"You look thin, Thomas."

The voice belongs to the man at the table. He does not look up. He is counting coins. Silver. Then gold. Then silver again. The rhythm is steady. A heartbeat of wealth.

Thomas stands in the doorway. The wind howls outside. It carries the scent of wet wool and ash. Thomas smells of both. He smells of the road. He smells of the three weeks he has spent in the mud.

He does not answer. He looks at the table. The wood is polished. It reflects the candlelight. The reflection is sharp. It cuts the air.

"Sit," the man says.

Thomas does not sit. He leans against the doorframe. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword. The leather is worn. The metal is cold.

"I am here," Thomas says.

"Good." The man stops counting. He looks up. His eyes are small. They are dark. They do not blink. "We have work for you."

Thomas steps into the room. The floorboards do not creak. They are silent. They are dead. The room is warm. It is too warm. It smells of roasting meat and wine. The smell makes Thomas’s stomach turn.

"What work?" Thomas asks.

The man smiles. It is a thin smile. It does not reach his eyes.

"The mill at Oakhaven," the man says. "The workers are lazy. They are slow. They do not meet the quota."

Thomas frowns. "The quota is high."

"The quota is necessary." The man’s voice is flat. "You will go. You will make them work. You will make them fast."

Thomas looks at the man. He sees the ring on the man’s finger. It is gold. It is heavy. It catches the light. It is a brand. It is a seal of authority.

"I am a knight," Thomas says. "I do not whip farmers."

The man laughs. It is a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on stone.

"You are a soldier," the man says. "Soldiers obey. Soldiers endure. You will do what is asked."

Thomas feels a tightness in his chest. He breathes in. He breathes out. The air is thick. It is heavy.

"Why?" Thomas asks.

"Because I say so."

The man picks up a coin. He flips it. It spins in the air. It lands on the table. Heads.

"Go," the man says. "Leave before I change my mind."

Thomas turns. He walks to the door. He does not look back. He pushes the door open. The wind hits him. It is cold. It is real.

He steps out. The night is dark. The stars are out. They are indifferent. They do not care about the quota. They do not care about the man in the room. They only shine.

Thomas rides his horse. The horse is old. His name is Barnaby. Barnaby is tired. He snorts. He kicks.

Thomas rides north. The road is muddy. It is slick. He slips. He catches the reins. He keeps moving.

The journey takes two days. The rain does not stop. It soaks through his cloak. It soaks through his shirt. It soaks into his bones.

He arrives at Oakhaven on the second night. The village is small. It is quiet. The houses are low. They are made of stone. They are gray.

The mill is in the center of the village. It is large. It is dark. The water wheel turns slowly. It groans. It moans.

Thomas dismounts. His legs are stiff. His back aches. He walks to the mill.

The door is open. A light burns inside. It is yellow. It is sick.

Thomas steps inside.

The room is filled with men. They are many. They are hunched over the looms. They weave cloth. Their hands move fast. Too fast.

Thomas watches. He sees a boy. He is young. He is no older than ten. His hands are bleeding. The blood stains the cloth. The cloth is red.

The boy’s eyes are hollow. He does not look up. He weaves. He weaves. He weaves.

Thomas feels a rage. It is hot. It burns in his throat. He wants to scream. He wants to break the looms. He wants to strike the boy’s overseer.

But he is still wearing the uniform. The gray coat. The black boots. The sword at his side. He is the symbol of the man in the room. He is the brand.

The overseer sees Thomas. He stands up. He is a large man. He is fat. He smells of sweat and fear.

"Lord Ashworth is pleased," the overseer says. "The work is going well."

Thomas looks at the boy. The boy looks up. His eyes are wet. He looks at Thomas. He sees the gray coat. He sees the sword. He sees the authority.

The boy looks down. He weaves.

Thomas feels sick. He looks away. He looks at the overseer.

"Show me the quota," Thomas says.

The overseer hands him a ledger. The pages are filled with numbers. The numbers are high. The numbers are cruel.

Thomas closes the ledger. He hands it back.

"This is not right," Thomas says.

The overseer smiles. It is the same smile as the man in the room. Thin. Dry.

"It is the law," the overseer says.

Thomas draws his sword. The steel sings. It is a high note. It cuts the air.

The overseer steps back. He is afraid. He is small.

Thomas does not strike him. He does not whip the boy. He does not break the looms.

He walks to the boy. He kneels down. He is close to the boy. He is close to the blood.

"Your name," Thomas asks.

The boy is silent. He is shaking.

"Your name," Thomas says again. His voice is soft. It is gentle.

"Elliot," the boy whispers.

