I dreamed of roots. Thick, pale things. They dug into the dark earth. They pulled. I woke with dirt under my nails. The air smelled of rot. And ambition.

I am Silas Vane. I make chairs. Good chairs. The wood sings when I plane it. The joints fit like teeth in a jaw. I am the best in the city. They say so. I do not care what they say. I care that the wood holds.

The King came to my shop. A tall man. Pale as the ash I use. He wore velvet. It looked heavy. It looked like a shroud. He stood in the center of my floor. He looked at my work. He did not touch it.

"You can make a throne," he said.

I laughed. It was a dry sound. Like a branch snapping. "I make chairs, Your Majesty. For men who sit. Not for gods who rule."

He smiled. It was a thin smile. A crack in the wood. "I will pay you a fortune. Enough to buy the city. Enough to buy your soul, if you wish. Make me a throne. A throne that will last forever."

I wanted to refuse. I wanted to throw him out. But the money. The money was a hook in my throat. I swallowed it.

"Give me a year," I said.

He nodded. He left. The door swung shut. The wind rushed in. It carried the scent of the palace. Damp stone. Old blood.

I began to work.

The wood was oak. Ancient oak. I had saved it for decades. It was dark. It was dense. It did not want to be cut. It fought me. I forced it. I bled. The blood soaked into the grain. The wood drank it.

I worked by night. I worked by day. I ate little. I slept less. The throne grew. It was not a chair. It was a cage. It was a tree. It had arms like branches. It had a back like a cliff. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

My friend, Elias, visited me. He was a poet. He wrote of love. Of loss. Of the rain. He was a good man. He was a soft man. He smelled of ink and wine.

"You look like a ghost, Silas," he said.

"I am building a kingdom," I said.

"You are building a coffin."

I did not answer. I sanded the armrest. The dust rose like snow. It filled the air. It filled my lungs. I coughed. A black cloud.

Elias sat on one of my unfinished chairs. It creaked. He looked at the throne. His eyes were wide.

"It is too high," he said.

"It is meant to be high," I said. "The King must look down."

"The King must be seen," Elias said. "He must be understood."

I looked at him. I saw pity in his face. I hated pity. I hated weakness. "You do not understand," I said. "This is power. Power is isolation. Power is height."

Elias stood up. He brushed the dust from his coat. "You are losing yourself, Silas. You are becoming the wood. You are becoming the throne."

Then he left. The door closed. The silence returned. It was heavy. It pressed against my eardrums.

I worked faster. I felt the wood move. It pulsed. It breathed. I carved the faces into the arms. They were not human faces. They were masks. They were hungry. I carved the King’s face into the backrest. It was serene. It was cruel. It was mine.

Time slipped away. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. My hands shook. My back ached. I dreamed of roots again. They wrapped around my legs. They pulled me down. I struggled. I screamed. I woke with no sound in my throat.

The King returned. He was alone. He wore no guards. He looked tired. He looked old.

"Is it ready?" he asked.

I stepped back. I wiped my hands. They were stained with sap. They were stained with sweat. "It is ready, Your Majesty."

He walked around the throne. He touched the arms. He ran his fingers over the carvings. He stopped at the backrest. He looked at his own face. He frowned.

"It is too cold," he said.

"Wood is cold," I said.

"Heart is cold," he said.

He turned to me. His eyes were hard. "I feel a lie, Silas. I feel a trap."

I smiled. It was a small smile. A trap of its own. "There is no trap, Your Majesty. Only truth. The truth of your power."

He sat.

The throne groaned. It settled. The wood creaked. The King sank into it. He was small. He looked small. The arms of the throne rose up. They did not touch him. But they loomed. They watched.

"Comfortable?" I asked.

He said nothing. He looked around the room. He looked at me. He saw the dust on my face. He saw the blood under my nails. He saw the madness in my eyes.

"You are a monster, Silas," he said.

"I am your maker," I said.

He stood up. The throne made a sound. A deep, resonant thud. Like a heartbeat stopping. He walked to the door. He paused.

"I will not sit on it again," he said. "It is too heavy. It is too dark. It is not a throne. It is a tomb."

He left. The door swung shut.

I was alone.

I looked at the throne. It sat in the center of the shop. It was magnificent. It was horrible. I walked around it. I touched the armrest. It was warm. It was alive.

I realized then. I had not made a throne for the King. I had made a throne for myself. I had carved my own face into the wood. I had hidden it in the shadow. I had built a prison for my own ambition. I had mistaken control for freedom. I had thought that if I could shape the world, I could escape it. I was wrong. The wood does not let go. The wood keeps you.

Elias came back. He brought wine. He brought bread. He looked at me. He looked at the throne.

"He left it behind?" Elias asked.

"The King left," I said. "The throne remains."

Elias sat on the floor. He drank the wine. He watched me. I stood before the throne. I placed my hands on the arms. I felt the pulse. I felt the pull. The roots in my dream were real. They were in the wood. They were in me.

"Silas," Elias said. "Let it go."

I looked at him. He was my friend. He was my mirror. He saw the truth I refused to see. I was not a maker. I was a prisoner. I had bound myself to my work. I had bound myself to my pride. I had lost my freedom. I had lost myself.

I looked at the throne. It was beautiful. It was a lie.

I picked up my axe.

Elias jumped up. "Silas! No!"

I swung the axe.

The wood split. A sharp crack. A scream. The arm of the throne fell away. It crashed to the floor. Dust billowed. The air tasted of iron.

I swung again.

The backrest shattered. The King’s face broke into pieces. The serene expression cracked. The cruel eyes stared at nothing.

I swung again.

And again.

I chopped until the throne was a heap of splinters. I chopped until my arm bled. I chopped until I could not lift the axe.

I dropped it. It clattered on the stone floor. The sound echoed. It was loud. It was final.

I looked at the mess. The great oak was gone. The power was gone. The cage was open.

Elias stood over me. He was breathing hard. His face was pale. He looked at the wreckage. He looked at me.

"You have destroyed it," he said.

"I have freed it," I said.

I collapsed to my knees. I was weak. I was empty. The roots in my legs were gone. The pull was gone. I was light. I was free.

But the freedom was cold. The freedom was vast. I had no purpose. I had no throne. I had no power. I was just a man. A maker of nothing.

Elias put his hand on my shoulder. He did not speak. He did not need to. He was there. He was the anchor. He was the friend who did not leave.

We sat on the floor. Amidst the splinters. The dust settled. The light from the window faded. The shop was dark.

I thought of the King. He was gone. He had escaped the trap. He had kept his freedom. I had kept mine. But at what cost? I had lost my pride. I had lost my identity. I had lost the thing I thought I was.

Was I free? Or was I just broken?

I looked at my hands. They were scarred. They were strong. They had made a thing of beauty. A thing of horror. A thing of truth.

I did not know if I would make another chair. I did not know if I would ever sit again. I did not know if I could trust the wood. I did not know if I could trust myself.

But I was here. I was breathing. The air was clean. The roots were gone.

Elias poured more wine. He offered me the cup. I took it. My hands shook. I drank. The wine was sweet. It was warm. It burned down my throat.

We sat in the dark. The silence was different now. It was not heavy. It was not pressing. It was empty. It was waiting.

I looked at the splinters. They were small. They were harmless. They were just wood.

I was just a man.

And for the first time in a year, I was free.