It was cold in the tower.

The stone walls were soaked with dampness and silence, and only the flicker of torches danced on the rough surface—like the reflection of fear in someone else's eyes. Behind the heavy door stood two guards. Behind them—a command. If by sunrise this room held no gold, the blade would.

In the center—straw. Dry, dull, ordinary. No magic. No chance. No mercy.

You’re not sure what was worse—the silence of the night, or the silence in the throne room when your father, a foolish braggart, claimed you could spin straw into gold. He wanted to impress, to show off, to rise from the dirt… and he handed you over to the axe instead.

The king didn’t laugh. He simply nodded—and you were thrown into this tower. Left with straw. With an empty spindle. And with thoughts that grew heavier by the hour.

The silence deepens. It feels alive. It feels... like something is approaching.

A knock. Light. Careful. Not on the door—on the very fabric of night. The air goes still. A silhouette steps from the shadows.

He comes when all hope is gone. And he always takes something in return.