The hall was charged with an invisible tension, an energy that seemed to pulse between the gilded walls. The raised voices echoed in the air, as if the very space was filled with anxious unrest. The two lovers stared at each other, their intense gazes reflecting a mix of emotion and anger. One of them, with bright eyes and a tense jaw, took a step forward.

“You think you can take what’s mine just because you're close to him?” The voice was sharp, almost cutting. “No matter how close you are, there is no power that can make you overcome the rules. Your role is limiting.”

The other lover, with a bitter smile, raised a hand as if to touch the name whispered in their thoughts—a gesture both defiant and possessive. “I’m here to break that spell! He is mine, this constellation is mine, all mine!” they shouted, their voice charged with a volatile mix of passion and despair.

Suddenly, a strange vibration spread through the hall, as if reality itself was on the verge of warping. In an instant, a beam of light—the Quarks—shot out from a hidden device, tearing through the air with silent fury. The beam struck the defiant lover squarely, searing their skin and flesh with cruel precision.

The scream of pain and frustration echoed through the hall, but before silence could settle, time looped back. The scene replayed, with the same words, the same gestures, now laden with renewed tension, as if each repetition intensified the inevitability of the conflict.

“You think being close to him can elevate you?” the voice whispered with a note of disdain. “You’re nothing more than a shadow of a decaying lineage. No palace can make you noble.”

Those words cut deeper than any blade, piercing the lover's pride. The fury in the listener's eyes grew, but there was also an undeniable pain, an inescapable reality they could not deny. The rules surrounding them, defining their life, imposing unbreakable barriers.

... Another Era, the beginning!

Pierre Durand.

People die all the time, and it's curious what we remember—the unique images and feelings that stay with us for years and years.

Pierre realized he never had a “cat” and had never lived in one place long enough to have a simple pet.

And for a moment, the only desire he had was to own a pet cat. Simple desires he ignored, and at 51 years old, he wonders why—why he denied himself something so simple?

It was a Saturday afternoon, nine months after starting his lung cancer treatment. Pierre closed his eyes and remembered all the service he had given his country.

Recalling missions, confrontations, victories, and bottles of celebratory drinks, he remembered all the celebrations.

Slowly, the years began to pass faster, while the days grew longer. Dusk seemed to take forever, but Christmas came in the blink of an eye.

As each day passed, it became harder for him to differentiate the days. However, he remembered his entire life, even the most insignificant details, like the day he saw a wet, abandoned cat in the street.

Pierre often wondered if the choices he had made led him to a more difficult situation. He remembered the day he saw a stray cat and thought about adopting it, but in a moment of weakness, he gave up the idea.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He also wondered if having a home to share with a pet would have made any difference in his life. Would having that companionship and responsibility have been able to fill the emotional void he had felt for so long?

Pierre always sought challenges, thrills, and adventures that made him feel alive. But now, looking back, he wonders if it was all worth it.

He realized that perhaps he had lost something significant in life—something that couldn’t be found in the highest mountains or the deepest seas. The emotional connection and joy that could have been found in a simple cat.

He was driving to Brittany. His disease had progressed, and the doctors had lost hope. His cancer had metastasized, and his trip was a way to celebrate the end of his life.

But it was much more than that; it was a convenient disguise for a lonely man. He wanted to relive the beginning of his life—his passion for stories, which began early. Raised by his uncle, Armel Durand, a famous archaeologist, after his parents' death.

He spent most of his childhood and adolescence in dusty ruins, and through various excavations around the world, he learned many things. Saqqara, in Egypt, was the most surprising place he had ever seen.

But mysteriously, he became involved in espionage, working for years with the DGSE, despite his love for archaeology.

Pierre wanted to forget the future, with the end so near. He had served in intelligence, overseeing spies and conducting secret missions, but it was all over. Pierre wanted to bury himself in the distant past, reliving old memories.

Pierre arrived in a small town with medieval touches and parked his car in front of a small mansion he had inherited from his uncle.

