The fire started in the rafters. It did not begin with a spark, nor a match. It began with the smell of rotting straw and the sudden, violent heat that pressed against your cheek. You were in the cellar. You knew it was the cellar by the dampness that soaked through your wool dress. You knew it was the cellar because the light above was turning red. Not the red of a sunset. The red of a wound.

You sat in the dark. Your hands were in your lap. They were still. They were always still. Margaret sat beside you. Her head was bowed. She was whispering. You could not hear the words. The floorboards groaned overhead. A piece of timber fell. It cracked against the stone step. Dust rained down. You did not flinch.

How long had you been there? An hour? A day? Time had lost its teeth. It could no longer bite. You remembered the sun. It was bright on the square. It was bright on the faces of the men. They wore iron. They carried steel. They were not men. They were walls.

You looked at Margaret. She was young. Too young for this. Her hair was unbound. It hung like a dark curtain. She was beautiful. In a way, this was a cruelty. To be beautiful in a place of ash. To be clean in a place of dirt. She was the mirror. You saw yourself in her. Not the face. Not the eyes. The hunger. The quiet, deep, terrible hunger that ate from the inside out.

"Is it over?" she asked. Her voice was small. A thread.

You did not answer. You could not. Your throat was full of stone.

The heat grew. It was a living thing. It breathed. It pushed against the doors. The wood above was softening. You could hear it crackle. A sound like bones breaking. A sound like laughter.

They came for you yesterday. Or the day before. It did not matter. They came with the banners. The blue and gold. They said you were thieves. They said you were spies. They said you were witches. The words were heavy. They dropped on you like rocks. You took them. You let them land. You did not fight. You did not scream. You stood in the square and let them look at you. You let them see your eyes. You let them see that you were afraid. And you let them see that you did not care.

That was the lie. You cared. You cared so much it hurt. You cared for the village. You cared for the people who lived in the huts by the river. You cared for the children who played in the mud. You cared for the old man who mended nets. You cared for the woman who baked bread. You cared for all of it. And the fire was taking it.

Margaret shifted. She leaned against you. Her shoulder was warm. It was the only warmth left.

"They will come down," she whispered.

"Let them," you said.

She looked at you. Her eyes were wide. Dark. Like two holes in the night. "Why?"

"Because I am tired."

The fire roared. A beam fell. It crashed into the cellar floor. Dust exploded. You coughed. The air was thick. It tasted of smoke. It tasted of death. You breathed it in. You breathed it out.

You thought about the harvest. The wheat was golden. It waved in the wind. It was so beautiful. It was so fragile. One spark and it was gone. One spark and it was ash. You had saved the seeds. You had kept them in the clay pots. You had hidden them in the wall. You had hidden them in the dark. You had hidden them in yourself.

You were the seed. You were the root. You were the thing that grew in the dark. You did not need the sun. You did not need the rain. You needed the soil. You needed the pressure. You needed the weight of the earth to push you up.

Margaret touched your hand. Her fingers were cold. They were thin. They were like twigs.

"Are you going to forgive them?" she asked.

You looked at her. You looked at the dust in the air. You looked at the red light.

"No," you said.

She nodded. She understood. She always understood. She was the witness. She saw everything. She saw the good and the bad. She saw the lie and the truth. She saw the monster and the man. She saw the difference. And she saw that there was no difference.

The door above was burning. The wood was black. It was cracking. It was falling apart.

"Who are they?" she asked.

"They are us," you said.

She shook her head. "No. They are them."

"No," you said again. "We are the same. We are all the same. We are all hungry. We are all afraid. We are all alone."

The fire was in the room now. It was on the floor. It was on the walls. It was on the clothes. It was on the skin. It was everywhere.

You stood up. Your legs were weak. They shook. You held onto the wall. The stone was hot. It burned your palm. You did not let go.

Margaret stood up too. She was pale. She was shaking. She looked at the door. She looked at you.

"Go," she said.

"I will not."

"You must."

"I will not."

She stepped forward. She put her hand on your chest. Her hand was firm. It was strong.

"You have to live," she said. "You have to carry it. You have to remember."

"Remember what?"

"Everything."

The door burst open. Light flooded in. It was blinding. It was white. It was the color of nothing.

The men were there. There were three of them. They held their swords. They held their faces behind their masks. You could not see their eyes. You could not see their mouths. You could only see the steel.

The leader stepped forward. He was tall. He was broad. He wore a cloak of red. It was soaked with water. Or blood. It was hard to tell.

"You are the thief," he said. His voice was loud. It echoed in the small space. It echoed in your head.

"I am the keeper," you said.

He laughed. It was a dry sound. A harsh sound.

"Keepers burn," he said. "Thieves burn. All of you burn."

He raised his sword. The steel caught the light. It sparkled. It was beautiful. It was deadly.

You did not move. You did not blink. You looked at him. You looked at the sword. You looked at the fire.

Margaret stepped between you. She spread her arms. She was small. She was fragile. She was a shield made of flesh.

"Stop," she said.

The man froze. He looked at her. He looked at you. He looked at the fire.

"You are brave," he said. "You are foolish."

"We are human," you said.

He swung the sword. It was fast. It was silent. It cut the air. It cut the dust. It cut the light.

Margaret fell.

It was not a scream. It was a sigh. It was a release. She fell to the floor. She fell into the dust. She fell into the dark.

You stood still. You felt nothing. You felt everything. You felt the cold. You felt the heat. You felt the weight of the air. You felt the weight of the stone. You felt the weight of the truth.

The man stepped over her. He looked at you. His face was hidden. But you could see his eyes. They were gray. They were empty. They were like the sky after a storm.

"You are next," he said.

You took a step forward. You took a step toward him. You took a step toward the fire.

"No," you said.

He stopped. He looked at you. He was confused. He was angry. He was afraid.

"I am not next," you said. "I am the master."

He raised the sword again. He raised it high. He raised it to kill you.

You closed your eyes. You breathed in. You breathed out. You let go. You let go of the anger. You let go of the fear. You let go of the hate. You let go of the self.

The sword came down.

It did not hit you.

It hit the air. It hit the space where you had been. You had moved. You had stepped aside. You had stepped into the light.

The man fell. He fell to his knees. He fell into the dust. He fell into the fire.

You looked at him. You looked at Margaret. You looked at the flames.

You did not kill him. You did not kill yourself. You did not kill the world.

You walked out.

The heat was behind you. The smoke was behind you. The darkness was behind you.

You walked into the square. The sun was high. It was bright. It was hot. It was real.

People were running. People were screaming. People were crying.

You walked past them. You walked to the edge of the square. You walked to the river.

The water was cold. The water was clear. The water was alive.

You stopped. You looked at your reflection. Your face was covered in ash. Your hair was singed. Your clothes were torn.

You looked at the water. You looked at the sky. You looked at the world.

You were alone.

You were free.

You were the golden master. You were the seed. You were the root. You were the thing that grew in the dark.

You turned. You walked back. You walked into the fire.

You did not burn. You did not die. You did not live.

You were the silence. You were the breath. You were the end.

The fire consumed the house. The fire consumed the square. The fire consumed the village.

But it did not consume you.

It could not.

You were the ash. You were the smoke. You were the memory.

You were the truth.

And the truth remains.