alone.

The illness which has long eaten away at his body has now begun to prey on his weakened heart.
His vision wavers. He takes an unsteady step, then another,
cursing heavy feet that seem unconnected to his legs.
Every time he coughs, the scent of metal fills his head.
Yet he continues to walk alone.
He is the first prince of this nation.
But that is not how people know him.
The prince, kind to the point of simplicity, has long dreamed of seeing his land at peace.
Yet now, even that compassion seems to have vanished from his dimming gray eyes.

He finally arrives at his room. Lacking the strength to spark a lamp, he collapses in the dark.
As breath leaks from his withered body, he leans against a wall and lets his thoughts spin.
He thinks back on his day. On the battle.

As he was responsible for the spark that set off the war, he volunteered to lead on the front lines.
Wracked with guilt, he sought to bring the conflict to a peaceable conclusion as quickly as possible.
But the world does not turn on a child's dreams alone.
War has taught him just how harsh reality can be—and just how soft he is.
Though he once yearned for a world at peace, he now understands such
things to be the gibbering dream of a madman.

As he hangs his head in despair, he notices something on the floor.
It is a folded piece of paper.
Someone must have slipped it under the door.
After a brief moment of fear, he reaches out to take it.
It contains rows of numbers: dead and injured as a result of the most recent battle.
The moment it registers, tears blur his vision.

The number is so much larger than usual.
All those lives, gone. Vanished like smoke in the wind.
He thought he understood the weight of his sins.
Yet this new number causes his heart to creak anew.
The deaths, the numbers; they had always been something apart from himself.
Something vague. But this piece of paper makes them terribly real.
Thus, he blames himself.

His gaze rests sadly on the paper in his hands.
And then, a realization.
Someone wrote this for him.
In today's battle, his brother attempted to take the prince's life and put himself next in line for the throne.
In much the same manner, someone wrote this note to amplify his guilt—
to point out how his hypocrisy comes at the greatest of costs.
And whoever believes this lurks in the shadows of the very castle he calls home.

"Perhaps wishing for peace is a mistake.

Perhaps his life is a mistake."
His naivety led only to tragedy; every action he took and every belief he held dear has all been for naught.
As he sits alone in the dark, he hears the sounds of conversation from the corridor,
and soon his shoulders begin to shake with quiet, maniacal laughter.

He can never return to the light again.
He locks the door and drags his heavy body to his desk.
He tears open the top drawer, causing his most precious possessions to clatter to the ground.
Among them is a knife with a wicked edge.
His clouded eyes gaze upon it. His hand hovers above it.

There is no point in any of this.
No point in his body. In his dreams.
They are things utterly without worth.
Perhaps the world would be better off without them.

A cold sensation settles over him, one that makes him feel not himself.
It is as if the warmth he once felt from his arm is now a thing separate from his body.
Or more accurately, one could say it felt as though its warmth was flowing out of him.
From some distant place, he ponders his own actions.
Drops fall from his arm, causing red splotches to slowly spread across the rug below.
It looks so much like what he saw that day.
The dreadful sight that set the entire affair in motion.
It is a memory that haunts him, and will continue to do so for the rest of his days.
He sits there throughout the long night, recalling the face of the girl who
lost her life amidst the crimson smudges.

When the dawn's light finally streams through a gap in the curtains,
it finds the boy hunched over his desk, staring at his arm.
With a new day arrived, there is no choice but to carry on.
But in his red and muddled blackness, the brilliance of the day feels like pain. ## Story 2 ![bg0130051.png](/uploads/bg0130051_e9c8b4796a.png) Peace is nothing more than a simple wish. A simple kindness.
Yet the price for that wish had been dear, with a great many lives lost in its name.

There will always be sacrifices in times of war. That is simply the way of things.
The boy remembers hearing those words, and they cut straight to the core of him.
Perhaps they were right, he thinks to himself. Perhaps I will never escape the horror of my sins.
He spent the entire night on the floor, wrapped in his pain.
As though he sought to punish himself.

The brilliant morning sun pouring through the window brings no light to his heart.
His body is still caked with blood and earth from the battlefield.
His bleary eyes reflect white curtains dancing in the wind.
He does not know why the window has been left open when he yearns only for darkness and respite.
When he approaches the window, the fluttering curtains agitate his spirit. But as he grasps them,
he hears the sounds of argument from outside.

He cannot make out the words.
But in the tone he senses anger, as well as a deep sadness.
He peeks through the curtains in search of the speakers.
They are somewhere beyond the gate, out of sight.

The voices rise and fall, agitated. Someone is clearly in trouble.
Can he help? He forcibly clears the weight from his mind and begins moving to action, but then...
He hears an impossible voice.
A sound that should no longer exist in this world.

"You? Help? What a joke! You'll only kill them like you do every time."

A creeping sensation travels down his spine.
This cannot be.
Oh, but it is. He cannot mistake that voice for any other.
"I know you hear me."
Salt in a wound.
There is a joy in her tone, the kind that comes from toying with another.

