He was sitting there alone in the dark;
the only company the shadows dancing on the wall,
lost kingdoms and neglected Cinderellas
swirled through his mind,
fairy tales that glimmered like distant stars,
forever out of reach.

A familiar ache bloomed in his arm,
a dull throb that signaled another failed attempt.
He squeezed his eyes shut,
willing the borrowed courage,
the fantastical escape,
to take hold of what Malmöhus Slott had left for him.

But the liquid coursing through his veins
held no happily-ever-afters,
only the bitter tang of disappointment,
no charming princes or glass slippers materialized.
Instead, grotesque figures materialized
from the inky blackness,
their laughter echoing in the hollowness of his mind.

He gritted his teeth,
the metallic tang of blood
an unwelcome counterpoint
to the fading dream.

The spike, a constant companion these days,
offered no solace.
It was a cruel reminder of the real world,
a world where magic was a fleeting illusion
and nightmares the harsh truth.

With a sigh, he slumped back,
the echo of his loneliness
a stark contrast to the fantastical
tales that taunted him
from the recesses of his mind,
from Malmöhus Slott,
Malmö castle!