The bread was cold.

It sat on the stone table, cracked and grey. Thomas stared at it. He did not blink. The room smelled of dust and old blood. Outside, the wind howled through the broken windows.

He touched the loaf. His finger left a dark mark.

"Is it poisoned?" he asked.

The voice came from the shadows. It was Margaret. She stood by the door. Her dress was torn. Her face was pale.

"It is bread," she said. "Just bread."

Thomas picked it up. He held it close to his face. He inhaled. It smelled of yeast. Of soil. Of death.

"Eat," she said.

He did not move.

"Why?" he asked. "Why now?"

Margaret stepped forward. Her feet made no sound. She looked at him. Her eyes were hard. They were cold. They were full of something he could not name.

"Because we must," she said. "Because the King is coming."

Thomas laughed. It was a dry sound. Like a branch snapping.

"The King is dead," Thomas said.

"Is he?" Margaret asked.

"Did you not hear? The arrows? The fire? We saw it. We ran. We hid in the cellar. We watched the palace burn."

Margaret shook her head. Her hair fell across her face.

"You saw nothing," she said. "You saw your fear. You saw your guilt. You saw what you wanted to see."

Thomas dropped the bread. It hit the floor. It rolled. It stopped against the wall.

"Get out," Thomas said.

"I will not leave you," she said.

"Then you will die."

She smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach her eyes.

"I am already dying, Thomas. I have been dying for years. I am just waiting for the end to come."

He sat down. His legs gave way. The chair was broken. One leg was shorter than the others. It wobbled. He leaned against the wall.

"The crown," he said.

"What about it?"

"Where is it?"

"I don't know."

"Liar."

"I am not a liar. I am a wife. I am a woman. I am tired."

He looked at her. Really looked at her. He saw the lines around her mouth. He saw the dark circles under her eyes. He saw the way her hands trembled.

"I loved you," he said.

The words hung in the air. They felt heavy. They felt false.

"Did you?" she asked.

"Yes. I loved you. I loved you more than the crown. More than the power. More than my life."

She laughed again. It was softer this time. Sad.

"You are a fool, Thomas. You always were. You think love is a choice. It is not. It is a trap. It is a cage. It is a brand."

He stood up. His knees ached. He moved toward her. He stopped when he was close. He could smell her perfume. It was lavender. It was sweet. It was rotting.

"Tell me the truth," he said.

"There is no truth. There is only what we say to survive. There is only what we believe to keep going."

"Then I will not go. I will stay here. I will die here. I will not fight."

"That is what they want," she said. "That is what the King wants. He wants you to break. He wants you to surrender. He wants you to be nothing."

Thomas looked at the broken bread on the floor. He looked at the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light. He looked at the window. The sky was dark. The stars were out. They were indifferent.

"I am a coward," he said.

"Are you?" she asked.

"I ran. I hid. I let them take you. I let them take the city. I let them take everything."

"You ran to live," she said. "You hid to protect. You are not a coward. You are a man. And men are flawed. Men are weak. Men are afraid."

He turned away. He looked at the door. The door was heavy. It was iron. It was locked.

"How do we get out?" he asked.

"We do not get out," she said. "We are the prison. We are the key. We are the lock."

He did not understand. He wanted to understand. He wanted clarity. He wanted a map. He wanted a path. He had nothing.

"The bread," he said.

"Yes?"

"Who baked it?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"To feed you. To keep you alive. To keep you here."

He picked up the bread again. He held it in his hand. It was hard. It was dry. It was useless.

"I will not eat it," he said.

"Then you will starve."

"Good."

She looked at him. Her face was unreadable.

"You are changing," she said. "You are becoming someone else."

"Who?"

"Someone who understands. Someone who accepts. Someone who lets go."

He dropped the bread again. It thudded against the stone.

"I do not accept. I do not let go. I fight. I always fight. That is who I am. That is what I am."

"Then you will die fighting," she said. "And that is a good death. A noble death. A hero's death."

"I am not a hero."

"No. You are a fool. A brave fool. A stupid fool. But you are mine."

He looked at her. He saw the love in her eyes. It was there. It was deep. It was dark. It was a pit.

"I am sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"For everything. For the pain. For the loss. For the blood. For the silence. For the noise. For the years. For the moments. For the life we had. For the life we lost."

She stepped forward. She took his hand. Her fingers were cold. Her grip was tight.

"It is too late for apologies," she said. "It is too late for regret. It is too late for anything."

He pulled his hand away. He backed up. He hit the wall.

"Let me go," he said.

"I cannot."

"Then I will break you."

She smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a final smile.

"Do it," she said. "Break me. Break us. Break the world. It is the only thing left to do."

He grabbed her shoulders. He shook her. She did not move. She did not resist. She let him hold her. She let him squeeze. She let him hurt her.

He stopped. His hands fell to his sides. He was breathing hard. His chest heaved.

"Are you dead?" he asked.

"I am alive," she said. "I am still alive. And you are still alive. And we are still here. And the world is still turning."

He looked around the room. The dust was settling. The light was fading. The shadows were growing longer.

"The King," he said.

"Is coming," she said.

He looked at the door. He listened. He heard footsteps. They were slow. They were steady. They were close.

"Run," she said.

"Where?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere. Nowhere. It does not matter. Just run."

He looked at the window. The bars were rusted. The glass was broken. He could see the garden. The garden was dark. The trees were bare. The ground was muddy.

He looked at her. He looked at the bread. He looked at the door.

"I will not run," he said.

"Then you will die."

"Yes."

He walked to the table. He picked up the bread. He held it over the fire. The fire was low. The flames were blue. They licked at the crust.

He watched it burn. He watched it crack. He watched it turn to ash.

"Let it go," he said.

"What?"

"The bread. The past. The guilt. The love. The hate. Let it all go. Let it burn. Let it become nothing. Let it become dust."

She watched him. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was open.

"You are losing your mind," she said.

"No," he said. "I am finding it."

The footsteps stopped. The door handle turned. The door opened.

Light flooded in. It was bright. It was blinding. It was white.

Thomas stood in the light. He held the burning bread. The ash fell from his fingers. It drifted down. It landed on the floor. It mixed with the dust. It was gone.

He did not turn around. He did not look at the King. He did not look at the guards. He looked at Margaret.

"I am ready," he said.

She nodded. She did not speak. She did not need to. She knew. They both knew.

The end was not a victory. The end was not a defeat. The end was a release. The end was a breath. The end was a sigh.

The wheel turned. The wheel always turns. We are on it. We are part of it. We cannot stop it. We cannot change it. We can only ride it. We can only watch it. We can only let it take us.

Thomas closed his eyes. He felt the heat on his face. He felt the weight of the moment. He felt the end of the beginning.

He opened his eyes. He looked at the light. He stepped into it.

The bread was gone. The crown was gone. The love was gone. The fear was gone.

Only the dust remained.

Only the dust remained.

Only the dust remained.