In the dark corner of a tavern's balcony, dim candlelight flickered, casting a dance of ghostly silhouettes and odd shadows across the room.

The lamps painted a shifting prism in the green-blurry bottle of wine, held by a man cloaked in darkness. His face, partially illuminated, remained mostly in shadow, except for his eyes — vivid green orbs that seemed to pierce through the gloom with an otherworldly, almost malevolent glow.

His gaze, fixed on the bottle, seemed to peer into the depths of his soul through the blood-red liquid. His iris, small and unfocused, wavered between reality and the dark illusions he conjured in his mind.

The tavern was enveloped in a hushed silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of the innkeeper polishing cups, the rustle of newspaper pages, and the low hum of distant conversations blending into an oddly comfortable melody.

Beyond that, the fiery wind rattled the door, and the crackling fire in the hearth added a subtle undertone of something more.

He poured the wine into a cup with deliberate care, yet drank straight from the bottle. The world appeared to him as a blurred line, swaying between the rigid virtues of life and chaotic impulses.

Sometimes, he sought deeper ethical reasons — symbolized by the orderly act of pouring wine into the cup. His ethic and moralism were grounded in order and logical practicalities.

Yet, the same logic pushed him to drink directly from the bottle, driving his weary body to the tavern’s darkest corner, seeking warmth and solitude.

A fleeting grin flashed across his face, but on closer inspection, it resembled a sarcastic, sorrowful smile, a crescent moon marred by storm clouds.

He brushed his damp hair, his cloak soaked from the rain, yet he felt an inner heat. His skin remained dry, but his fingertips tingled with a fiery sensation, as if they could ignite the world on fire.

He looked over at the sword at his side, its blade reflecting his face and surprising him. His jet-black hair, impeccably neat despite the cloak covering it, made him frown.

He rhythmically tapped his fingers on the balcony’s rough wood, feeling the raspy surface scratch against his skin.

The irregular marks left by countless bottles and cups pressed deeply into the wood, each one a sign of fleeting moments of escapism and happiness.

For him, the marks were a reminder of his past, a past he neither despised nor cherished but found utterly meaningless.

He knew his past, his present, and the blurred lines of his future. Nothing in the world could surprise him anymore, yet he felt a deep sorrow for even trying to find meaning.

Turning the bottle, he savored the taste of the cheapest wine, a bitter contrast to the opulence he once knew. It warmed his throat. Yet the sweetest strawberry wine couldn’t erase the salty bitterness in his mouth.

He wondered if it was his words or his choices that led him to this moment, tasting the remnants of his past decisions in every sip, or if it was, by design, a binding net impossible to escape.

Reclining slightly in his seat, he noticed the young maiden adjusting her violin on her shoulder. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the impending melody.

As the maiden lifted her instrument, the first note dropped like molten honey, flowing into his chest with a rousing sensation. Each drawn-out stroke of the strings whispered his unattainable desires, caressing the edges of his fragmented self.

He sighed — a thin, low exhale, like a suppressed heartbeat struggling to break free. The melody shifted, gaining a sharp edge that cut through the air like a dagger. The innkeeper paused, and even the constant wind seemed to hush in reverence.

His grip on the bottle tightened. The notes turned quick and biting, filling the room with a palpable energy that sparked a flicker of madness in his eyes.

He felt the sharpness of the broken glass in his palm, yet it did not cut him. The cold, hard floorboards creaked under the pressure of his feet, cracking the wood.

If he could put it into words, it was as if a part of him raged like a stormy ocean, calling him to rise, dominate, and seize what was rightfully his by sheer, violent force.

And yet, another part of him felt like a sailing boat braving the tempest, guided only by will and the hope of passing the night.

The violin’s sorrowful tune overwhelmed even the bitterness on his tongue. He opened his eyes to see his fragmented reflection in the broken glass fused with the clarity of his blade, picturing his image against the cryptic shadows dancing on the walls.

He took pleasure in this moment. He liked what he saw. Fragments were something he yearned for, with an unhealthy obsession.

He could not understand why others sought routine and a clear path when fragments and chaos offered so much more beauty and meaning.

As the melody turned dark and troubled, his eyes blinked. The notes grew heavier, each one pressing down on his soul, bending his resolve. It was as if fate was playing a cruel trick, inviting him to dance with memories and reasoning.

