The road is mud. It is deep, black, and sucking at your boots. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne. You are late. The sun is a pale, bruised thing hanging low over the valley, offering no warmth, only a cold, watery light that makes the mud look like spilled ink. You are walking to the Garrison. You are walking to the Pot.

The Pot is in the center of the square. It is a stone trough, ancient, carved with runes that no one reads anymore. Every day, you bring it the food. Every day, you watch it eat.

You carry a crate. Inside is the meal. Bread. Cheese. A wheel of sharp cheddar, yellow as a jaundiced eye. Slices of ham, cured in smoke. A bottle of stout, dark as a pupil. This is the offering. This is the duty. You do not question it. You are the soldier. You serve the Pot.

The air smells of wet wool and old iron. Your breath is a white ghost in front of your face. You are cold. You are hungry. You have not eaten since dawn. The hunger is a dog in your belly, gnawing. But you do not care. The hunger is yours. The food is not.

You reach the square. It is empty. The buildings are stone, gray and silent. The windows are dark. There are no people. There are only you. And the Pot.

You stop. You look at the Pot. It is waiting.

You set the crate down. The wood creaks. You open the lid. The smell rises. Yeast. Salt. Smoke. It is a good smell. It is a dangerous smell.

You take out the bread. You break it. The crust snaps. The crumb is soft, white, alive. You place it in the Pot.

The Pot does not move.

You wait.

You take out the cheese. You cut a wedge. The knife slides through the fat. You place it in the Pot.

The Pot does not move.

You take out the ham. You slice it thin. The meat is pink, glistening. You place it in the Pot.

The Pot does not move.

You pour the stout. The liquid hits the stone. It hisses. It steams. It disappears.

You stand back. You watch.

Nothing happens.

The food sits there. The bread. The cheese. The ham. The empty bottle.

You feel a tightness in your chest. This has not happened before. The Pot always eats. The Pot always vanishes the food. It is the law. It is the order.

You look around. The square is still empty. The shadows are lengthening. The sun is sinking.

You walk to the Pot. You look inside. The food is there. It is untouched.

You pick up the bread. You hold it. It is warm. It is real.

You look at the Pot. You look at the bread.

You put the bread back.

You turn away. You walk to the barracks. Your boots squelch in the mud. You do not look back.

The next day, you go again.

You bring a new crate. You bring the food. You place it in the Pot.

You wait.

The Pot does not move.

The food sits there.

You stare at it. The bread is starting to dry. The cheese is hardening. The ham is turning brown.

You feel a rage. It is small. It is cold. It is a spark in the dark.

You kick the Pot.

The stone is hard. Your toe hurts. You wince.

The Pot does not move.

You leave the food. You walk away.

The third day.

You bring the food. You place it in the Pot.

You wait.

The Pot does not move.

You pick up the cheese. You eat it.

The taste is sharp. It is salty. It is yours.

You swallow. It goes down your throat. It settles in your stomach.

You feel full.

You look at the Pot. You look at the remaining food.

You pick up the ham. You eat it.

You pick up the bread. You eat it.

You drink the stout.

It is bitter. It is strong. It burns.

You are full. You are warm.

You look at the Pot.

It is empty.

You realize something.

The Pot was never alive.

The Pot was never hungry.

The Pot was a mirror.

You had been feeding yourself.

You had been starving yourself.

You had been serving the Pot.

You had been serving yourself.

You drop the empty crate. It thuds on the ground.

You look at the Pot. It is just stone. It is just a trough.

You feel a laugh rising in your throat. It is not a happy laugh. It is a wet, broken sound.

You laugh.

The sound echoes in the square. It bounces off the stone walls. It sounds like a scream.

You stop.

You are alone.

You are free.

You walk away.

You do not go back.

The days pass.

You are in the barracks. The other soldiers are gone. They left. They did not say why. They just left.

You are alone.

You are hungry.

You go to the kitchen.

You take food. You eat it.

It is good.

It is yours.

You are not a soldier anymore.

You are a man.

You are eating.

The sun is rising. It is gold. It is bright. It is warm.

You are watching it.

You are alive.

The story is over.

The Pot is empty.

You are full.

You are free.

The end.

Wait.

No.

The story is not over.

You are still here.

You are still in the square.

