The tower was cold. It smelled of damp stone and old blood.

Silas stood at the window. Below, the valley lay still. A mist clung to the earth. It looked like a shroud.

He touched his arm. The bandage was wet. Red seeped through the white cloth. He did not flinch. Pain was a signal. It meant he was still here.

The door opened. No creak. No warning.

Margaret entered. Her dress was black. Her face was pale. Her eyes were dark and deep. They held a weight. A terrible, quiet weight.

"Silas."

Her voice was low. A whisper.

"Come in, Margaret."

She did not sit. She stood by the fire. The flames danced. They cast long shadows on the walls. The shadows moved like hands.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"I must see you."

"Why?"

She looked at his arm. Her eyes narrowed.

"You are bleeding."

"Old wound."

"It is fresh."

He wrapped his arm tighter. The pain spiked. He bit his lip.

"Margaret," he said. "The Council has sent word. The siege ends at dawn."

A smile touched her lips. It was thin. Cold.

"Good."

"Is it?"

"Peace comes."

"Peace is a lie."

She turned to him. Her expression was hard. Stone.

"You always see monsters."

"I see the truth."

"Your truth?"

"My duty."

She laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves crunching underfoot.

"Duty," she spat. "You speak of duty as if it were a shield. It is a cage."

"I am the Warden."

"You are a prisoner."

He stepped away from the window. The stone floor was hard. He felt the chill in his bones.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"You know who I am."

"No. I do not."

She took a step closer. The distance between them shrank. The air grew thick.

"I am the one you love."

The words hung in the air. They did not float. They sank. They hit him like a stone.

Silas froze. His breath stopped.

"Margaret."

"Say it."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because you are the enemy."

"Am I?"

"You wear the black cloak."

"I wear it for you."

The fire crackled. A log snapped. Sparks flew. They died in the dark.

"Tell me," she said. "Did you send the letter?"

"What letter?"

"The one to the King. The one that started the war."

Silas felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at his hands. They were trembling.

"I sent no letter."

"You did."

"Lies."

"Proof?"

"I have none. I only have my honor."

"Honor is a dead word," she said. "It rots in the mouth."

She reached out. Her hand was cold. She touched his face. Her fingers traced his jaw.

"You killed my brother."

The room spun. The shadows lengthened.

"No," Silas said. "I did not."

"You did. In the field. I saw it."

"I fought in the field. I did not kill him."

"His blood was on your sword."

"Many men bled that day."

"Not like him."

Silas stepped back. He backed into the table. The wood groaned.

"Margaret, listen to me. I have hunted you for years. I believed you were a spy. A traitor. I broke your family. I burned your home. All because I thought you were the source of the betrayal."

"And now?"

"Now I know the truth."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

She smiled again. It was a sad smile. A cruel smile.

"The truth is a blade, Silas. It cuts the one who holds it."

She reached into her cloak. Her hand disappeared into the dark fabric.

Silas’s hand went to his sword. The hilt was cold. It was familiar. It was home.

"Stop," she said.

He drew the blade. The steel sang. It was a high, clear note.

"Margaret, put down the weapon."

"I have no weapon."

Her hand was empty. She held only a scrap of paper. A letter.

He stared at it. His heart hammered against his ribs.

"What is that?"

"Your confession."

"I never wrote it."

"Look at the ink."

He took the paper. His fingers were slick with sweat. The paper was damp.

The ink was fresh. The words were jagged.

I, Silas Vane, betrayed the Crown. I opened the gates. I let the enemy in. I am the wolf in the fold.

He read it once. Twice. Three times.

The words burned. They ate him.

"This is forgery," he said.

"Is it?"

"I know my signature."

"Look closer."

He looked. The signature was his. Perfect. Exact. But the pressure was wrong. The strokes were too heavy. Too angry.

He looked at Margaret. Her eyes were wet. Tears glistened.

"Who wrote this?" he demanded.

"Does it matter?"

"It matters."

"It does not."

"Margaret!"

"Silas."

He lowered the sword. The metal clinked against the stone floor. The sound was small. Tiny.

"Why are you doing this?"

"To save you."

"Save me?"

"You are guilty, Silas. Deep down. You know you are."

"I am not guilty."

"You are weak. You are tired. You want to be free. This letter is your freedom."

He looked at the letter. Then at her.

"You want me to hang myself."

"I want you to die."

The words were simple. Final.

"Why?"

"Because you are a monster."

He shook his head. The pain in his arm was blinding. White light.

"I loved you."

"Lies."

"I loved you. Before the war. Before the blood."

She stepped forward. The distance was gone. She was close. He could smell her. Rosewater and iron.

"Love is a poison," she said. "It kills the body. It rots the soul."

"Then let me drink it."

He grabbed her hand. He pulled her close.

She did not pull away. She stood still. Her eyes were wide.

"I will not let you," she whispered.

"Then I will take it."

He kissed her. It was not gentle. It was desperate. It was a hunger.

She stiffened. Then she broke. She pushed him. Hard.

He stumbled back. He hit the wall.

"Stay away from me."

"I cannot."

"You must."

He looked at the sword on the floor. It lay in the firelight. A dark streak.

He looked at the letter in his hand. The ink was drying.

He looked at Margaret. She was breathing hard. Her chest heaved.

"Who else knows?" he asked.

"Everyone."

"Who?"

"The Council. The King. They know."

"No. They do not."

"They do. They are waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For your death."

Silas laughed. It was a broken sound.

"So I am already dead."

"You are."

He looked at his arm. The blood had stopped. The bandage was dry now.

He felt light. Empty.

"Margaret," he said. "Did you love me?"

She looked away. Her jaw was tight.

"I loved what I could have been with you."

"That is not love."

"It is better."

"No."

"Yes."

He picked up the sword. The weight was heavy. It pulled at his hand.

"Give me the letter."

He held it out.

She looked at it. Then at him.

"Burn it."

He nodded. He held the paper over the fire.

The flame licked the edge. The paper curled. It turned to ash.

He watched it die. The words vanished. The guilt vanished.

Or did it?

The fire roared. It was hungry. It wanted more.

"Silas."

Her voice was soft.

"Is it over?"

He looked at her. He saw her face. He saw the fear. The pain. The love.

It was all there. Buried deep.

"It is never over," he said.

She reached for him. He let her take his hand.

They stood there. In the dark. In the cold.

The mist rose from the valley. It swallowed the tower. It swallowed them.

He held her hand. She held his.

The pain in his arm returned. It was sharp. Clear.

He did not let go.

He would not let go.

The fire died. The room went black.

Only the sound of their breathing remained.

Two hearts. Beating in the dark.

One for the other.

One for the grave.