The mansion had a rustic appearance, with stone walls and exposed wooden beams. The entrance was marked by a wooden door carved with medieval symbols.

Upon entering, Pierre was overwhelmed with emotions as he looked at the dark, polished wood floor and the walls of the office lined with wooden shelves that housed hundreds of ancient, hand-bound books that had belonged to his uncle, Armel Durand.

There was a fireplace in the center of the room, with a chimney that rose to the high, vaulted ceiling. In front of the fireplace, in a corner of the room, was a massive wooden table with a pile of old boxes underneath.

THREE DAYS LATER… Some of the boxes were open, revealing a mix of curious objects: beeswax candles, ancient parchment with elegant calligraphy, a pair of leather gloves, and a bunch of iron keys.

Around the room, several lanterns were hanging, their candles unlit. The atmosphere was tranquil but warm and enriching, as if the house was filled with stories and mysteries.

Pierre looked around the room and felt a sense of comfort. He saw so many old objects that had belonged to his uncle Armel and now were part of his history.

As he examined the old boxes under the table, Pierre felt a connection to his past and his family, as if the objects were witnesses to his existence.

The old books on the wooden shelves were like portals to other times and places, allowing him to travel through the pages to distant and unknown worlds.

The beeswax candles, old parchments with elegant calligraphy, leather gloves, and iron keys were like pieces of a puzzle that fit perfectly into Pierre's life. He knew that each of these objects had its own story—intertwined with his.

These objects were a source of comfort for Pierre, a constant reminder of who he was and where he came from. As Pierre spent his final days in that house, surrounded by these ancient artifacts, he felt a deep sense of peace and belonging. These objects represented his life, his identity, his entire childhood and youth.

Days after his arrival, Pierre began to search through all the boxes and review the old books on the shelf. He found some translations of Sumerian tablets, including the “Epic of Gilgamesh” and the “Tablet of Destinies,” which supposedly contain prophecies of the gods about the future of humanity.

Pierre also read about the “Emerald Tablets,” consisting of thirteen enigmatic phrases that address concepts such as the nature of reality, the principle of correspondence, the transmutation of matter, and the transformation of consciousness.

And two more days passed quickly as Pierre continued to explore the many books in his uncle's house. His attention was captured by an ancient heliograph—an artifact that exuded the glory of past eras, enveloped in an aura of enchantment and archaeological mystery. The heliograph held something precious: the originals of some of the most valuable texts Pierre had ever seen.

Pierre knew what that artifact protected. They were hand-bound books by his uncle, authentic treasures that had been stolen from an ancient excavation. Ten copies, translated by his uncle, were there, but he hadn’t seen those books in eight years.

Gripped by a mix of reverence and guilt, Pierre took the key that would open the heliograph and climbed to the attic. Inserting it into the lock, he turned it slowly, and there it was: a collection of books about other worlds, protected by the enchantment of time. His uncle had mentioned finding those writings in excavations and had separated and hand-bound them, hiding them from the rest of the world.

Pierre had read all the books, but now, looking at them, he felt a wave of nostalgia mixed with a sense of responsibility. He opened some copies, and to his surprise, some were completely blank.

For a time, he always carried one or two of those books with him. However, he hadn’t read them in eight years. Pierre knew that remembering is living, and he eagerly considered which book he would read again.

There it was, intact, his favorite book, which he had last read twenty-five years ago. The name of the book was a cliché, which made him smile: *Star Dragons: Wings, Flames, and Magic! *

The ink used to print the books was bright and vibrant, bringing life and a special glow to the letters. The words seemed to jump off the page, stirring up a storm of emotions and engagement in the narrative.

As he looked at that hidden treasure, Pierre reflected on the possibility of donating those originals to a museum, so they could be displayed and appreciated by the world. Perhaps it was time to correct a past mistake and allow these masterpieces to return to their rightful place—as silent witnesses to history and the glory of what once was.