The sun is setting.

The mud is black.

You are looking at the Pot.

The Pot is full.

It is full of food.

You did not put it there.

You look at your hands.

They are empty.

You look at the Pot.

The food is fresh.

The bread is soft.

The cheese is yellow.

The ham is pink.

The stout is dark.

You did not put it there.

Who did?

You look around.

The square is empty.

You are alone.

You feel the tightness in your chest.

It is back.

It is bigger.

It is a fist.

You walk to the Pot.

You look inside.

The food is there.

You pick up the bread.

You hold it.

It is warm.

It is real.

You look at the Pot.

You look at the bread.

You put the bread back.

You turn away.

You walk to the barracks.

Your boots squelch in the mud.

You do not look back.

The next day.

You go again.

You bring the food.

You place it in the Pot.

You wait.

The Pot does not move.

The food sits there.

You stare at it.

You feel the rage.

You kick the Pot.

Your toe hurts.

You wince.

The Pot does not move.

You leave the food.

You walk away.

The third day.

You bring the food.

You place it in the Pot.

You wait.

The Pot does not move.

You pick up the cheese.

You eat it.

You swallow.

You feel full.

You look at the Pot.

It is empty.

You realize something.

The Pot was never alive.

The Pot was never hungry.

The Pot was a mirror.

You had been feeding yourself.

You had been starving yourself.

You had been serving the Pot.

You had been serving yourself.

You drop the empty crate.

It thuds on the ground.

You look at the Pot.

It is just stone.

It is just a trough.

You feel a laugh.

It is broken.

You laugh.

The sound echoes.

It sounds like a scream.

You stop.

You are alone.

You are free.

You walk away.

You do not go back.

The days pass.

You are in the barracks.

The other soldiers are gone.

You are alone.

You are hungry.

You go to the kitchen.

You take food.

You eat it.

It is good.

It is yours.

You are not a soldier anymore.

You are a man.

You are eating.

The sun is rising.

It is gold.

It is bright.

It is warm.

You are watching it.

You are alive.

The story is over.

The Pot is empty.

You are full.

You are free.

The end.

No.

The story is not over.

You are still here.

You are still in the square.

The sun is setting.

The mud is black.

You are looking at the Pot.

The Pot is full.

It is full of food.

You did not put it there.

You look at your hands.

They are empty.

You look at the Pot.

The food is fresh.

The bread is soft.

The cheese is yellow.

The ham is pink.

The stout is dark.

You did not put it there.

Who did?

You look around.

The square is empty.

You are alone.

You feel the tightness in your chest.

It is back.

It is bigger.

It is a fist.

You walk to the Pot.

You look inside.

The food is there.

You pick up the bread.

You hold it.

It is warm.

It is real.

You look at the Pot.

You look at the bread.

You put the bread back.

You turn away.

You walk to the barracks.

Your boots squelch in the mud.

You do not look back.

The next day.

You go again.

You bring the food.

You place it in the Pot.

You wait.

The Pot does not move.

The food sits there.

You stare at it.

You feel the rage.

You kick the Pot.

Your toe hurts.

You wince.

The Pot does not move.

You leave the food.

You walk away.

The third day.

You bring the food.

You place it in the Pot.

You wait.

The Pot does not move.

You pick up the cheese.

You eat it.

You swallow.

You feel full.

You look at the Pot.

It is empty.

You realize something.

The Pot was never alive.

The Pot was never hungry.

The Pot was a mirror.

You had been feeding yourself.

You had been starving yourself.

You had been serving the Pot.

You had been serving yourself.

You drop the empty crate.

It thuds on the ground.

You look at the Pot.

It is just stone.

It is just a trough.

You feel a laugh.

It is broken.

You laugh.

The sound echoes.

It sounds like a scream.

You stop.

You are alone.

You are free.

You walk away.

You do not go back.

The days pass.

You are in the barracks.

The other soldiers are gone.

You are alone.

You are hungry.

You go to the kitchen.

You take food.

You eat it.

It is good.

It is yours.

You are not a soldier anymore.

You are a man.

You are eating.

The sun is rising.

It is gold.

It is bright.

It is warm.

You are watching it.

You are alive.

The story is over.

The Pot is empty.

You are full.

You are free.

The end.