Should he play in darkness? Should he seek the orderly light that fate seemed to offer? The temptation was palpable, like the devil offering an irresistible deal.

Yet he did not flinch. He knew what he wanted, even if fighting against fate and time seemed like a futile fantasy. For him, it was a bitter routine he embraced.

The tune became frenzied and erratic, and his blood raced with the tempo. Each frantic note echoed his restless spirit. He stood up, arms outstretched, unaffected by the curious eyes of the customers.

He craved to be bitten by the song, to let it consume him. The room spun around him, blurring the boundaries of reality with each piercing note.

He held his sword, feeling the haunting melody fill him, its purity contrasting with the chaos pulsing through his veins.

His feet moved on their own, pacing rhythmically around the tavern, tracing invisible lines drawn by each stroke of the violin’s strings.

It reminded him of the lullabies of his childhood, bringing a wide smile to his face. His eyes tricked him into thinking he heard screams, and his senses felt off, as if encountering resistance as he paced.

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Yet, he did not care. The music rose to a triumphant finale, each note a declaration of love, wavering between high, energetic bursts and soft, quiet hums, like a lover's whisper echoing through the hall.

The innkeeper’s hand stilled on the cup he was polishing, the cloth slipping from his grasp as the music ended.

A knot of confusion tightened in his chest, the flickering candlelight playing tricks on his eyes. The fierce wind resumed its relentless knocking at the door, and the creaking of burning wood sounded like the tavern itself was set aflame.

He blinked rapidly, but the green orbs staring back at him remained unblinking and intense, like twin embers stripping his secrets bare.

Fear crept into his veins, cold and insistent, wrapping around his heart like icy chains. He tried to look around, but the man before him demanded all his attention, as if his body refused to heed his commands.

He saw the sword in the man’s hand, the silver blade painted in dark, reddish hues. For a moment, he thought it was the wine, making him question if he had drunk more than he realized.

But then, a cold shiver raced down his spine. He hadn’t touched any wine; his wife had threatened to leave him the last time he did.

His pulse roared in his ears, a frantic drumbeat that tricked him into sitting. He felt the cold surface of the chair clash against his wet back.

Numbness spread through his limbs as sweat and tears stormed down his rugged face, trimming his beard like the damp cloth hanging on the balcony.

The silence stretched like a taut, unyielding thread that threatened to snap at any moment. The innkeeper’s breath caught in his throat; each inhale was a painful effort. The air was thick with tension, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him.

Finally, the man broke the silence, his voice low and gravelly, yet tinged with an unsettling charm. "Ah, the irony of beauty, don't you think? When life seems to whisper that the struggle has ceased."

The innkeeper flinched, the sound startling him from his trance. He nodded mutely, his throat too dry to speak.

The man’s gaze remained locked on him, a predatory glint in his eyes that warned him to keep quiet. It was as if the devil himself had whispered in his ear, and he dared not disobey.

“It seems as though we have written on the walls,” the man continued, his voice like a serpent’s hiss. “One's birth is a game of chance. Should fortune smile, prosperity follows; if not, the ghouls devour your flesh, a blight upon your existence.”

“You grow old, weaving bonds, tasting treachery, savoring affection, and enduring the sting of unrequited love. You toil, promising yourself and the stars above that greatness will be yours.”

“And you did it.” His voice turned playful, mocking. “You walked the narrow roads of false riches and illusory choices. Your labor bore results, giving the illusion that life's puzzle was finally coming together.”

“You look in the mirror each morning, a soft smile gracing your lips as you notice your healthier skin. You feel stronger than ever. The woman in your bed walks over for a kiss.” The man smiled wickedly. “It felt like a dream, one you vowed to make real.”

“But once your mirror becomes tainted,” the man sighed deeply. “Everything changes. Fate judges your every achievement, and the moment for change has long slipped through your fingers.”

“You find your beloved entranced by your closest friend,” the man chuckled darkly. “You dismiss it as the price for your ascent to power and wealth. But you're mistaken. Once your reflection is marred, everything succumbs.”

“The clandestine bargains to skirt the law, the innocents you ensnared for affluent patrons — every deed matters, for fate meticulously tracks our every choice.”

