The streets of Moscow were cloaked in a somber gray, a fitting reflection of my own mind. The distant sound of artillery rumbled like a far-off storm, a constant reminder of the war that had gripped this city in its unforgiving claws. As I walked, my thoughts drifted, entangled in questions I couldn't escape. Why were we, as a species, so determined to destroy each other? Did we truly kill for money, power, and pride? Or was there something more sinister driving us toward this endless cycle of violence?
I was once a man who believed in purpose, in honor. Fresh out of school and wide-eyed with the idealism of youth, I enlisted, eager to serve a country that I thought stood for something greater. My father, a veteran of wars past, filled my head with tales of heroism, of battles fought for noble causes. I wanted to be part of that legacy, to feel the weight of history on my shoulders. But the battlefield had a way of stripping you of your illusions. It wasn't long before I realized that the glory my father spoke of was little more than a mirage, a thin veil masking the ugly truth. War was not about heroes or causes—it was about survival, power, and the whims of those in charge.
I shook off the memories and found myself standing before a grand, decaying building, its architecture defiant against the ravages of time and war. Its stone façade was a patchwork of history, adorned with scenes of triumphs and tragedies, the faces of long-forgotten warriors etched in the cold graphite. At its center, a mural caught my eye—a knight, weary and burdened, his sword dripping with blood. His eyes, carved with meticulous detail, seemed to hold a world of sorrow.
The knight's tale was familiar to me, though I couldn't recall where I'd first heard it. Perhaps it was from my father, or maybe I'd read it during one of those long, restless nights on the frontlines, when stories were all we had to keep the darkness at bay. The knight was once a celebrated figure, a man of honor and courage, favored by his king. But everything changed when the king, known for his capricious and cruel nature, gave him a terrible command: kill the princess.
There was no explanation, no justification—just an order that shattered the knight's world. Torn between his loyalty and his conscience, the knight set out to complete the task, each step heavy with doubt. He walked the silent halls of the castle, his footsteps echoing like a death march, until he reached the golden door of the princess's chamber. She opened it, her eyes reflecting a profound sadness, as if she had been expecting him all along.
"You've come to kill me, haven't you?" she said, her voice soft but unafraid.
The knight faltered. "How did you know?"
"No one needed to tell me," she replied. "I asked for it."
The knight's heart ached at her words. "Why?"
The princess spoke of a disease that consumed her, each breath a battle she was destined to lose. She had prayed, pleaded for relief, but found no answer. "God is silent," she said, tears streaking her cheeks. "I no longer want to live in this agony."
Desperate to comfort her, the knight offered words of hope, hollow as they were. But the princess's despair was unshakable. "God is dead," she whispered, a finality in her voice that chilled the knight's soul. Unable to bear her suffering, he lifted his sword, delivering a merciful death. The act haunted him for the rest of his life, a stain on his soul that could never be washed away.
As I stared at the knight's sorrowful visage, a sharp voice pulled me back to the present. An old man, wrapped in a faded coat, stood beside me, his gaze fixed on the same mural.
"They're going to tear this place down," he muttered, his voice bitter with resentment.
"Why?" I asked, startled by his sudden appearance.
"Because of the war," he replied, spitting the words as if they tasted foul. "This building sheltered those who ran from the fighting. Cowards, they call them."
His words stung. I knew what it was like to be labeled a coward. After my time as a soldier, I tried to channel my disillusionment into something meaningful. I became a journalist, determined to expose the truth of the war that had disfigured so many lives. But my writings were often censored, my articles twisted to fit the state's narrative. In a time where dissent was seen as treason, even my pen felt like a weapon that could backfire at any moment.
I nodded absently, pretending to agree with the old man's sentiment, and quickly moved on, leaving the building and its mournful stories behind. My stomach growled, and I ducked into a small, dimly lit restaurant, hoping to find some semblance of peace. I ordered a simple meal—stale bread and a cheap glass of wine, hardly a feast, but enough to dull the hunger.
As I ate, I watched a man outside, slipping a few coins into the hand of a homeless woman. It was a brief, quiet act of kindness, a small rebellion against the brutality of the world around us. For a moment, I felt a glimmer of something I hadn't felt in years—a faint, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, there was still some good left in this broken city.
But as I savored that fleeting moment of peace, the restaurant door swung open violently. Two police officers stormed in, their eyes scanning the room with cold efficiency. My heart sank. I knew they weren't here for the food. They were looking for people like me—those who questioned, those who refused to blindly follow.
One of the officers pointed at me. "You're under arrest."
I barely resisted as they grabbed me, their hands rough and unyielding. I glanced back at the restaurant, at the streets outside, and at the city that had once been my home. In that moment, I felt the weight of every story I'd ever written, every truth I'd tried to tell, and every war I'd ever fought—both on the battlefield and within myself. And I wondered, as they dragged me away, if the knight had ever found peace after all.