The dream was a wall of green.

Elara woke.

She was in the tower.

The stone was cold.

It bit into her skin.

She sat up.

Her hair hung loose.

It touched the floor.

The floor was black marble.

It reflected her face.

The face was old.

The eyes were young.

She knew the trick.

It was the curse.

Time did not flow here.

It pooled.

It stagnated.

She stood.

Her legs felt heavy.

They were made of lead.

Or perhaps iron.

The door was closed.

It was oak.

It was banded in iron.

She walked to it.

Her fingers brushed the handle.

It was warm.

Why was it warm?

She turned the key.

The key was in the lock.

It had always been there.

She opened the door.

The hallway was dark.

It stretched out.

It was long.

It was endless.

She walked.

Her feet made no sound.

The silence was thick.

It pressed against her ears.

She reached the end.

There was a door there.

It was silver.

It shone in the dark.

She pushed it open.

She entered the throne room.

The room was vast.

The ceiling was high.

The stars were painted on it.

They were real stars.

They moved.

They watched her.

The throne was empty.

It was made of gold.

It was covered in dust.

She sat on the steps.

She waited.

The air was still.

It held its breath.

Then he came.

Lord Malachai.

He wore white.

His face was pale.

His eyes were red.

He looked at her.

He did not blink.

"You are here," he said.

His voice was dry.

It sounded like leaves.

"I am," she said.

Her voice was small.

It vanished in the space.

"You have failed."

"I have not."

"You have not."

He smiled.

It was a thin smile.

It did not reach his eyes.

"The blade is ready."

"I know."

"The blade is yours."

"It is not."

"It is."

He pointed to the table.

There was a sword on it.

The sword was black.

It was long.

It was sharp.

It hummed.

The hum was low.

It vibrated in the floor.

She looked at it.

Her hands shook.

She did not want it.

She never wanted it.

She was a shadow.

She was a ghost.

She was a thing.

She was not a killer.

"Pick it up," he said.

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"I am weak."

"You are strong."

"I am afraid."

"Good."

He stepped closer.

The smell of him was strong.

It was the smell of rain.

And blood.

"Your father is dead."

"I know."

"Your mother is dead."

"I know."

"You are alone."

"I am alone."

"Take the blade."

She reached for it.

Her fingers touched the hilt.

The metal was cold.

It burned her skin.

She pulled her hand back.

"Again," he said.

She reached out.

She grabbed the hilt.

The sword lifted.

It was light.

It was heavy.

It was both.

The stars above flared.

The light was blinding.

She dropped the sword.

It clattered on the floor.

The sound was loud.

It echoed.

Malachai laughed.

It was a short laugh.

It was cruel.

"You are useless."

"I am trying."

"Trying is not enough."

"I need time."

"There is no time."

He turned his back.

He walked to the throne.

He sat down.

The gold creaked.

"Leave," he said.

"I will not."

"Leave."

"I will not."

He looked up.

His eyes were fire.

"Then you die."

"I am already dead."

The room shook.

The dust fell from the ceiling.

The stars screamed.

The sound was high.

It was painful.

Elara closed her eyes.

She breathed in.

The air was cold.

She breathed out.

The air was warm.

She thought of her mother.

Her mother’s hands.

They were soft.

They were kind.

They held a cup of tea.

They held a book.

They held her head.

They did not hold a sword.

She opened her eyes.

The sword was on the floor.

It glowed.

The light was red.

It pulsed.

Like a heart.

Like a life.

She looked at Malachai.

He was watching her.

He was waiting.

She knew what he wanted.

He wanted her to kill.

He wanted her to be him.

He wanted her to be the king.

She was not the king.

She was the daughter.

She was the blood.

She was the tie.

She stood up.

The floor was cold.

Her knees bent.

She walked to the sword.

The light grew brighter.

It hurt her eyes.

She bent down.

She picked it up.

The weight was immense.

It pulled her down.

She felt the power.

It was a river.

It was a flood.

It was a fire.

It burned in her veins.

It burned in her heart.

It burned in her mind.

She could feel the court.

She could feel the walls.

She could feel the fear.

She could feel the hope.

It was a mess.

It was a tangle.

It was a knot.

She pulled the blade.

The air split.

The light flared.

Malachai screamed.

It was a sound of pain.

It was a sound of loss.

He fell from the throne.

He hit the floor.

His white robes tore.

His red eyes were wide.

He looked at her.

He looked in awe.

He looked in terror.

She held the sword.

The sword was hers.

It was not a weapon.

It was a key.

It was a door.

It was a bridge.

She looked at the blade.

The black metal was gone.

It was white now.

It was clear.

It was like ice.

It was like light.

She saw her reflection.

She was not old.

She was not young.

She was free.

She was whole.

She was alive.

The curse was broken.

The time had stopped.

The time had begun.

She looked at Malachai.

He was on his knees.

He was shaking.

He was broken.

"I forgive you," she said.

Her voice was clear.

It filled the room.

It filled the tower.

It filled the sky.

Malachai closed his eyes.

He let out a breath.

The breath was long.

The breath was last.

He slumped forward.

He did not move.

He was gone.

The silence returned.

It was different now.

It was peaceful.

It was quiet.

It was full.

Elara looked at the sword.

It was still in her hand.

She did not want it.

She did not need it.

She was done.

The work was done.

The sacrifice was made.

The redemption was here.

She walked to the table.

She placed the sword on it.

It made a sound.

It was a song.

It was a hymn.

It was a prayer.

She turned around.

The throne was empty.

The stars were still.

The dust was still.

She walked to the door.

The silver door was open.

The hallway was light.

The light was gold.

It was warm.

It was bright.

It was day.

She walked out.

The air was fresh.

The air was sweet.

She felt the sun.

It touched her face.

It touched her hands.

It touched her soul.

She was not a ghost.

She was not a shadow.

She was a woman.

She was a daughter.

She was a mother.

She was a life.

She walked down the stairs.

The stone was warm.

Her feet made sound.

The sound was rhythmic.

It was steady.

It was sure.

She reached the bottom.

The courtyard was open.

The sky was blue.

The trees were green.

The birds were singing.

The sound was loud.

The sound was clear.

She breathed in.

The air was full.

She breathed out.

The air was empty.

She was free.

The blade was on the table.

It waited.

It was patient.

It was still.

It was part of the past.

It was part of the stone.

It was part of the earth.

She did not look back.

She walked into the light.

The light swallowed her.

The light held her.

The light loved her.

She was gone.

She was here.

She was everything.

The story ended.

The silence began.

The world turned.

The stars moved.

The time flowed.

The life continued.

The end.