Once upon a time, in ancient days, when Prague was still full of mysteries and under its stone roofs lay hidden stories older than the trees in the Royal Garden, there stood a house on Old Town Square that was destined to witness turbulent fates. The years were 1755 to 1765, a time of Baroque splendor and also the shadowy corners of the human soul. The square then pulsed with life; the voices of market vendors, the clinking of horseshoes on the cobblestones, and the towers of the Týn Church looked down on the hustle and bustle below with quiet, ancient wisdom.

At that time, Count Jan Arnošt Golz lived in Prague, a man of great wealth, but even greater ambition. His dream was to build a palace on Old Town Square so opulent and magnificent that it would overshadow all surrounding houses and his name would be forever etched into the city’s history. He already had plans, once drawn up by Master Kilián Ignác Dientzenhofer himself, but these seemed insufficiently grand to him. The Count desired something that would stand out, something that would catch the eye of every passerby. And so he decided that his new palace must project beyond the street line, even though it contravened all contemporary building regulations.

Such an act, however, required courage, or rather ruthlessness, and above all, the consent of those in power. Count Golz, aware of the power of money, decided to bribe three city councilors. They were respected men, but their hearts were afflicted by the desire for gold. Meetings were held in secret, behind closed doors, at dusk, when shadows lengthened and distorted shapes, just as money distorted conscience. The Count promised them mountains of gold for issuing him an additional permit for the non-standard construction. The councilors, blinded by the vision of wealth, finally agreed. They signed a document that was to bring them ruin and allow Count Golz to proceed with his sinful construction.

Construction of the palace began. The entire construction site was enclosed by a high wooden fence, so that the curious eyes of the Prague citizens could not peer inside. From behind the planks came the sounds of hammers, chisels, and the voices of workers who, under the supervision of the new architect Anselm Lurago, who was completing the work, hurried with their tasks. People in the square whispered about what was happening behind the fence, but no one suspected the full extent of the Count’s pride.

Time passed and the palace walls rose towards the sky. When they finally reached the height of the first floor, the day came when the fence was removed so that construction could continue higher. And then, to the sight of all Prague citizens, a view presented itself that shocked them. The palace, majestic and opulent, projected from the street line much more than was permitted. It was obvious to everyone who passed by, and even more so when viewed from the opposite side of the square, from the Astronomical Clock. The commotion was great. Building regulations had been violated, brazenly and conspicuously.

The news reached the ears of those who were to oversee order in the city. The three councilors who had signed the permit suddenly found themselves in an unenviable situation. Their betrayal came to light. They were accused of malfeasance in office, bribery, and damaging the good name of the city. The trial proceeded quickly, and the verdict was cruel, but just. For their sin, they were to pay with their lives.

One cold morning, when the fog still clung to the rooftops and the air was heavy with foreboding, three gallows were erected on Old Town Square, directly in front of Count Golz’s newly built palace. A crowd of Prague citizens gathered to witness the tragic end of those who had betrayed their oath. Only quiet whispers, an occasional sob, and the creaking of wood could be heard. The three councilors, pale and devastated, were led to the execution site. Their hanging served as a memento for all who would dare to violate the law and the trust of the city. Their souls, according to legend, found no peace and are said to still wander around the palace, groaning in sorrow over their betrayal and cruel fate.

Count Golz was also brought to trial, as he was the instigator of the entire affair. However, he presented a written permit from the councilors, which, although obtained by fraud, was formally valid. And so, to the astonishment of many, the Count was released. His palace remained standing as it was built, projecting from the street line, for it was already too late for a change. Altering the dimensions of the finished building would have been more expensive and difficult than leaving things as they were.

The palace, though magnificent, has carried a dark legacy ever since. People whispered that Count Golz must have made some kind of Faustian bargain to complete his construction against all rules. That his pride and desire for grandeur led him to a dark pact, the consequences of which manifested in the fate of the councilors. And legend has it that the palace has been haunted ever since. That in its corridors, footsteps not belonging to the living are sometimes heard, and on frosty nights, a quiet groaning can supposedly be heard, reminiscent of the souls of the three unfortunate councilors who paid the ultimate price for the Count’s ambition. And so, the Kinský Palace still stands on Old Town Square today, a silent witness to ancient pride, betrayal, and cruel fate, reminding us that for every grandeur, a price much higher than mere gold is sometimes paid.