The innkeeper’s eyes widened, threatening to burst from their sockets. His entire body trembled violently, the fragile wooden chair beneath him creaking under the strain.

His hands, no longer steady, sent glasses tumbling to the floor with a cacophonous crash, shards scattering in all directions. The sound of a bottle breaking into countless fragments echoed through the tavern, each splintering crack a discordant note in the tense silence.

His face drained of all color, becoming as pale as a ghost, as if every drop of blood had suddenly abandoned him. The metallic taste of fear lingered on his tongue, mingling with the stale odor of the tavern.

“You always said that you were going to make it,” the man said, shaking his head. “Now it's evident to all. This game spares none, only leaving behind casualties and the servitude of a hollow smile.”

“You recognize that things could crumble and that your so-called friends might vanish. But isn't it? The dream life you've pursued, skirting obstacles, convincing you of your own greatness.”

“The disparity in status is significant. To evade scrutiny, you opened this tavern. Smart move, I must admit. But I am no judge here.” The man stood up, looking at his hands.

“I see things plainly, yet I always attempt to transform them,” he said with a faint smile. “Can you fathom it? That tonight, because of my partner's melody, the entire continent might be saved.”

The man eyed around him, surveying the hunched bodies over the tables, where a pool of dark liquid mingled with the wine and the brownish beer.

“Do you believe that if I leave things as they are here, you will be the key to the whole plan?” The man chuckled hard, as if he had heard the joke of the year.

“Of course you don’t! Who is going to believe it? Maybe your clients, but I fear they’re out for better or worse than this life. But don’t worry, it looks like fantasy, but it isn’t,” the man said, leaning his head over the innkeeper’s shoulders.

“I believe in you, sir,” the man said. “Is it too late to reveal? Some truths you may uncover later, but beware, they can consume your life, scorching all bridges and leaving no refuge.”

The man picked up his sword, adjusting his posture to look at the ceiling. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he contemplated his next words.

“From all those times, I didn’t walk away when I knew it was my time to go. From all the attempts that made others think me a madman,” the man said, narrowing his eyes and burning with anger as he looked at the innkeeper.

“I didn’t back away a single time,” he spat on the floor. “I made mistakes. You think I don’t care? But you, the others, and the heavens don’t realize what this means to me. So, I’ll give myself one more chance to make it right.”

The man started walking towards the exit, the maiden following him like a ghost with her violin in hand. He paused one last time, voicing his doubt. “Is it madness to challenge destiny? If it is, then so be it; label me the fool; I don’t care.”

Each step they took reverberated through the room, sending ripples through the fabric of reality itself, as if the world were a fragile piece of paper, threads unraveling with every movement.

The air grew suffocating, a palpable weight pressing down on the room, laced with the metallic tang of fear.

The innkeeper's eyes widened in silent horror as the beams of the ceiling groaned under unseen pressure, splintering with an eerie crack. Splinters and shards rained down like dead leaves in autumn.

The walls buckled inward, their surfaces creasing and tearing like fragile parchment under the merciless stroke of an invisible blade.

Outside, the rain pounded against the remains of the tavern, each droplet striking like a tiny hammer, driving the fragments deeper into the ground.

The wind howled, crashing against the ragged edges with a ferocity that sent shivers down the innkeeper's spine. The cold seeped into his bones, mingling with the icy dread that held him in its grip.

The tavern, once a haven of warmth and laughter, now lay in shambles, a chaotic battlefield of splintered wood and crumpled paper. Tables and chairs lay in disarray, twisted and broken as if caught in a tempest.

The innkeeper's chair, however, remained intact, a solitary island in the midst of the chaos. His knuckles were white as he gripped the arms of the chair, his body trembling uncontrollably. His eyes, wide and hollow, pulsed with a lackluster glow, reflecting his life fading away.

The man paused at the door, turning back to the innkeeper one last time. His eyes, those vivid green orbs, bore into him with an intensity that seemed to pierce his very soul. The maiden stood beside him, her violin resting silently at her side, the bow hanging loosely in her hand.

"It's foolish to believe in a fool," the man said in a low, almost whispering voice. The innkeeper's heart clenched at the sound, a final, crushing blow to end the light in his eyes. “But isn’t foolish to take a fool words seriously.”