The bell tolled. It was the hour for patrol.

Miles stood at the gate. The iron was cold. He wore the heavy cloak of the King’s Guard. It weighed on his shoulders. The weight was a constant. It was his friend. It was his prison.

He looked at the wall. The stone was old. The stone was grey. The stone was broken.

A crack ran through the center. It was small. It was dark. It looked like a mouth.

Miles touched it. The rock was rough. It bit his finger. A drop of blood fell. It vanished into the stone.

He did not flinch. He had seen blood before. He had seen it on the fields of war. He had seen it on the hands of traitors. He knew the color of it. He knew the taste.

He turned away. He had a duty to perform.

The courtyard was silent. The snow fell softly. It covered the ground in white. It covered the blood. It covered the cracks.

Miles walked. His boots crunched on the ice. The sound was sharp. It cut the air.

He passed the barracks. The windows were dark. The men slept. They dreamed of home. They dreamed of peace.

Miles did not dream. He watched. He guarded. He endured.

The castle was a beast. It breathed. It hungered. It demanded blood.

He reached the throne room. The doors were open. They were always open. No one guarded the inside. The King was there.

The King sat on the chair. He was small. He was old. His eyes were closed.

Miles knelt. He placed his hand on his heart.

“Your Majesty,” Miles said. His voice was low. It was steady.

The King did not move. The King did not speak.

Miles stood. He looked at the floor. The floor was made of marble. It was polished. It was smooth.

But it was cracked.

The same crack. The same dark mouth.

It ran under the throne. It ran under the King’s feet.

Miles stared at it. He felt a pull. It was in his chest. It was in his bones.

He wanted to look closer. He wanted to touch it.

He stepped forward. His boot slipped on the ice. He fell.

His hand struck the floor.

The pain was bright. It was white.

He looked at his hand. The blood was red. It mixed with the dust.

He looked at the crack. The blood seeped in. The stone drank it.

The King opened his eyes. They were empty. They were dead.

“You see it,” the King said. His voice was like dry leaves.

Miles did not answer. He could not speak.

The King smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a tired smile.

“The stone remembers,” the King said. “The stone keeps the score.”

Miles stood up. His legs shook. He was afraid. He was not sure what he feared. He feared the King. He feared the stone. He feared himself.

He backed away. He walked to the door. He left the room.

The cold hit him. It was sharp. It was clean.

He walked out into the snow. The wind howled. It sounded like a scream.

He reached the gate. He looked back. The castle loomed. It was tall. It was black.

The crack was visible. It glowed. It was faint. It was red.

Miles turned. He left the castle. He walked into the night.

He walked for hours. The snow was deep. It swallowed his footprints.

He found a cottage. It was small. It was wooden.

He knocked. The wood was old. It creaked.

A woman opened the door. She was young. She was beautiful. Her hair was dark. Her eyes were brown.

Her name was Elara.

She looked at him. She saw the blood on his hand. She saw the fear in his eyes.

She let him in.

The fire was warm. It danced in the hearth. The light was orange. It was soft.

Miles sat. He held his hand out. The blood had dried. It was dark.

Elara brought him soup. It was hot. It was savory.

He drank. The heat spread through him. It soothed his pain.

He looked at Elara. She sat across from him. She watched him.

Her eyes were kind. Her eyes were sad.

“I am afraid,” Miles said. His voice was a whisper.

Elara nodded. She did not ask why.

“I cannot stop it,” Miles said. “It calls to me.”

Elara reached out. She took his hand. Her touch was cool. It was gentle.

“You are not alone,” she said.

Miles looked at her. He saw his own pain in her eyes. He saw his own fear.

He loved her. It was sudden. It was fierce. It was consuming.

He wanted to stay. He wanted to be safe.

He wanted to forget the stone.

He stayed for three days. The snow did not stop. The world was white. The world was still.

On the fourth day, he woke. The fire was dead. The ashes were cold.

Elara was gone.

Her chair was empty. The cup was empty.

The door was open. The wind blew in.

Miles ran. He ran into the snow. He ran to the castle.

The castle was there. It was waiting.

He entered. The silence was heavy. It pressed on his ears.

He went to the throne room. The doors were open.

The King was gone. The throne was empty.

The crack was wide. It was deep. It bled.

Red liquid flowed. It ran across the floor. It ran to the center.

Miles fell to his knees. He crawled. He crawled to the crack.

He put his hands in. The rock was warm. It pulsed. It was alive.

He felt the memory.

He saw the past.

He saw a soldier. He saw a woman. He saw a child.

He saw the soldier kill the child. He saw the woman scream. He saw the stone drink the blood.

It was him. It was always him.

He had done this before. He had done it in a thousand lives.

He was the killer. He was the victim. He was the guard. He was the stone.

The cycle was complete. The wheel turned.

He could not escape. He could not break it.

He was part of it. He was the key.

He looked at his hands. They were stained red. They were stained with history.

He stood up. His body was heavy. His soul was heavy.

He walked to the center of the room. He stood over the crack.

He felt the pull. It was stronger now. It was undeniable.

He had to end it. He had to break the loop.

But how?

He looked at the stone. He looked at the blood.

He realized the truth.

The stone did not want his blood. The stone wanted his will.

The stone wanted him to choose.

He could fight. He could rage. He could hate.

Or he could accept.

He could let go.

He closed his eyes. He breathed. The air was cold. The air was clean.

He thought of Elara. He thought of her touch. He thought of her kindness.

She had been an illusion. She had been a part of the test.

Or she had been real. It did not matter.

The love had been real. The pain had been real.

He opened his eyes.

He did not rage. He did not scream.

He accepted.

He placed his hands on the crack. He did not pull. He did not push.

He held.

He held the pain. He held the memory. He held the guilt.

He held it until it was gone.

The stone shuddered. The crack widened.

The floor shook. The walls crumbled.

Dust fell. The light faded.

Miles felt his body dissolve. He felt his self dissolve.

He was no one. He was nothing.

He was the stone.

He was the dust.

He was the silence.

The castle collapsed. The roof fell. The walls crumbled.

The snow buried it. The snow covered it.

The white was pure. The white was final.

There was no pain. There was no fear.

There was only the cold.

There was only the end.

The wheel stopped.

The silence was absolute.

The stone was whole.

The stone was broken.

The stone was gone.

Miles was gone.

The snow fell.

It fell softly.

It covered the ground.

It covered the past.

It covered the future.

It covered the name.

It covered the face.

It covered the blood.

It covered the crack.

It covered the soul.

The world was white.

The world was still.

The world was quiet.

The bell tolled.

It was the hour for patrol.

The bell tolled.

The bell tolled.

The bell tolled.

The snow fell.

The snow fell.

The snow fell.