In a land plunged into perpetual darkness, where neither the sun nor the moon could reach with their light, the immutable horizon is stained with a faint violet, orange, and blue luminescence. Against this ghostly glow stands the silhouette of a solitary castle. Nothing else is in sight, just the barren plain and a strange dome enveloping the fortress, barely visible from the reflections of the horizon upon it, like a bubble of oil floating in the darkness.
In the throne hall, bathed in the cold light of stars and the horizon, a crimson carpet with golden edges leads to a seat of shadows. There, a man of imposing presence, whose clothes blend with the gloom, lies upon the throne. On his lap rests a young woman, faintly illuminated by the horizon's gleam.
Her skin is white as porcelain, and she wears a simple dress of pale lilac. A mane of straight, snow-white hair falls to her waist. Her face is serene and inanimate, with rose-colored eyes fixed on nothingness. An iron shackle clasps her ankle, from which a chain snakes away, disappearing into the hall's shadows.
She rests her head against the man's chest, and he places a hand upon her hair in a gesture that could seem paternal.
Suddenly, in the blackness of the firmament, among the clouds of the cosmos and the countless stars, one of them broke loose. It began to descend, glowing redder in its fall, until it crashed against the castle's dome with the fury of an unleashed volcano.
Hidden in the blackness of that land, unspeakable forces best left unseen perceived the breach and drew near. But the wind was faster.
The hall remained undisturbed, but the roar—familiar yet alien—shattered the stillness. The man moved the young woman from his lap and approached the window. Seeing the crack in his dome, a sound like the snapping of chains made him close his eyes, exhaling a sigh laden with disappointment. When he turned, the throne was empty. His violet eyes opened, now with a flicker of alarm.
Turning back towards the breach, he discerned a new silhouette on the roof of one of the towers near the fortress's edge. There she was, dancing. She twirled on her feet with an ethereal lightness, her slender arms moving in time with a breeze that played with her skirt. A smile inhabited her face, and her lips moved as if speaking to an invisible friend.
No, it wasn't just a seeming. The man finally understood what was happening.
From his hall, he abandoned his contemplation of that fantastic scene and extended his hand, clenching it into a fist, as if he could seize her from a distance. The dome began to regenerate.
In one final, unhurried motion, the girl stopped her dance. She extended her palm upward, brought it close to her lips, and after a whisper, blew softly. Tiny particles, like grains of silver sand, left her hand and were carried away by the wind toward the sky.
The man clenched his fist tighter, but the dome did not seal in time. The wind had escaped with the girl's gift.
Enraged, the man brought his fist to his chest, and something in reality snapped.
The young woman levitated for an instant, as if the ground had forgotten to hold her. Then, the concept of "down" shifted, and she began to fall toward the window, as if plummeting into a pool of darkness. She accepted her fate with a smile on her lips and closed eyes—not with fear, but with relief. She was merely returning to the same centuries-long captivity, but now with a certainty burning in her chest: her prison was beginning to weaken. After all, all things wear down.
Today, surprisingly, had not been a day like yesterday. The wheel of the world had finally been set in motion.