Herzog Ferrantes Ende

A spectral Carpathian castle, half-crumbled into clouds, imprisons Herzog Ferrante, a Renaissance alchemist whose obsession is not gold but the distillation of memory itself. When lightning etches the sky, his mirrored laboratory reveals a procession of selves: the child who watched his mother burn as witch, the lover who traded a bride for a grimoire, the tyrant who turned plague-ridden villagers into living reliquaries. Each reflection steps out, corporeal, demanding sovereignty over the same decaying body. Into this danse macabre wanders Lyda, a mute fresco-restorer sent to salvage medieval murals; her scaffolding becomes a gallows of revelation as the walls bleed the Herzog’s ancestral crimes in wet ochre. Around them, the castle’s architecture liquefies—staircases spiral into Möbius strips, banquet halls drown in black wine—while the Herzog’s retinue, powdered and embalmed, rehearse a courtly masque whose finale is spontaneous combustion. The alchemist believes that by grafting Lyda’s eyes onto his own hollow sockets he can exit the labyrinth of time; she, in turn, discovers that every brushstroke she applies to the walls erases a year from his life and adds it to hers. Their duel of attrition unfolds in tapers of cyan fire, on bridges that collapse into star-fields, until the castle folds like paper, compressing centuries into a single silvered frame. What remains is not redemption or damnation but a frozen tableau: two silhouettes sharing one heartbeat, suspended between celluloid and eternity, an enameled eternity that hisses like a cooling comet.