Fate...

And there he sits upon his throne… so proud, yet somehow hunched. A black hood pulled over his head. He sits in silence, deep in thought. In his bony fingers gleam strands of pearls. He rolls them between those colorless hands, caressing their shine—perhaps even admiring them. But his eyes, pale and hollow, are empty. They stare into a single point—somewhere distant, detached—while his fingers tug mercilessly at the strings.

Each strand’s end is anchored painfully into my flesh. Every pull pierces me to the marrow. And I move, reluctantly, to his rhythm. I do not resist—because each act of resistance feels like a drop of poison straight into my veins, darkening my mind. My eyes fill with blood. My body tenses. My reason refuses to believe. My heart no longer wants to feel. Yet deep inside, my soul flutters—a desperate, frantic beating of wings, as if trying to escape. Like a lost bird, it circles restlessly, searching for a way to break free, to sever those strings of pearls and—finally—fly into freedom.

It will find a way to scatter those pearls into the dirt where I kneel, afraid to rise. Perhaps only when I see them fall—sinking into the mud, splattered, covered in dust—will I recognize, in their dimming glow, the image of my own downfall. Only then will I understand that the figure sitting there so confidently, pulling my strings, is not my master—but my creation.

And when I realize that, I will rise. I will break his spell. Fate is not my master. Fate is the result of my own life. He pulls my strings, yes—but I was the one who placed them in his hands. I gave them to him willingly. I knelt before him, obedient, and accepted the pain he created as he drove those strings into my flesh.

What am I doing? Why do I obey the one I myself have made? I forged him from tempered steel and raised him onto a pedestal—not for admiration, but for my own enslavement. Why do I allow my creation to rule over me?

I seize the hammer and strike him. Again. And again. And again. I will reshape him. I will paint him anew and place not strings, but a lantern in his hands. Inside that lantern, I will seal the light of the sun—so it never fades—and let it remind me always that I alone am the mistress of my life, the bearer of my own light. And as long as I carry it, my creation will remain radiant, full of color, resonating in calm, harmonious tones. I will not kneel before him anymore. I will walk beside him—me and my destiny—bound not by chains of servitude, but by a covenant of partnership.