Thomas reaches out. He takes the boy’s hand. The hand is cold. It is slick with blood. Thomas holds it. He holds it tight.

"I am Thomas," he says. "I am your friend."

The boy looks at him. The fear in his eyes fades. It is replaced by something else. Hope. Fragile. Small.

Thomas stands up. He looks at the overseer. The overseer is trembling.

"Stop the work," Thomas says.

The overseer blinks. "What?"

"Stop the work. Now."

The overseer hesitates. He looks at Thomas. He looks at the sword. He looks at the boy.

He nods. He whispers to the men. The looms stop. The silence is sudden. It is loud.

Thomas looks at the overseer. He points to the door.

"Leave," Thomas says. "Take your men. Leave now."

The overseer runs. He is fast. He is afraid. He vanishes into the dark.

Thomas turns to the workers. They are staring at him. They are confused. They are afraid.

"Go home," Thomas says. "Rest. Eat. Sleep."

They do not move. They are paralyzed.

Thomas takes off his gray coat. He folds it. He places it on the loom. He takes off his sword. He lays it beside the coat.

He is just a man. He is just Thomas.

The workers look at the coat. They look at the sword. They look at Thomas.

One by one, they stand up. They walk to the door. They walk out. They disappear into the night.

Elliot stays. He looks at the coat. He looks at the sword. He looks at Thomas.

"Will you come back?" Elliot asks.

Thomas looks at the boy. He sees the mirror. He sees the fear. He sees the loss.

"No," Thomas says. "I will not come back."

"Will they come back?"

Thomas is silent. He knows the answer. He knows the man in the room. He knows the power. He knows the system.

"Yes," Thomas says. "They will come back."

Elliot nods. He understands. He looks at the coat. He picks it up. He holds it to his chest.

"Thank you," Elliot says.

Thomas does not answer. He walks to the door. He steps out. The wind hits him. It is cold. It is real.

He rides his horse. Barnaby is tired. He snorts. He kicks.

Thomas rides south. The road is muddy. It is slick. He slips. He catches the reins. He keeps moving.

The rain stops. The clouds break. The moon comes out. It is white. It is bright. It is cold.

Thomas rides until the sun rises. The light is golden. It is beautiful. It is fake.

He arrives at the estate on the third day. The man in the room is waiting. He is at the table. He is counting coins. Silver. Then gold. Then silver again.

Thomas stands in the doorway. He is wet. He is tired. He is empty.

"Did you do it?" the man asks.

Thomas does not answer. He looks at the man. He sees the ring. He sees the light. He sees the power.

"No," Thomas says.

The man’s face changes. The smile vanishes. The eyes harden.

"No?" the man repeats.

"I stopped the work," Thomas says. "I left my sword. I left my coat."

The man stands up. He is tall. He is strong. He walks around the table. He walks toward Thomas.

"You are a fool," the man says. "You are a weak man. You are nothing."

Thomas does not move. He does not fear. He is empty. He is free.

"I am done," Thomas says.

The man stops. He looks at Thomas. He sees the change. He sees the death in Thomas’s eyes.

The man raises his hand. He pulls a dagger from his belt. It is small. It is sharp. It is deadly.

He strikes. He is fast. He is precise.

Thomas does not dodge. He does not block. He stands still. He stands still.

The dagger enters his side. It is cold. It is sharp. It is real.

Thomas gasps. He looks at the man. He looks at the dagger. He looks at the blood.

The blood is red. It is hot. It is life.

Thomas falls to his knees. He leans against the doorframe. He looks at the man.

The man is breathing hard. He is angry. He is afraid.

"You will die," the man says.

Thomas smiles. It is a small smile. It is real.

"Yes," Thomas says. "I will die."

The man steps back. He looks at the door. He looks at the blood. He looks at Thomas.

He turns. He walks away. He does not look back. He does not care.

Thomas sits on the floor. The blood spreads. It is dark. It is wet.

He looks at the ceiling. It is white. It is high. It is far away.

He thinks of Elliot. He thinks of the boy’s eyes. He thinks of the hope.

He thinks of the coat. He thinks of the sword.

He thinks of the brand.

The pain is sharp. It is hot. It is real.

Thomas closes his eyes. The dark comes. It is soft. It is quiet.

He is not alone. He is with the boy. He is with the workers. He is with the truth.

The light fades. The sound fades. The pain fades.

Thomas is gone. The blood remains. The silence remains. The room remains.

The coins remain. The gold remains. The power remains.

But Thomas is gone.

The wind howls outside. It carries the scent of wet wool and ash. It carries the scent of the road. It carries the scent of the three weeks in the mud.

It carries the scent of freedom.

It is cold. It is real.

It is enough.