The feast is a riot of gold and smoke.

You stand in the corner of the great hall. The air is thick. It smells of roasted boar and wet wool. Your father sits at the high table. He is a king now. He wears the crown. It sits heavy on his brow. You watch his hand tremble as he lifts a goblet. He does not look at you. He looks at the fire. The fire eats the wood. It eats the light. It eats the truth.

You are twelve. You are small. You are quiet.

The crowd roars. They cheer for the king. They cheer for the queen. They do not cheer for you. They do not even see you. You are a shadow. You are a ghost. You are the thing that was cast out.

Remember the day before the feast.

The rain fell hard that morning. It hammered the stone roof of the tower. You sat on the cold floor. Your knees were pulled to your chest. You held the sash in your hands. It was blue. It was silk. It was your mother’s. She had died three winters ago. The sash was the only thing she had left you. It was soft. It was warm. It was yours.

Your father entered. He did not knock. He never knocked. He stood in the doorway. He was wet. He was angry.

"Give it to me," he said.

You looked up. Your eyes were wide. You did not speak. You tightened your grip on the silk.

"Give it to me, Thomas."

"It’s hers," you whispered.

"It is mine now. The crown requires it. The people require it. The gods require it."

He stepped into the room. His shadow fell over you. It was long. It was dark. It swallowed you whole.

You stood up. You held the sash out. Your hands shook. You wanted to fight. You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear the sash in half and let the wind take the pieces. But you did not. You were too afraid. You were too small. You were too much like your mother. And your mother had been weak. Or so the story went.

He took the sash. He held it up. He looked at it with cold eyes. Then he dropped it into the brazier.

The silk caught fire. It curled. It blackened. It turned to ash.

You screamed. It was a sound like a breaking bone. It came from deep inside your chest. It shook your ribs. It filled the room.

He did not stop. He watched it burn. He watched you scream. He did not look at you. He looked at the fire. He looked at the king he was becoming.

"Peace," he said. His voice was low. It was flat. It was final.

You stopped screaming. You stopped breathing. You just stared at the ash. It floated in the air. It settled on the floor. It was nothing. It was gone.

That was three days ago.

Now, the feast.

The music swells. Lutes and harps play a fast, bright tune. It is happy. It is loud. It is false.

You move through the crowd. You are invisible. You are part of the wallpaper. You are part of the stone.

You see her.

Eleanor.

She is sitting at the edge of the table. She is beautiful. She is young. She is the new favorite. She has dark hair and bright eyes. She smiles at the king. He smiles back. It is a quick smile. It is a thin smile. It does not reach his eyes.

You look away. Your heart beats fast. It thumps in your throat. It is a bird trapped in a cage. It wants to fly. It wants to break out.

You remember Eleanor from last week.

You were in the garden. The roses were red. The air smelled of rain and earth. You were crying. You could not stop. The sash was gone. Your mother was gone. You were alone.

Eleanor found you.

She did not say anything. She just sat down next to you. She sat in the dirt. She sat in the wet grass. She did not care about her dress.

"I know," she said.

You looked at her. Your face was wet. Your eyes were swollen.

"I know," she said again. "I know what it is to lose something. I know what it is to be taken from."

You wiped your eyes. You looked at her. She was kind. She was real. She was not like the king. She was not like the court.

"Will you help me?" you asked.

She nodded. She reached out and took your hand. Her hand was warm. It was strong.

"We will get it back," she said.

You did not understand. The sash was ash. It was gone. But she said it with such certainty. She said it with such fire. You believed her. You believed that love could burn away the lie. You believed that truth could rise from the ashes.

You were wrong.

The music stops.

The hall goes silent.

The king stands. He holds the goblet high.

"To the new age," he says.

The crowd cheers. They raise their cups. They drink.

You look at Eleanor. She is staring at you. Her eyes are wide. Her face is pale. She is shaking.

She stands up.

