"You have the ink on your hands again."

I looked down. My fingers were black. Not blue. Black. Like soot. Like the inside of a burnt coal. I washed them in the basin. The water ran brown. Then red. Then clear. But the smell stayed. Iron and rust.

"Clean it, Thomas," Father said. He did not look at me. He looked at the page. The page was white. It was too white. It looked like bone.

"Yes, Father."

He turned back to his work. The scratching of the quill. The scratch. Scratch. Scratch. It sounded like a mouse chewing wood. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard. My teeth ached. I rubbed my wrists. The ink did not come off. It was in the skin. It was in the blood.

The Hall of Scribes was cold. It was always cold. The stone walls wept. The candles flickered. We were seven men in a row. Seven shadows. We did not speak. We wrote. We copied. We served the King.

The King did not speak. The King did not walk. The King was a crown. The crown was heavy. The crown was gold. The crown was a cage.

My father was the Head Scribe. He was tall. He was thin. His hair was white as snow. His eyes were grey. He had no pupils. Just white. He had been blind for ten years. He saw the words. He heard the words. He felt the weight of the words.

I was the anomaly. I was the mistake.

When I was born, I had no shadow. The midwife screamed. My mother screamed. Father went white. He held me. He looked into my eyes. I had no reflection in the mirror. I was hollow. I was empty.

They kept me. They hid me. They put me in the school. They taught me to write. They taught me to read. They taught me to be nothing.

The other scribes had shadows. Long, dark shapes that moved with them. My shadow was gone. I was a ghost. I was a void.

The ink was the problem. The ink was the solution.

The old stories said the ink was made from dragon blood. They said it was forbidden. They said it was alive. I believed them. I had to believe them. If the ink was alive, then I was not alone. If the ink was alive, then I was not empty.

I watched the others. They dipped their quills. They wrote. Their shadows grew longer. Their shadows drank the light. My shadow did not move. My shadow did not exist.

One day, I stopped dipping.

I held the quill. I held the breath. I looked at the page. The page was blank. The blankness was a mouth. It opened. It swallowed.

I did not write a word.

Father stopped. The scratching stopped. The room went silent. The silence was loud. The silence was sharp.

He turned. His white eyes found me. He could not see me. He knew I was there. He could smell the ink. He could smell the fear.

"Thomas," he said. His voice was dry. Like leaves. Like dust.

"I did not write," I said.

"You are not supposed to write," he said. "You are supposed to be here."

I looked at my hands. The ink was gone. My hands were pale. My hands were clean. For the first time, I was clean.

Father stood up. He walked to me. He moved slowly. He moved like a man in deep water. He stopped in front of me. He reached out. He touched my face. His fingers were cold. They were rough.

"You are empty," he said.

"I am here," I said.

"No," he said. "You are not here. You are a hole. You are a gap. You are the thing that eats the light."

He pulled his hand back. He looked at the other scribes. They were writing again. The scratching started. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. They did not look at me. They did not see me. I was invisible.

I went to the window. The window was high. The glass was dirty. I looked out. The courtyard was grey. The sky was grey. The world was grey.

I thought about the crown. The crown on the King’s head. The crown was a ring. A ring has no beginning. A ring has no end. A ring is a loop. A loop is a trap.

I wanted out. I wanted to break the loop. I wanted to be something. I wanted to be real.

I looked at the inkpot. The ink was black. It was thick. It was still.

I picked up the quill.

I dipped it.

I wrote.

I wrote my name.

Thomas.

The letters were dark. The letters were bold. The letters were sharp.

I looked down. My shadow was back. It was small. It was dark. It was mine.

Father screamed.

It was not a scream of pain. It was a scream of rage. It was a scream of loss.

He rushed at me. He hit me. He hit me hard. He hit me in the chest. I fell. I hit the floor. The floor was cold. The floor was hard.

He stood over me. He kicked me. He kicked me in the ribs. I coughed. I tasted blood. The blood was red. The blood was hot.

"Monster," he said. "Monster. You are a monster. You are a lie. You are a stain."

I looked at him. I did not feel pain. I felt cold. I felt distance.

"You are blind," I said. My voice was small. My voice was quiet.

He stopped. He breathed hard. His chest heaved.

"You are blind," I said again. "You cannot see. You only feel. You feel the weight. You feel the duty. You feel the fear. You do not see me. You do not see the truth."

He raised his hand. He raised the quill. The quill was sharp. The quill was a needle.

He stabbed me.

He stabbed me in the hand. The hand that held the quill. The hand that wrote the name.

I did not cry out. I held the quill. I held it tight. The ink leaked. The ink ran down my arm. The ink ran down my sleeve. The ink ran to the floor.

The ink spread. It spread like a stain. It spread like a shadow.

Father pulled the quill out. He dropped it. He stepped back. He looked at the blood. He looked at the ink. The blood and the ink mixed. The color was purple. The color was deep. The color was royal.

He looked at me. He saw the purple. He saw the name.

My name was on the floor. It was in the blood. It was in the ink.

He fell to his knees.

He did not speak. He did not move. He looked at the wall. He looked at the empty space where I had stood.

I stood up. I looked at my hand. The wound was deep. The blood was stopping. The ink was drying.

I looked at the other scribes. They were still writing. They did not see. They did not care. They were part of the machine. They were gears. They were cogs.

I walked to the door. The door was heavy. The door was wood. The door was locked.

I pushed. The door did not move.

I pushed harder. The wood creaked. The wood groaned.

The door opened.

The light came in. The light was bright. The light was white. The light was blinding.

I stepped into the light.

I did not look back.

I did not look at my father. I did not look at the hall. I did not look at the ink.

I walked into the courtyard. The air was cold. The air was sharp.

I walked to the wall. The wall was high. The wall was stone.

I looked up. The sky was open. The sky was vast.

I jumped.

I did not feel the fall. I felt the air. I felt the wind. I felt the freedom.

I hit the ground.

It was soft. It was green. It was moss.

I lay there. I looked at the sky. The sky was blue. The sky was endless.

I closed my eyes.

I felt the shadow. My shadow was long. My shadow was dark. My shadow was mine.

I was not empty. I was full. I was the ink. I was the word. I was the truth.

But the truth was heavy. The truth was a crown. And I had to wear it.

I got up. I walked away. I walked into the forest. The trees were tall. The trees were dark.

I walked until I could not walk. I sat down. I waited.

I did not know where I was going. I did not know what I would do.

I only knew that I was me.

And that was enough.

And that was nothing.

The crown was distant. The crown was gone.

I was free.

I was lost.