A man enters the town’s castle with a grin as wide as the half-moon that glows in tonight’s sky. He kneels before the throne. He nods, then says: “Of course—of course, I will serve you, my lord.”

  As the man stands, a hysterical laughter escapes him, for he is far too delighted by his plans that are all going accordingly. “Hector,” the man scoffs. We are not able to make out anything but his silhouette, standing by the windows that are blinded by the dim obscurity. “What an ignorant buffoon you were—to set out, and alone at that, into the witch’s lair!” He huffs, then walks down the long stairwell.

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  The man takes a turn to the right. He readies himself to wake the guards and assign to them their new orders—his first commands.

  He cackles again. “I sure hope your death was a swift one, dear brother,” he mutters, under his breath.

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