The feast hall burned with tallow. It was a low, yellow light. It caught the dust. It caught the sweat on the brow of Sir Elias Thorne. He sat at the high table. His hands were still. They rested on the oak. The wood was cold. He felt it through his gloves.

Around him, the lords laughed. Their voices were thick. They smelled of wine and roasting meat. The air was heavy. It pressed against Elias’s chest. He did not breathe deeply. He counted the flames. One. Two. Three.

Lord Malcom leaned in. His face was red. His eyes were wet.

"You look tired, old friend," Malcom said.

Elias looked at him. He did not smile.

"I am not tired," Elias said. His voice was low. It was a dry sound. Like paper tearing.

"Then you are angry."

"I am not angry."

"Then what are you?"

Elias said nothing. He watched the wine in his cup. It swirled. It was dark. It was like blood. But it was not blood. It was just wine. He lifted the cup. He did not drink. He set it down. The glass made a sharp click on the wood.

Malcom frowned. He leaned back. He spat on the floor. The spit hit a dead fly.

"You have changed, Elias," Malcom said.

"Have I?"

"You used to joke. You used to tell tall tales. You were the life of the court. Now you are a ghost. A stone. A wall."

Elias looked away. He looked at the window. The night was black. There were no stars. The wind howled outside. It sounded like a wolf. It sounded like a man crying.

"I have no jokes left," Elias said.

"Why not?"

"Because they are false."

Malcom laughed. It was a short, harsh sound.

"Jokes are not true or false. They are just words. They are air. They fill the room. They make the room smaller. Or larger. That is all."

Elias turned back. He looked into Malcom’s eyes. He saw himself there. He saw the fear. He saw the hunger. He saw the lie.

"You are wrong," Elias said.

"Am I?"

"Yes. Words are heavy. They break things. They break people. They break the world."

Malcom stared at him. The laughter died in his throat. He looked at the other lords. They had stopped talking. They were listening. The silence was loud. It rang in the ears. It was a ringing sound. It was the sound of a bell. A funeral bell.

"Let us drink," Malcom said. His voice was strained.

"No," Elias said.

"Drink, I say."

"No."

Malcom’s face twisted. It was a mask of pain. It was a mask of rage.

"You insult me," Malcom said.

"I do not insult you."

"You do."

Elias stood up. The chair scraped against the floor. The sound was like a scream. It cut through the air. Everyone looked at him. The tallow flames flickered. They danced. They were afraid.

"I have a question," Elias said.

"Ask it," Malcom said. His hand moved to his sword. The steel gleamed. It was bright. It was sharp. It was a promise.

"Do you remember the night in the woods?"

Malcom’s hand froze. The color drained from his face. It left him white. It left him hollow.

"I remember," Malcom said.

"Do you remember what I said?"

"I remember."

"Do you remember what I meant?"

Malcom did not answer. He looked at the floor. He looked at the dead fly. He looked at the wine.

"I do not know," Malcom said.

"You do know."

"Stop it."

"I must ask."

"Stop it, Elias."

Elias took a step forward. His boots were heavy. They did not make a sound. The floor was soft. The carpet was thick.

"I asked for a joke," Elias said.

Malcom’s eyes widened. They were wide. They were round. They were like coins.

"I asked for a joke," Elias repeated.

"Yes."

"And you gave me one."

"Yes."

"But it was not a joke."

"It was."

"It was a trap."

Malcom stood up. He was tall. He was strong. He was a mountain. But he shook. He shook like a leaf.

"You are mad," Malcom said.

"No. I am awake."

"You are dangerous."

"I am free."

The word hung in the air. Free. It was a light word. It was a heavy word. It was a sharp word. It cut the air. It cut the silence.

"Free from what?" Malcom asked.

"Free from the lie."

"What lie?"

"The lie that we are brothers."

Malcom’s face hardened. The softness was gone. The fear was gone. There was only anger. There was only ice.

"We are not brothers," Malcom said.

"No. We are enemies."

"Then why did you stay?"

"Because I was afraid."

"Of me?"

"Of myself."

Malcom laughed again. It was a cold laugh. It was a bitter laugh.

"You are a fool, Elias. A great fool. You think you can walk away? You think you can leave this hall? You think you can leave this life?"

"I will try."

"You will fail."

"Maybe."

