The air tasted of amethyst and regret. It always did when the echoes of her laughter lingered. They said she was a phantom born of a hero’s impossible yearning, a reflection of his most fervent, most foolish hope. But she was more than that. She was the silent architect of his valor, the unseen hand guiding his sword, the warmth in his desolate nights.
The legend began, as all good legends do, with a king, obsessed with a beauty he could not possess. He built a castle of sorrow, a fortress of unrequited desire, and filled it with the finest artisans, hoping to sculpt his longing into a tangible form. He named her Dulcinea, a name whispered on the wind, a promise of sweetness that never materialized.
But Dulcinea wasn't a woman of flesh and bone. She existed within the spaces between his thoughts, within the intricate patterns of his dreams. She was the embodiment of his idealized vision, a creature of pure, distilled beauty, forever just beyond his grasp. Some say she was a djinn, conjured by his desperation, others a forgotten spirit, drawn to the intensity of his devotion.
The king’s pursuit of Dulcinea transformed him. Initially, he was a reckless warrior, driven by instinct and rage. But as he trained, as he honed his skills, it was as if Dulcinea guided his hand. His attacks became more precise, his defenses more formidable. He started anticipating his opponents’ moves with an uncanny intuition. The whispers claimed he had begun to *see* her, not with his eyes, but with his soul.
His victories became legendary, fueled not just by strength, but by a strange, almost ethereal grace. He never seemed to suffer a wound that truly threatened his life, as if a protective shield, woven by Dulcinea’s presence, deflected harm. The knights who followed him spoke of a shift in the air, a subtle warmth, a feeling of being watched – and protected – by something beautiful and unwavering.
But the obsession, like a corrosive acid, began to eat away at the king. He demanded ever greater displays of valor, ever more elaborate tributes to his unattainable love. His kingdom suffered, bled dry by the constant demands for resources. His advisors warned him, pleaded with him to relinquish his dream, but he was deaf to reason, blinded by the illusion of Dulcinea’s presence.
Then came the battle, the culmination of his folly. He faced a formidable foe, a warrior renowned for his ruthlessness. The fight was brutal, a whirlwind of steel and fury. And then, inexplicably, the warrior faltered. Not because of a wound, but because of a profound sense of…disappointment. A feeling that the clash of steel was a mockery of something beautiful, something sacred.
The warrior, overcome with this unexpected emotion, surrendered. The king, triumphant but utterly alone, realized the terrible truth: Dulcinea hadn’t been a catalyst for his victory, but a destructive force, a shimmering mirage that had shattered his reality and almost destroyed his kingdom.