The rain has stopped. The air is heavy. It smells of wet stone and old iron. You stand in the courtyard. Your sword is sheathed. Your hand rests on the pommel. It is a cold metal. It is familiar. It is home.

The walls are high. They are white. They are watching you. The sky above is a bruised purple. It does not change. It does not move. It is a fixed thing. Like your life. Like your duty.

You are the last guard. The others are gone. They left at dawn. They took their coats. They took their breath. They left you with the gate. You do not mind. You prefer the silence. The silence is a companion. It does not ask for anything. It does not judge.

A bird lands on the wall. It is small. It is brown. It looks at you. It does not sing. It just watches. You look back. You see your own reflection in its eye. It is a dark pupil. It is a deep well. You look into it. You see the bottom. It is empty.

Your sister, Elara, is inside. She is in the tower. She is sleeping. Or she is waiting. You do not know. You have not seen her in three days. The doors are locked. The keys are with the Council. The Council is in the hall below. They are drinking. They are laughing. They are forgetting.

You remember. You remember always. That is your burden. That is your gift.

The bird flies away. Its wings cut the air. There is a sound. It is sharp. It is brief. Then there is nothing.

You move. Your feet make no sound. The stones are soft under your soles. You are a ghost. You are a shadow. You are the wind.

You reach the door. It is heavy oak. It is banded with iron. The iron is rusted. The rust is red. It looks like blood. It looks like life.

You knock. Three times. Short. Hard. Clear.

There is no answer.

You knock again. Three times. Short. Hard. Clear.

There is no answer.

You know she is there. You can feel her. It is a pull. It is a hook in your chest. It is a thread. It connects you to her. It is tight. It is painful.

You push the door. It does not move. It is locked. You try the handle. It is cold. It is still.

You step back. You look at the wall. The wall is cracked. The crack is small. It is a line. It is a wound.

You look at the window. The window is high. It is narrow. The glass is dirty. It is old.

You climb. Your fingers find the stone. The stone is rough. It cuts your skin. You do not feel it. You are not flesh. You are will. You are stone.

You reach the window. You break it. The glass shatters. It falls like ice. It falls like tears.

You climb in. The room is dark. The air is still. There is a bed. There is a chair. There is a mirror.

You look at the mirror. Your face is there. It is pale. It is thin. Your eyes are dark. Your mouth is a line.

You walk to the bed. Elara is there. She is lying down. Her face is turned away. Her hair is spread out. It is dark. It is like water.

You touch her shoulder. She does not move.

"Elara," you say. Your voice is rough. It is dry. It is old.

She turns. Her eyes open. They are grey. They are clear. They are sad.

"You are here," she says. Her voice is soft. It is like a whisper. It is like a breath.

"I am here," you say.

"You should not be here," she says. "The Council. They are coming. They are angry. They are afraid."

"I am not afraid," you say.

"You are," she says. "I can see it. It is in your hands. It is in your eyes."

You look at your hands. They are trembling. They are small. They are weak.

"I am afraid," you say.

"Good," she says. "Fear is honest. Courage is a lie. We tell it to survive. But it is a lie."

You sit on the bed. The mattress is soft. It is cold.

"What do we do?" you ask.

"We run," she says.

"We cannot run. The gates are closed. The sky is sealed. We are trapped."

"Then we fight," she says.

"We have lost. We have been beaten. Our swords are broken. Our spirits are broken."

"Not yet," she says. "Not yet."

She sits up. She looks at you. She sees your face. She sees your soul.

"You love me," she says. It is not a question.

"I love you," you say.

"It is a chain," she says. "It is a shackle. It holds you here. It holds me here. It is the price of freedom. And the price is too high."

"I will pay it," you say.

"No," she says. "You will not. You must let go. You must let go of me. You must let go of this place. You must let go of your sword."

"My sword is my life," you say.

"It is your death," she says. "It is a burden. It is a weight. It drags you down. It keeps you in the past. It keeps you in the war. There is no war. There is only silence."

You look at the sword on your hip. It is shining. It is bright. It is beautiful. It is a lie.

"Put it down," she says.

"I cannot," you say.

"You can. You must."

The door bursts open. The light floods in. It is white. It is blinding.

The Council enters. There are three men. They are tall. They are strong. They wear black coats. They have no faces. Their faces are masks. They are smooth. They are empty.

"Hand it over," the leader says. His voice is loud. It is sharp. It is like a blade.

"Hand over what?" you ask.

"The sword," he says. "And your sister."

"No," you say.

"You will regret this," he says. "You will suffer. You will be broken. You will be nothing."

You stand up. You reach for your sword. Your hand shakes. Your heart beats. It is a drum. It is a hammer.

Elara stands up. She moves between you. She is small. She is fragile. She is a shield.

"Let her go," you say. "Take me."

"No," the leader says. "We take both. We take everything. We take the memory. We take the name. We take the soul."

You draw your sword. The metal sings. It is a high note. It is a cry.

The leader draws his own. It is a staff. It is black. It is long.

He strikes. You block. The impact is strong. It shakes your arms. It shakes your bones.

You strike back. He dodges. He is fast. He is fluid. He is water.

You strike again. He blocks. He pushes you back. You fall. You hit the wall. The stone is hard. It hurts.

Elara screams. It is a sound of pain. It is a sound of loss.

You get up. You are bleeding. The blood is red. It is warm. It is alive.

You look at Elara. She is looking at you. Her eyes are full of tears. Her lips are moving.

She is saying something. You cannot hear it. The noise is too loud. The clashing of steel. The thunder of the storm. The wind is howling.

You look at your sword. It is heavy. It is so heavy. It is a mountain. It is a stone. It is a weight.

You remember the bird. You remember the mirror. You remember the silence.

You understand.

The sword is not you. The sword is not Elara. The sword is the cage. The sword is the prison.

You look at the leader. He is smiling. His mask is empty. His eyes are dark.

You look at Elara. She is waiting. She is watching. She is hoping.

You look at your sword.

You let go.

Your hand opens. The fingers spread. The metal slips. It falls. It hits the floor. The sound is a crash. It is a bang. It is an end.

The leader stops. He is surprised. He is confused. He does not understand. He expects you to fight. He expects you to kill. He expects you to die.

You do not move. You stand still. Your hands are empty. Your hands are open.

Elara moves. She is fast. She is silent. She is a shadow.

She runs to the window. The window is broken. The glass is gone. The sky is there. The sky is open.

She looks at you. She nods. It is a small movement. It is a yes.

She jumps.

She falls.

She does not scream. She does not cry. She just falls.

She falls into the dark. She falls into the unknown. She falls into the silence.

You watch. You do not move. You do not breathe.

The leader steps forward. He raises his staff. He is ready to strike. He is ready to kill.

But you do not fight. You do not defend. You just stand. You just wait.

He strikes. The staff hits your chest. The pain is sharp. It is hot. It is bright.

You fall. You hit the ground. Your face is in the dust.

You cannot move. You cannot breathe. Your body is broken. Your body is heavy.

But your mind is clear. Your mind is light.

You look up. The window is there. The sky is there.

You see a bird. It is small. It is brown. It is flying.

It is free.

You close your eyes. The pain fades. The noise fades. The world fades.

There is only silence.

There is only peace.

You let go.

The rain starts again. It is soft. It is cold. It washes the blood. It washes the dust. It washes the rust.

The Council leaves. The door closes. The silence returns.

The sword lies on the floor. It is still. It is quiet. It is dead.

The window is open. The wind blows. It is cold. It is clean.

You are gone. You are free.

The bird flies on. It does not look back. It does not sing. It just flies.

It is alone. It is free.

It is enough.