A Lost Hero in the Castle of the Succubi
By the second night, he had forgotten his horse's name. By the third, the face of the woman he'd once loved became a blur, replaced by a dozen gleaming faces that leaned close in his fever dreams. His shield bore a sigil he no longer recognized. His sword, still sharp, felt heavier—not from exhaustion, but from doubt.
He was no longer a hero. He was not yet a monster. He was simply there , in the warm dark, forgetting how to leave.