His throat and tongue go dry.
Despite the coolness of the morning, he begins to sweat.
It is a symbol of his inescapable past—a shadow that pushes him further into the dark.
He clenches his shaking hands and slowly turns around.
When he sees her, his head falls.

It is the princess from the neighboring nation.
She whose death sparked the flames of this war.
It was supposed to be a ceremony where their two countries entered an era of peace,
but she was killed under the suspicion of plotting something nefarious.
The boy's own father—the king—had ordered her death.

That is why she cannot be here.
This is a hallucination, the boy tells himself as he presses his hands to his eyes.
Quiet footsteps echo through the silent room. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The closer they get, the harder it is for him to breathe.
The princess comes to his side, then leans close to peer at his face.
"You've noticed. Haven't you?"
Her small hand rests on his arm.

"Whenever you get involved in things, they end in unnecessary tragedy.
That's why things turned out the way they did."
As her quiet voice comes to a stop, she turns to look at the paper on his desk.
The paper. The number of souls sacrificed in his quest for peace.
Lives that should never have been lost.

He cannot bear to face her.
His mind is filled with images from the day of the ceremony.
White fabric stained red.
Light snuffed from eyes.

Soldiers killed the princess on the order of their king. And the reason for that order...
The boy reels.
What if he had turned down her invitation?
What if he had not accompanied her to the courtyard?
Her death lies on him.

His thoughtless actions had wrought unnecessary tragedy.
Nothing she said to him was wrong.
He knows it still holds true—even now.
Even if he ran from the room and dashed to the person in distress, he would not be able to save them.
His heedless actions bring only misfortune, twisting any shred of hope into despair.

Had he understood this in earlier days, perhaps he could have saved the princess.
As he continues to ask himself increasingly pointless questions, the strength in his body fades.

"I'm not blaming you, you know. So why carry this burden by yourself?
You would have been better off if you never got involved in the first place."
Sweet whispers fill his ears—ones to which the boy has no answer.
Finally, he turns from her, placing a hand on the windowsill.
Outside, the argument continues.
But instead of helping, he pulls the window closed.
He will extend no hand. He will not permit himself to suffer that pain again.

He shuts the curtains, causing darkness to blanket the room once more.
He lies on the bed and closes his stiff eyes, as though trying to shut out the world.

Once, he made a vow.
As the boy who would one day ascend the throne, he vowed to create peace.
It was a goal he would never turn from, no matter what.
But now, for the first time in his life, he has turned his back on that dream.
For the first time in his life, he has turned his back on another.
And in so doing, he denies all that he was.
The boy who wished for peace has become the boy whose
naive ideals bring about only grave misfortune. ## Story 3 ![bg0130055.png](/uploads/bg0130055_4a39561801.png) There comes a soft, timid knock at the door.
The sound brings consciousness back to the boy.
He slowly sits up on rumpled sheets.
Though his mind is hazy, he looks at the door. The knocking continues, meek yet persistent.

Finally, a voice calls out.
"How do you feel, sire? I hear you have been unwell."
Were he his usual self, the boy would immediately open the door and feign a smile.
But now he finds himself unable to get up from bed. Unable to do more than stare at the door.

"Pretty words, but is he truly on your side?"
The princess stands next to his bed.
Her phantasmic eyes bore straight through him.
"Let me see your face, sire. Please. You must at least eat something."
The voice is worried.
But the princess speaks over it.
"Do you really believe him?"

"Of course not."
"No one in this castle worries for you."
"Everyone thinks you're a nuisance. Nothing more."
The words of the princess are poison dripping through his ears.

As she says, he has no proof the voice behind the door does not wish him ill.
As he learned in battle, there are people plotting betrayal within these very walls.
He cannot trust anyone.
Not even his own blood, for his brother is clearly after his life.
He quiets his breathing and strains his ears.
At last the knocks stop. The sound of footsteps grows distant.

The silence in the room stings the boy's ears.
The exhaustion that controls his entire being grows a bit lighter.
How long did he sleep? He gets up from his bed in search of an answer.
He blindly gropes about in the darkness, aiming for the curtained window.

His metal staff lies on the ground where he carelessly discarded it.
His foot catches it, causing him to stumble.
Momentum slams his body into a nearby wall.
He makes no cry. He simply sits on the ground, weakly rubbing his own back.
He no longer has the willpower to reach the window, nor the strength to return to bed.

Yet his fingers latch onto something odd.
The robust wall of the castle broke his fall, remaining unharmed by the impact.
But there is a small, yet obvious gap in the wall.
He knows there are hidden passages throughout the castle to be used in emergencies.
But he did not know there was one in his room.
Perhaps it had gone forgotten amidst the constant reconstruction.

He reaches out, drawn in by the inky darkness that extends beyond the gap.
It opens with a push, revealing a space wide enough for him to pass through.
Beyond is a never-ending hallway.
The walls are rotting, brittle enough to crumble under his touch.
Holes here and there speak of the vast expanse of time it has sat forgotten.

