“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”

  — William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun

  The cold walls of the royal palace surrounded Ife on all sides as she walked across the equally cold floor.

  This time, the throne room was not bathed in golden rivers of sunlight, no; instead, it was filled from top to bottom with darkness and gloom, which, however, could not be seen, but could be felt: the heavy pressure on her chest and the slight feeling of suffocation in her lungs were nothing other than the result of the atmosphere.

  The weather outside the window corresponded incredibly well with the weather inside the palace: the dark sky was completely covered with even darker clouds. Despite the complete absence of raindrops, thunder, and lightning flashes, one glance outside was enough to realize that a storm was coming that would destroy everything and everyone in its path.

  A thick fog enveloped Ife, preventing her from seeing beyond her outstretched arm. She walked forward: step by step, second by second. But the throne room seemed endless; it seemed to go on forever.

  "Impossible," Ife thought, shaking her head in disbelief; and she was right, it really was impossible. However, even trying her hardest, she couldn't remember the throne room in Pharaoh's palace being as long as this one.

  "Or maybe there is another throne room that Arenor just hasn't shown me yet," she suggested.

  In any case, it didn't matter now, because Arenor was nowhere to be found. In fact, apart from herself, there was no one else here. She could feel it clearly: no footsteps but her own, no breathing but her own. She was alone.

  In this room, which seemed to have no beginning and no end, Ife was completely alone, haunted by an impenetrable gray haze wherever she went.

  Suddenly, she felt the atmosphere in the room become even darker and duller, and the fog around her become even thicker. The feeling of pressure and suffocation in her chest and lungs intensified; it felt as if someone was sitting on her chest and squeezing her neck, trying to squeeze the life out of her.

  The further she walked, the worse she felt: her vision darkened, her head spun, her arms and legs shook, and she gradually lost consciousness.

  It seemed as if someone or something was trying to stop her, to make her turn around and leave, as if what awaited her ahead could destroy not only her body but also her soul.

  However, Ifé was stubborn: she never did as she was told; moreover, she always did the exact opposite. Now, in the past she didn't remember, and in the future she didn't know, she was stubborn.

  And this time was no exception.

  Ife continued to move forward even when her legs began to buckle and everything swam before her eyes.

  At the moment when she thought it was the end and she was about to lose consciousness, the thick fog around her suddenly dissipated, her eyes regained the clarity they had lost a few minutes earlier, and her lungs were finally able to fill with refreshing air. The atmosphere in the throne room changed: gloom and dullness gave way to light and brightness. The weather also changed: the clouds parted, revealing an unusually clear sky, truly heavenly in its shade of blue, and allowing the blinding sun to flood the room with its familiar rivers of liquid gold.

  "Ah, such beauty!" a woman's voice was heard behind her.

  Without a moment's hesitation, Ifi turned around and saw something inexplicable before her: the throne room was filled with numerous tables and chairs; the tables were strewn with all kinds of food, the incredible expense and high quality of which were obvious even to the most foolish representative of humanity. Turning her head to the side, Ifi was surprised to discover openwork carpets, tapestries with incomprehensible plots, and overly elaborate paintings that completely covered the previously empty walls. Looking up, she saw that the ceiling was

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  "That's true," agreed the other girl. "It seems that the World of the Living itself favors His Majesty and his—"

  Without wasting a second, she moved forward—toward the sun, toward the light. A moment later, she realized she was in the throne room; the room had finally ended, and ahead of her was an elevation with two thrones. It was the same room where she had first met Arenor, but something was different. But what exactly? She didn't understand.

  And then, Ife realized: it seemed to be more decorated: there were also tables with chairs in front of her, lots of food laid out on the table; then she also saw people—some sitting at tables, others walking around and looking at the room, and still others talking to someone.

  Suddenly, they all turned toward the thrones and bowed. Ife also turned, expecting to see Prince Arenor and his father, Pharaoh Israfil, there. But contrary to her expectations, they were not sitting there; more precisely, Arenor was there, but instead of his father, a young girl was sitting on the throne. Her face was blurred, and she could not make out her features, but she could clearly sense the smile on her face and the happiness sparkling in her eyes.