She walks to the center of the room. The crowd parts for her. They do not know why. They do not know who she is. They only know that she is beautiful. They only know that she is the king’s favorite.

She stops in front of the king. She looks at him. Her eyes are hard. Her voice is clear. It cuts through the silence.

"Thomas is not a boy," she says.

The room goes still.

"Thomas is your son," she says. "And you have killed him."

The king freezes. The goblet is still in his hand. The wine does not spill. It stays still. It stays dark.

"What?" he says.

"The sash," Eleanor says. "It was not just a sash. It was his heart. You burned it. You burned his mother. You burned his soul."

The king looks at you. For the first time, he looks at you. His eyes are cold. They are hard. They are empty.

"You are weak," he says.

"No," you say. Your voice is small. It is quiet. But it is steady. "I am not weak. I am just gone."

The king laughs. It is a dry laugh. It is a cruel laugh.

"Get out," he says.

You do not move.

"Get out," he says again. He raises his hand. He signals the guards.

The guards step forward. They are big. They are strong. They wear iron. They carry swords.

Eleanor steps between you and the guards.

"Stop," she says.

The king looks at her. His face is dark.

"Are you with him?" he asks.

"Yes," she says.

"Then you are against me."

"Yes," she says.

The king’s hand moves. He strikes her. It is a quick blow. It is a hard blow. She falls to the floor. Blood runs from her lip. It is red. It is bright. It is warm.

You scream. It is the same scream as before. It is the scream of a breaking bone. It is the scream of a soul tearing free.

The guards move. They grab you. They drag you out. You kick. You fight. You bite. But they are too strong. They are too fast.

They throw you into the yard. The rain is falling again. It is cold. It is wet. It soaks your clothes. It soaks your skin.

You lie in the mud. You look up. The sky is gray. The stars are hidden. The moon is hidden. The world is dark.

Eleanor is gone. The king is gone. The feast is gone.

You are alone.

You are cold. You are wet. You are broken.

But you are free.

The sash is ash. The mother is gone. The king is a monster. The queen is dead. The court is a lie. The love is a lie. The truth is a lie.

Everything is a lie.

Except this.

You are here. You are alive. You are alone.

You close your eyes. You feel the rain on your face. It is cold. It is clean. It washes away the dust. It washes away the blood. It washes away the lie.

You open your eyes.

You stand up.

You walk away. You walk into the dark. You walk into the night. You walk into the unknown.

You do not look back.

The castle looms behind you. It is a mountain of stone. It is a prison of gold. It is a tomb of lies.

You leave it. You leave them. You leave the crown. You leave the feast. You leave the silence.

You are no one. You are nothing. You are free.

The wind blows. It is cold. It is sharp. It cuts your face.

You smile.

It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is a true smile.

You walk on. The night is long. The road is dark. But you are not afraid. You have nothing left to lose. You have nothing left to burn. You have nothing left to break.

You are empty. You are full. You are whole.

The sash is gone. But the memory remains. It is not a ghost. It is not a shadow. It is a fire. It burns in your chest. It burns in your heart. It burns in your soul.

You carry it. You carry it with you. You carry it into the dark. You carry it into the rain. You carry it into the world.

You are Thomas. You are the king’s son. You are the outcast. You are the truth.

And the truth is heavy. And the truth is cold. And the truth is free.

You walk on. The city sleeps. The dogs howl. The bells ring in the distance. They mark the hour. They mark the end. They mark the beginning.

You do not hear them. You only hear your own breath. You only hear your own heart. It beats steady. It beats strong. It beats true.

You are alone. But you are not lonely. You are with the rain. You are with the wind. You are with the memory. You are with the fire.

You are with yourself.

And that is enough.

The dark swallows you. The night takes you. The world turns. The stars return. The moon rises. It is full. It is bright. It is cold.

You look at it. You feel its gaze. It sees you. It knows you. It accepts you.

You are no one. You are everything.

You walk on.