A bleak castle loomed against the night sky, in a little country all its own. It was generally avoided by the god-fearing people of the neighboring kingdoms. On this night a rider galloped up to the gate with a large bundle thrown across his lap. He was stopped in front of the gatehouse, an eerie glow coming from behind it.
"Please, let me in, my master is dying!" pleaded the rider.
"Why should wake Lord Balthazar for your master?" Grumbled the guard.
"My mother's brother is a servant here, I know Lord Balthazar can help him. He's a prince you see! If he lives, I know he'll reward the Lord richly." The rider pulled the cloak away, revealing a deathly pale man in rich, bloody robes. His right wrist ended in a bandaged stump, dripping blood on the cobblestones.
"I'll go see if my master is interested in helping your master. No promises! You'd just better pray he doesn't refuse! And you'd better not be lying about your Prince being rich; everything here comes with a price."