"Or maybe you will die. And no one will care. And your name will be forgotten. And your bones will rot in the earth. And the earth will cover you. And the grass will grow over you. And the wind will blow over you. And you will be nothing. You will be air."

Elias looked at him. He did not blink. He did not flinch.

"Perhaps," Elias said.

"Then drink."

"No."

"Then die."

Elias reached into his robe. The cloth rustled. It was a dry sound. It was the sound of a snake.

Malcom’s hand went to his sword. He drew it. The steel sang. It was a high note. It was a clear note. It was a beautiful note.

Elias pulled out a scroll. It was small. It was rolled tight. It was tied with a red string.

"What is that?" Malcom asked.

"A letter," Elias said.

"To whom?"

"To the King."

Malcom’s eyes went wide. He looked at the letter. He looked at Elias. He looked at the sword in his hand.

"You would betray us?"

"I would tell the truth."

"The truth is a weapon."

"Yes."

"And you wield it poorly."

"Let us see."

Elias unrolled the letter. The paper was white. It was clean. It was new. He read it aloud. His voice was steady. His voice was clear.

"Your Majesty. I, Sir Elias Thorne, do hereby report the treason of Lord Malcom. I have witnessed his dealings with the enemy. I have heard his words. I have seen his hands. I have felt his breath. I have known his heart. And I say that it is black. It is hollow. It is dead."

The hall was silent. The flames did not flicker. The dust did not fall. The air did not move.

Malcom looked at the letter. He looked at Elias. He looked at the sword.

"You have no proof," Malcom said.

"The letter is proof."

"No. The letter is a lie. Like your jokes. Like your words. Like your soul."

Malcom raised his sword. The tip pointed at Elias’s chest.

"Give me the letter."

"No."

"Give it to me."

"I will not."

Malcom lunged. He was fast. He was strong. The sword came down. It was a flash of light. It was a streak of steel.

Elias did not move. He stood still. He looked up. He looked at the sword. He looked at the eyes above it.

The sword stopped. It was an inch from his face. It was close. It was so close. He could feel the cold. He could feel the heat of the steel.

Malcom was breathing hard. His chest heaved. His eyes were wild.

"Why?" Malcom asked.

"Why what?"

"Why do you not move?"

"Because I am not afraid."

"You are a fool."

"Maybe."

"You will die."

"Maybe."

Malcom lowered the sword. He did not put it away. He held it loose. His hand was shaking. His face was pale.

"You are not a man," Malcom said.

"I am a man."

"You are a ghost."

"Perhaps."

"Then let me make you real."

Malcom swung the sword. He swung it with all his might. The air screamed. The dust flew. The light dimmed.

Elias closed his eyes. He felt the cold. He felt the weight. He felt the end.

But the sword did not hit him.

It hit the table. The oak splintered. The wood cracked. The wine spilled. The red liquid ran over the edge. It ran down the side. It dripped onto the floor. It made a small pool.

Malcom stared at the broken table. He stared at the spilled wine. He stared at Elias.

Elias opened his eyes. He looked at the letter. He looked at Malcom. He smiled. It was a small smile. It was a sad smile. It was a true smile.

"You missed," Elias said.

Malcom looked at his sword. The blade was bent. It was curved. It was broken.

Malcom dropped the sword. It clattered on the floor. It rolled. It stopped.

He fell to his knees. He put his head in his hands. He did not cry. He did not speak. He just shook. He shook like a leaf. He shook like a stone.

Elias picked up the letter. He rolled it up. He tied it with the red string. He put it in his robe.

He looked around the hall. The lords were watching. They were afraid. They were silent. They were still.

He looked at Malcom. He saw the man. He saw the fear. He saw the pain. He saw the truth.

He felt a sadness. It was deep. It was wide. It was old. It was like the night. It was like the wind. It was like the dust.

He turned away. He walked to the door. The door was open. The night was there. The wind was there. The cold was there.

He stepped out. The door closed behind him. The latch clicked. It was a small sound. It was a final sound.

He walked into the dark. He walked into the night. He walked into the wind.

He did not look back. He did not look up. He did not look down.

He just walked.

He was alone. He was free. He was alone.

The wind howled. It sounded like a joke. It sounded like a tear. It sounded like a song.

It was a distant joke. It was a loud tear. It was a quiet song.

He walked on.