You know when fairy tales stop being just stories? The moment people start believing in them.
Andrzej Sapkowski
The garden outside was cloaked in impenetrable darkness, filled with strange rustles and creaks, the calls of nocturnal birds, and the intoxicating scent of white jasmine, its petals damp with dew, just beginning to unfurl. For a moment, he hesitated—part of him ached to slam the window shut, to block out that eerie night world with heavy curtains like he did as a child, to dive into the soft bed, pull the blanket over his head, and nestle into a warm, cozy cocoon, drifting off to the safe harbor of sleep. But childhood was long behind him, and the man he had become would find it laughable, even absurd, to run from challenges, to hide and wait for fate to decide his path. No, he was the one writing his own story.
The candle on the table flickered and sputtered, sending up a faint wisp of gray smoke, and the man by the window snapped his head around, pulled abruptly from the depths of his thoughts. The room was empty, save for the distant, solemn chime of a clock striking midnight. He still had a little time, and the library felt stifling, so the window remained open.
Sitting down at the desk, he opened a thick, leather-bound tome, dipped his quill into a bronze inkwell, and began to write with a steady, determined hand. The words had long been composed in his mind; now, he just needed to commit them to paper. This was his purpose, his calling, his life’s path—to craft the Chronicle. A journey lay ahead, one from which he might not return. So instead of catching a few hours of sleep before the appointed time, he chose to organize his book, to record the events he had witnessed over the past few weeks and days.
The quill moved swiftly across the yellowish paper, leaving behind neat, elegant script. His mentors at the Academy had always praised his handwriting, as well as his wisdom and composure, traits that seemed beyond his years even then. The king valued these qualities too, which was why he had entrusted him with such a critical and delicate task.
The Chronicler set the quill aside and rested his head in his hands. For a while, he sat motionless—whether lost in thought or dozing, it was hard to tell. Only the next chime of the clock startled him, making him jerk upright from the desk. Outside, the wind howled suddenly, and in the distance, the faint rumble of thunder echoed. The candle gave one last flicker and went out...
***
Some time passed before the darkness beyond the window began to thin, the sky turning a pale, ashen gray as dawn approached. The storm had subsided, though heavy clouds still blanketed the heavens, and a fine drizzle continued to fall. But this was typical weather, familiar to everyone.
The door creaked softly as two men entered the library. Both were dressed plainly, like travelers, their drab brown-and-gray clothing blending into the dim light. Their hats were pulled low over their eyes, obscuring their features in shadow. Yet, beneath the cloak of the taller man, the hilt of a short sword peeked out, and he carried himself with an air of arrogance, while his companion, shorter in both stature and status, seemed almost subservient.
“Light a lamp,” commanded the armed man, and his companion fumbled to pull out a small lantern, striking a flint to ignite it. A timid beam of light illuminated the room, revealing a space kept in impeccable order, as if its owner were a stickler for perfection. Books lined the towering shelves that reached the ceiling, arranged in flawless rows without a speck of dust. The window was shut, hidden behind heavy velvet drapes. Only on a small table tucked in the corner did signs of use remain—a bronze inkwell, a burned-out candle with wax dripping down its sides, and a closed book bound in black leather. It was this book that caught the taller stranger’s attention.
“We need to make sure there’s no trace left behind,” he said, speaking more to himself than to his companion.
He settled into the chair by the desk and opened the book with a cautious air, as if expecting some hidden trap to spring and snag the intruder’s hand. Of course, nothing of the sort happened.
“‘He ascended the throne on the fortieth day of Thunderfall, two... four... four... one...’—no, that’s not it,” he muttered irritably, waving a hand like a frustrated student unable to find his homework notes. With a single motion, he flipped through dozens of pages.
His subordinate stood nearby, holding the lantern and staring at the book as if it were something far beyond his comprehension.
“Ah, this is getting closer,” the man with the sword grumbled, running a finger along the pages. “‘Prince Radomir became betrothed to Princess Anna of the Mountain Lands, the youngest daughter... A union of two powerful realms...’ Yeah, yeah, yeah... Keep looking... ‘Agnesa, daughter of Antony, a sexton from Millhaven... by the will of His Majesty, who sought out talented youth across the Kingdom...’ She’d have stayed in her little Millhaven, married a priest, but no, the girl had to go to the Academy, dreaming of being a scholar...”
The man with the lantern nodded, his entire posture and grim expression radiating contempt for anyone so eager to chase after learning.
“Now, where was I?” his companion muttered, turning another page and breaking into a satisfied smirk. “Here we go, this is what he wrote last night—the ink’s still barely dry. ‘His Majesty entrusted me with an extraordinarily important task: to deliver a newborn child to trustworthy hands and leave it there in safety, as rumors have already spread that ill-wishers seek to disrupt the future marriage of His Highness to the daughter of the neighboring kingdom’s ruler. I am fully aware of the responsibility placed upon me, for in truth, this child, though born out of wedlock, is an heir to the throne... I am prepared to lay down my life without hesitation to honor the trust His Majesty has placed in me...’”
“Well, well,” the taller man murmured under his breath. “He honored it, laid down his life, just as it’s written. A shame about Marti—we studied together once, a sharp guy... but a fool. What an oxymoron...” He shot a sideways glance at his companion. “You’re sure you handled everything properly?”
“You know me, sir, I don’t miss,” the other replied, lowering his gaze modestly, though a smug smirk tugged at his lips. “Bang! One shot, and he dropped straight into the river.”
“And he couldn’t have swam out? Because if he did, we’re in deep trouble...”
“With a crossbow bolt in his chest? I’d bet my life, sir, he was dead before he even hit the water!”
“Alright, and... his cargo? Where’s that basket? What happened to it?”
“Probably sank. The storm was so bad, you couldn’t see a thing. I searched the whole riverbank—nothing. Went down with the basket, and that’s that!”
“And if it didn’t sink?”
The man with the lantern waved a dismissive hand.
“Sir, do you really think a three-day-old baby, dropped into a raging river, is gonna swim like a fish?”
“Shut it, you idiot!” the older man snapped. “Forgot that walls have ears?”
For a while, he sat in silence, staring thoughtfully at the book before him. Then, with a decisive motion, he tore out the last few pages, held them to the lantern’s flame, and both men watched wordlessly as the fire consumed the yellowish paper.
“As the ancients said, no man, no problem,” the older man remarked. He stood, walked to the window, opened it, and scattered the ashes into the wind.