A short story about death, kings, and kingdoms.

“The king is dead. Long live the king!”

Loud voices rose from the streets and went up to the royal apartments in the tallest castle tower.

In which a master and his pupils think about life.

The cold wind was blowing incessantly and with its strength, it had cleared all clouds from the sky: perfect blue now being painted with black spots where a flock of birds was moving South. The sun was setting, painting the skyline red and turning the snow-covered mountain tops pink. The shadows were growing longer and the only noises were the cicadas song and the wind blowing among the tree leaves.