The marble hall is quiet save for the crackle of a distant fire. Wood smoke curls through the colonnade, softening the edges of columns and statues. Prince Asterion stands with his weight shifted to one side, arms relaxed, his fur-trimmed armor catching the dim glow. Across from him, the philosopher leans forward, his voice low but insistent.
The old man speaks of empires that once touched the sky—cities of gold, armies that marched to the ends of the earth. All gone now, swallowed by time and the hubris of their rulers. Asterion listens, his expression unreadable. He is young, raised in the certainty of his own golden age. But the philosopher's words are seeds, and they find fertile ground.
This is not a confrontation. There is no anger, no defiance. The prince does not argue. He simply stands, still, as the prophecy settles around him like the smoke in the air. The camera holds on the two figures—one weathered by years, the other by the weight of what he has just heard.
What does it mean to hear your own ending spoken aloud? The philosopher does not name Asterion directly, but the warning is clear: no kingdom lasts forever, no prince is immune to fate. The young ruler's stillness is not indifference—it is the first tremor of doubt, the crack in the marble of his world.
In this AI reinterpretation, the scene becomes a meditation on legacy and the quiet moments that change everything. The smoke, the light, the relaxed posture—all conspire to make the prophecy feel inevitable, as if the palace itself is already beginning to fade.