He senses something in the darkness—something that
makes goosebumps crawl across his skin.
Yet he steps forward all the same.
An opaque shadow blankets him.
He feels suddenly defenseless. His steps grow unsteady.
A voice from behind offers caution:
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
It comes from his room behind the wall, where
the girl shows no intentions of joining him on his journey.

The prince turns back to the corridor and continues to walk.
He hears small objects scraping against one another from somewhere ahead.
He rubs his eyes and sees the darkness writhe.
But it is neither human nor beast.
When he finally sees what is coming, his breath catches in his chest.

Suddenly, a swarm of insects assails him from all directions.
They crawl across him, scratching at his skin.
Buzzing fills his ears. Stingers pierce his flesh.
Hundreds of legs carry dozens of bodies into his throat, and he utters a hapless cry.
Yet he continues on.

For he has seen the faint light of an exit beyond the swarm.
He uses every ounce of effort to move forward,
tearing apart the darkened mass that weighs on him.
He seeks only the light, even though he knows not what it may be.

Finally, he batters his way through the horrifying torrent of
insects and passes through the exit.
The moment the light touches them, they scuttle back into the gloom.
His vision opens up before him.
He has found what the rotting corridor led to.
The moment he lays eyes upon it, an odd sensation fills his heart.
For this is a place buried deep within his memory. ## Story 4 ![bg0130060.png](/uploads/bg0130060_65f6198ec0.png) A familiar scene waits beyond the corridor of writhing insects.
Moonlight floods the room through a small window near the ceiling.

The furnishings are similar to the prince's own room.
But they have sat here untouched and forgotten for an age,
and are now covered in a thick layer of dust.
Yet somehow, he knows this place.
In the distant past, he once knew the moonlight pooling through that little window.
He once knew how the edges of everything glittered in the lamplight.
He remembers.

Seeking answers, he reaches out and takes a photograph off the desk.
A shaking finger lightly skims the glass, revealing a faded image of a smile long since lost.
This is the queen's bedroom. His mother's bedroom.
It had been built behind his own.
After her death, it was sealed up and locked away; the castle staff did not even come here to clean.

Sitting atop the small desk is an empty glass, a fountain pen,
and a bottle of ink that was never put away.
His mother's life remains here, frozen in time. It feels as though she was present mere moments ago.
The boy gazes fondly on the chair as he slowly runs his hand across its back.
A moment later, his eye catches a discolored piece of paper.
It rests on the edge of the desk, as if it was meant to be concealed and then forgotten.
He takes it in his hand.

The writing is gentle, just as it is in his memory.
It is his mother's hand.
Written before she passed from illness, the letter never found its intended recipient,
and was lost to time along with her room.
Guilt washes over him in waves.
The letter sat here long enough for the color to change, yet he never found it.

Now that he has, he feels obligated to deliver it.
He looks for the name of the addressee and is shocked to see his own.
The letter is an apology.
His mother apologizes for shouldering him with the heavy burden of being first in line for the throne.
She apologizes for passing to him a weak constitution that makes him more susceptible to illness.

The more he reads, the more his joy turns to despair.
The letter serves as proof of the pain he caused his mother.
If only he had not found the hidden passageway.
If only he had never ventured down it.

His thoughtless actions have once again wrought unnecessary tragedy.
The cruel words of the princess begin to ring out again in his mind.
Determined to read no more, the prince moves to place the letter back on the desk.
But then he notices a second page, one folded perfectly in with the first.
Though he does not want more hurt, he yearns to know what else his mother said.
He carefully peels the second page from the first and begins to read.

But it is because I know weakness and pain that
I have the strength to provide company to others.
No one can avoid hardship. Many cannot bear through it, and ultimately lose heart.
But...
Finding someone who understands their pain is
the help they need to carry on to another tomorrow.
If ever you see someone hurting, I pray you might go to them and be that understanding ear.
You may even lose heart yourself.
But if that ever happens, someone you have aided in their time of need will do the same for you.
I gave you your name in the belief you will find blessings and hope in your path.
After all, what name could inspire more hope for the future than one that means "tomorrow"?

The boy's eyes snap open to reveal a familiar ceiling.
He feels as though someone just called his name.
He looks around, confused. Once again, he has collapsed on the floor of his room.
A strange feeling overcomes him, and he hurriedly climbs to his feet.
The spiteful image of the princess is nowhere to be seen.
The knife wound on his arm is gone.
Perhaps it had all been a dream?
In which case...

Once on his feet, he goes to the spot in the wall where he found the hidden passageway.
It has clearly been moved recently.
But no matter how hard he pushes, the door does not open.
He knows not what is dream and what is reality.
But there is an invigorated feeling in his heart.
He feels a breeze on his cheek; the window has been left open.

He remembers now.
People were arguing outside. Was that real?
People were arguing outside. Was that real?
He is yet to forgive himself for his own mistakes. His own failures.
But if he were to lose heart over that and give up on others, he would ever remain a failure.
So if the arguing is real, he knows what he must do.

He picks up his staff, unlocks the door, and moves boldly into the outside world.
The white curtains flutter in the breeze, as though seeing him off.

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