Some excerpts from the first three acts follow. They have been translated with google, which means that they do not always match the original tonality 100%, although the content is reproduced correctly.


…to run for his life. So the megalomaniac Scorpion and Ark storm off almost simultaneously, both with the same goal, no less than the life of the fleeing. Closer to the ascent from inside the tower, Ark sees a real chance in the escape from the horror, which, so larger than life it seeks to eclipse his own survival, will fail to fit through the man-made opening. And yet he is not fast enough, the weight of his hardship still clinging to his legs, so that the scorpion manages to cut off his path. Faced with this calamity, all he can do is seek his fading hope in the resistance, crystal spear gripped in both hands, trembling staring at the beast. And he himself would not have believed the effect of his despairing act, even now that his spellbound gaze captures every movement of light, his wide-open pupils and the oppressively clumsy-looking creature wanders around him with deadly restraint. Led to the dance by the tip of the crystal spear, it backs away from the saving passage with its scissor hands, swinging forward, granting the hunted its stolen freedom, but at the same time only to bring it back to the ground of those facts. Both scissors lifted far up, they crash to the ground, causing an inevitable tremor to knock Ark off his feet.



After each of the larger leaves has been returned to the bag, Yangchen goes back to his teapot and is satisfied that smoke is still rising from it.
"I would invite you to join me for a good sip of tea, but we both know it's not me who's showing you into my house. Especially since the butter tea at Trashilhünpo tastes really good.”
"I don't think I've gotten used to the taste yet."
"But keep that to yourself: I don't either and I've been drinking their tea ever since I had a full head of hair."
"Is there a connection?" Tamche asks.
"There's really no doubt about it," Yangchen replies, bursting out laughing.
"Ahhh I shouldn't be doing this, where's my prayer wheel when I need it?"
"Is she here?"
"My mill?"
"Oh of course. The cause of you refusing my delicious tea. She leaves the house early in the morning and only returns at night. I wish I could help you, but if she doesn't want to be found, no one will. She's trained from a young age to hide from those around her."
"It's all my fault. I have to apologize to you too. You saved me and took me here against the will of many and all I bring to you are more problems.”
"Is that how you see it? You worry too much. A burden of youth.”
"Mei-Lin agrees."



But only the unexpected touch of Elle's palm on his cheek can soothe his heart. Now she finally looks at him, understanding and full of pity. The twinkle in his eyes now flees down his cheek, along Elle's fingers, penetrating her delicate skin and reaching her long-closed heart.
Fyda is the silent witness of that moment and the gesture of the princess, which she had not thought possible and she feels what she has not dared to feel for a long time. The delicate, fragile germ of hope, now blossoming before her eyes anew in the moonlight breaking through the cloud cover. The stars are witness to their change and the promise to be renewed and fulfilled.



"You don't want to understand. I'm not talking about soldier to soldier combat. The ones I killed were innocent. Citizens, without weapons, people like everyone here. No soldiers. What I've done can't just end. It determines her entire life. You, on the other hand, still think that you and Elle spent a youth together? How old were you again? Sixteen? Seventeen? You reappear one day with your romantic fairy tale of the bright savior from the past, confident that everything will turn out well. But that's the real world. The world you and Elle couldn't have been in what you believe to be your past. The world where a helpless little girl, not yet eight years old, sees her home, her sanctuary and everyone she ever knew fall to the swords and flames of our soldiers. Soldiers who were children at heart and who lost their souls in the fire that day. I was there, I was in Haverdal and there was nothing I could do about it. I saw the flames from afar and rode as fast as I could, but when I arrived and everything around me perished, I wasn't strong enough to stand against the king and my fears. I have obeyed his command.”
“They stand in front of me, holding hands in their house. From outside they hear the end of their world and yet they are not afraid. It's her father, but he recognizes his lack of fear in my face. No one to stand up to me in battle, just a simple married couple. I stutter 'I..I..come because..I have to...'. He takes a step forward and looks at me like a father looks at his daughter and he says 'We understand. You have no choice', his words cause my bitter tears. 'I'm sorry...that I...I can't save you'."



The wet sands of a new kingdom cling to Ark's boots. Sand over which soldiers once went to war, on which goods from all kinds of countries were carried, people celebrated, argued or made love. Ark is looking at the backdrop of a great city, beyond which the tall spiers of even taller churches will reveal themselves to him. While Genoa presents itself as a city of noble families and palaces, Barcelona's image is drawn by the simpler people.
But far beyond the fishing district, Barcelona is also a city of contradictions. A home for kings and craftsmen. Of the nobles and the bitterly poor, of being seen and of the forgotten. A city of immeasurable piety, lived in the most magnificent church buildings of its time and yet desecrated in hatred and agitation against everything foreign and dissenting. With public squares on which the statue of Our Lady peacefully looks down on the scaffold, gallows and pyre. A city of medicine that is increasingly ailing, of architectural marvels contrasted with ramshackle dwellings. A city of mountains and sea.



Conversations with Àlvaro, Aaron and Amir:

“Someone in Zaragoza said she roamed the towns at night and whoever met her was never seen the next morning. Some saw her in Seville and..."
“…the others in Gijón", adds Àlvaro. "On the same day mind you. Do you know how far Seville and Gijon are from each other? All of this drives people crazy.”
"I do not understand that. Why would anyone commit such abominations? What's in it for her? Or is she just…a monster?”
“It is fear that nips any resistance in the bud. But when everyone kneels at the end and fear is omnipresent, what else is there to thrive on? What kind of life is that worth living?
"Maybe...you can even forgive them someday and find peace yourself."
Aaron seems to remember something. A peaceful smile graces his face.
“We fled on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. They took away the forgiveness I will never be able to give them again.”
“Our lives are like drops of oil on a blank parchment. Our essence is one and we swim in the same vessel. Freed from this, we take shape, but no one knows which paths we will take on the rough ground. Some unite on their way, others move apart, some fall from the edges, but eventually all the drops have dried and faded and then we see the big picture. The image of our being.”

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