Sir Hiss – The Last Game Final Chapter

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Sir Hiss – The Last Game
The streets of Pentaloon were silent as news of the fall of the city's greatest swindler spread. Sir Hiss, who had robbed countless victims of their possessions with his gold-embroidered cloak, glittering chains, and smug tongue, was now behind bars. No one could believe that the contortionist, who once charmed even princes and scholars with his words, would meet his end in such a shameful manner. The ruse that brought him down was bold, but not clever. The lens eye of Pentaloon, which he had presented as a marvel of astronomy, was a clumsy forgery. Even as he was speaking to a cheering crowd about how it revealed the future, an old scholar stepped forward and, in a calm voice, dismantled all his claims. It was as if the mask had been ripped from his face. The guards, who had long had their eyes on him, seized him. His raccoon, the keeper of the keys, escaped down a side alley – and rumor had it he's still free to this day. But Sir Hiss was led away, still hissing and talking as if he could convince the crowd that it was all a mistake. But the days when his words sank like poison in the ears were over. In court, the thread of his life unfolded in full: forged documents, missing treasures, broken promises. Merchants told of empty chests, pilgrims of desecrated relics, city lords of stolen keys. The picture that emerged was that of a master of deception – and at the same time of a man constantly hurtling towards his downfall. The verdict was harsh but just. "You will spend your days behind bars until your cunning has dried up," said the judge. And so the once magnificently dressed man was led to a cell where no velvet or gold glittered anymore. There he sits now. No purple cloak lies over his shoulders, no golden chain dangles from his chest. Instead, he wears the coarse, black-and-white striped suit of a prisoner, which makes him seem a bitter parody of his former elegance. The blue beret with the black plume that once adorned his head is gone. His hands no longer clutch precious seals or golden chalices, but the rusty bars of his cell. The light filters dimly through the small window high in the wall. When the wind stirs the dust, it almost looks as if he is contemplating plans. Sometimes he even smiles, with that thin, venomous curl around his mouth that made him so notorious. But no one listens to his words anymore, and the walls don't answer. The guards call him only "the prisoner." They don't know the stories that circulated in the taverns when his name inspired both awe and anger. To them, he is just a man in stripes, imprisoned in stone and silence. Thus ends the story of Sir Hiss, the greatest con man of his time. No celebration, no triumph, no final trick—just a cell, a black and white suit, and the echo of all the lies that led him there.