The music drifted through the bustling streets of the capital, its melody soft and mysterious, stirring curiosity in those who heard it. People continued with their daily routines, unaware of the strange presence that had quietly infiltrated their world. A crowd had gathered around the fountain in Charing Cross Square. While this spot was usually admired for its stunning neo-Gothic architecture, today, for once, the crowd was not drawn by the beauty of the place.

  Standing beside the fountain, at the heart of the square, was a young woman whose presence seemed utterly out of place. The wind tugged at her almost white, pearl blonde hair as she adjusted the top hat perched precariously on her head, her hands swathed in black silk gloves. As she brushed the stray strands from her face, the artwork across her skin became impossible to ignore: silver glitter, speckled with tiny stars, adorned her features from her cheekbones to her eyebrows. Her knee-length black trousers, a stark contrast to the refined elegance of her blazer, seemed almost too modern for the timeless beauty of the square.

  No matter how you looked at it, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to her appearance. And yet, the crowd couldn’t take their eyes off her. It was as if they had found themselves standing in the deepest darkness, mesmerised by a single, radiant light.

  The music box on the small wooden cart beside her spun slowly, its delicate tune winding through the air, drawing people closer.

  "Lundenbuhr wakes to the sound of the bells from St Elisabeth’s Tower. The fisherman fishes, the baker bakes, and some believe that the opening of the shops and market square is magical—mysterious as the night, loud as thunder. But nothing... nothing is more powerful than the starlight of the night. The stars shining brightly in the sky above us.”

  Perhaps it was her soft, melodic voice, laced with an almost hypnotic singing quality, that held the crowd in its thrall. No one questioned what was happening. For some, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. A broad smile tugged at the corners of her rosy lips as she beckoned the people closer.

  "Come closer! Don’t be shy! Have courage! Dare!"

  At first, the crowd hesitated, unsure of what was unfolding before them. But as the first brave souls edged nearer, the others followed suit, as though drawn by an unseen force. Whether they had succumbed to her charm or simply yielded to their own curiosity, there was no answer. And yet, no one seemed to question it.

  "My friends, have you ever wondered what lies behind the mystery of the stars?”

  A murmur spread through the crowd, and a hush descended. Her smile widened ever so slightly.

  “I can’t tell you” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “But perhaps I can help you understand. So let me tell you a story. And, as is often the case, it begins with a hero.

  Where do they come from? What do they look like? What can they do? What is their name? Who are they?

  Justified questions, my friends! I agree with all of you! But, you see, true heroes have neither a face nor a name.

  In fact, no one remembers the hero himself, only his deeds. They are like the small piece of chocolate your neighbour gave you when you were a child. You remember the taste and the warmth it brought, but you don’t recall what it looked like or what it was called.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The night was bright as our hero made his entrance. Distant, almost inaudible screams echoed from every corner, sending a strange, tingling vibration through the air. It was like a song you can’t shake, lingering in your mind even in the quietest moments. A tune that sends chills down your spine, leaves goosebumps on your skin, and yet, won’t let you forget it.

  The hero clutched the most important object in his life to his chest. It seemed out of place, so peaceful, so calm, so gentle against the harsh backdrop of his surroundings. Another scream pierced the air. Gunshots rang out, followed by an uneasy silence that gripped the room. The hero held his breath, and the stillness seemed to thicken, suffocating him. But the stench of iron was far worse, the smell of blood so overpowering it brought tears to his eyes and a rising sickness in his throat.

  The streets seemed the same that night, endless, winding, bleak. The colour red, never so bitterly repulsive beneath the moonlight, would forever remain the one he despised most. For it would forever remind him of this night. The hero closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. Just before doubt could overwhelm him, something warm brushed against his hand. His eyes opened, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. It was remarkable how something so small and innocent could bring such light in a place so dark.

  His mind was made up. He ran, faster, harder, silent, swift. Climbing with the object still clutched in his arms was a challenge, but somehow, he managed. Unlocking the window was the easy part. He slipped into the second-floor apartment, gently placing the object on the sofa in the middle of the room. He fixed his gaze on it, as if he knew, deep down, this would be the last time he saw it. From his pocket, he drew a letter and placed it beside the object, lingering for a brief moment before slipping back out the window and disappearing into the crimson night.

  Screams rang out from all sides, followed by gunshots, the noise silencing everything. There was no turning back. His legs ached, but he had no choice but to keep running. His body screamed for rest, but the urgency of the chase kept him moving.

  “There! One of them!” someone shouted, and his heart skipped a beat. His legs pushed harder, his breath quickening. The twisted faces of the dead littered the streets, contorted in unnatural ways, and for a moment, he wondered whether they had ever truly been alive. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his own breath drowned by the pounding of his heart.

  The river loomed ahead, close yet impossibly distant. With one final burst of strength, he pushed himself forward. A gunshot rang out, and the world tilted sideways. At first, the hero couldn’t comprehend what had hit him, but the searing pain in his leg quickly made it clear. He gritted his teeth, stretching out for the bracelet that had fallen from his pocket. Footsteps approached, their rhythm cold and relentless.

  When he looked up, the chill ran deeper than the pain. Eyes, devoid of warmth or mercy, fixed on him. And when they landed on the bracelet, something colder than ice flickered in the man’s gaze.

  “I know what this is” he growled, voice like gravel. “So tell me. Where is it?”

  The hero’s breath trembled, but he didn’t answer. The bracelet was clutched tightly in his hand. The man’s patience was wearing thin. Another brutal kick landed, followed by another, and then another.

  “Answer me!” the man barked. “Where is it?! Where is the baby?”

  The hero remained silent. His body grew numb, but his resolve held strong. No matter how many times the question was asked, he would never give the answer.

  Blood filled his mouth, and he spat it out. He forced himself to look at the man’s furious face, though the words came as a blur. His vision clouded, and his body gave way to the overwhelming darkness. The last thing he saw before everything faded was her face.

  And so, the hero was silenced forever. For you must understand—true heroes do not survive their heroic deeds. The world was changed forever after that night".

  The crank turned, and the music spun gently once more, bringing the crowd back to the present. “Ah, ahh! What are those long faces for? Our story is far from over! But before it continues, I have a riddle for you, my friends. Guess if you can, for the stars are shining brightly in the sky above us…”

  “What is good and what is bad?

  Who is a hero and who is a villain?

  What is faith?

  What is enmity and what is friendship?

  What is love and what is hatred?

  For the stars, they shine and shine, shine, shine. Shine brightly in the sky above us.”