  Arenor was smiling too; his smile was wide, wider than she had ever seen before, reaching his eyes and causing wrinkles to appear beneath them. His eyes, like the girl's, sparkled with happiness.

  Then suddenly one of the women in the throne room said,

  "Congratulations on your wedding, Your Majesty."

  Wedding?

  A sharp pain suddenly pierced Ife's chest, causing her to double over. Tears sprang to her eyes, and a lump formed in her throat that she couldn't swallow. Golden tears dripped onto the floor, leaving streaks. The pain was so intense that she felt as if she were about to die, causing her to fall to her knees right in the middle of the throne room.

  "How could you?" she whispered, gasping for breath.

  She didn't understand what was happening, why she was in pain, why she felt so bad, why she wanted to cry and scream. She didn't know, she didn't understand why she was in so much pain and why it felt like her heart was about to break.

  Then she screamed:

  "How could you?"

  It was her voice—the same voice she had used to yell at the Prince when they first met.

  And then everyone turned their attention to her; they all turned toward her and looked at her, and their gaze froze, as if they had seen a dead person.

  "How could you leave me?" she screamed again.

  "Why are you still alive?" the Prince asked, confused.

  "What? What do you mean—"

  "I killed you, Airena. Why are you still alive?" he asked again. "Shouldn't you be dead?"

  Ife felt as if she had been struck by lightning. She flinched from the intense pain in her heart; she was sure it was breaking.

  "How can you... how can you say that..." she whispered as another stream of tears ran down her cheeks. "You promised... you promised you would protect me..."

  And then she heard something that made her heart shatter into a million pieces.

  "And you believed it?"

  She could have sworn she heard her heart break at that moment. She screamed in agony and covered her ears with her hands so she wouldn't have to hear Arenor's words, but they seemed to penetrate her head.

  "It was just a silly childhood promise... are you really so naive that you believed it?" There was no mockery in his voice; he seemed genuinely surprised. "Are you really so naive that you believed me?"

  Her world shattered; all the people around her disappeared, everything around her disappeared. Only the Prince remained, sitting proudly on his throne.

  "I don't know how you survived," he said. "But in any case, there is nothing left to bind us together." Pause. "I want you to leave."

  His last word rang in her head like a bell.

  "Leave?" she asked. "But how can I—"

  "Yes, leave," his voice grew harsher. "I don't want to see you anymore. Certainly not today. Not when I'm marrying the most beautiful girl on the entire continent," he glanced tenderly at the girl sitting beside him, then gave her a light kiss on the lips. "So please, be so kind as to leave, and don't ruin my celebration with your presence."

  Despair, like a black hole, sucked Ife in deeper and deeper until it engulfed her completely.

  Strength that seemed to come from nowhere forced her to her feet. Tears streamed down her face, and her eyes seemed to melt from the fire burning inside her so intensely that it consumed her from within.

  She cried out in anguish:

  "You! You promised me! You swore you would protect me!"

  Arenor rolled his eyes, annoyed by her behavior.

  "Stop acting like a child, Airena. I already told you that it was just—"

  "You! You will pay for this! For leaving me alone!"

  The golden thread burst from his body, causing its owner to flinch in fear. In an instant, it wrapped itself around his body and began to tighten more and more with each passing second.

  She didn't hear the cries of the people; nor did she hear the cries of his bride. For they were no longer in the throne room; there were only the two of them: she and he; Ife and Arenor. Those who had once been so close and had now become so distant.

  Arenor's eyes widened in fear as the golden thread around his body tightened even more.

  "What are you—" he croaked, but Ife interrupted him.

  "Die."

  And then the thread tightened even more; there was the sound of breaking bones, the sound of a thread snapping, the sound of Arenor's death cry. And then, there was absolute silence.

  Arenor's lifeless body lay before her. He looked as if he were asleep. As if he were only sleeping. As if he were not dead. But he was dead. His once sparkling eyes were empty, and the blue sky she had once seen in them had faded irretrievably.

  What she saw brought her back to her senses. Despair loosened its grip and released her, and then she realized what she had done; she realized that she had killed Arenor. The one she loved most. Her own Prince. The one who was supposed to be with her. The one who loved her most.

  The only person left alive who was so important to her.

  And then she screamed again.