The wine was red. Darker than blood. Thicker. It pooled in the trench of my wrist where the iron bit in. I did not feel the pain. I felt only the taste. A metallic tang that coated the tongue, sweet and rotting. It was the taste of the cellar. The taste of the old years.

We were gathered in the Great Hall. The air was thick with smoke and sweat. The candles were tall. They burned low. The wax ran down like tears. We were eating. We were always eating. The feast was a ritual. A test. A trap.

I sat at the far end. The lowest seat. My place. My prison.

Lord Ashworth sat at the head. He was a large man. Broad shoulders. A face like a map of scars. He did not look at me. He looked at the food. He picked up a leg of mutton. The grease ran down his fingers. He laughed. A low rumble. The sound of stones grinding.

"Eat, Thomas," he said.

His voice was soft. Kind. That was the worst part. The kindness was a blade. It cut deeper than anger.

I ate. I had to. If I stopped, the guards would come. If I stopped, the hunger would return. The hunger was a ghost. It lived in my gut. It whispered. It screamed.

I looked at my hands. The red stain. The wine. Or was it blood? I could not tell. The lines on the tablecloth were blurred. My vision swam.

Across the hall, Catherine stood. She was not supposed to be there. She was a servant. A shadow. She held a tray. Silver. Shining. It reflected the flames.

Her eyes met mine.

They were wide. Dark. Full of a terrible calm.

She moved toward me. Slowly. The crowd parted. No one saw her. Or no one cared. In this hall, only Ashworth mattered. Only his word. Only his law.

She stopped before me. The tray hovered.

"You look well, Thomas," she said.

Her voice was thin. Like paper tearing.

I looked up. My throat was dry.

"I am well," I said.

It was a lie. I was dying. I had been dying for months. The poison was in the food. It was in the wine. It was in the air. I breathed it. I swallowed it. It was my life.

"Is it true?" she asked.

"About what?"

"About the letter."

I froze. The spoon slipped from my hand. It clattered on the stone floor. A sharp sound. A crack.

Ashworth’s head turned. His eyes narrowed. The light in them died.

"Thomas," he said.

I looked at him. He was watching me. Waiting.

"Nothing, my lord," I said.

I picked up the spoon. My hands shook. I hid them under the table. I pressed them against my knees. The wood was cold. The stone was cold. Everything was cold.

Catherine stepped closer. She lowered the tray.

"The letter," she said. "Did you send it?"

I looked at her. Really looked. I saw the fear in her face. But beneath the fear, there was something else. Something hot. Something burning.

"I sent it," I whispered.

The words tasted like ash.

She smiled. It was a small smile. Sad. Brief.

"Good," she said.

Then she turned. She walked away. The silver tray rang against her hip. The sound followed me. It echoed in the hall. It echoed in my head.

Ashworth leaned forward.

"Who are you talking to?" he asked.

"No one, my lord."

"Thomas."

His voice was a command. A chain.

I looked at my plate. The meat was cold. The vegetables were wilted. The wine was dark.

"I am talking to my food," I said.

He stared at me. For a long time. The seconds stretched. The air grew heavy. I could hear the blood in my ears. A rushing sound. A river.

"Get out," he said.

He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The room went silent. The candles flickered. The shadows danced.

I stood up. My legs were weak. I gripped the edge of the table. My knuckles turned white.

"Where?" I asked.

"Anywhere," he said. "But not here."

I walked away. My steps were slow. Heavy. The floor was cold. The air was cold.

I left the hall. The door closed behind me. A heavy thud. A finality.

I was in the corridor. The stone was gray. The torches burned low. I walked. I did not know where I was going. I only knew I had to leave.

I reached the garden. The night was dark. The stars were out. They were bright. They were far. They were indifferent.

I leaned against the wall. I slid down. I sat on the cold ground.

The wine was still in my mouth. The taste was strong. Sweet. Rotting.

I closed my eyes. I remembered the letter.

I had written it. Three days ago. In the dark. By candlelight. My hand had trembled. The ink had bled.

I had sent it to the King. To the King’s brother. The one who was not here. The one who was waiting.

I had betrayed Ashworth. I had betrayed the house. I had betrayed my own life.

I had done it for love.

Catherine.

She was not just a servant. She was my sister. Not by blood. By choice. By silence. By the way we looked at each other in the dark. By the way we spoke in whispers. By the way we died a little each day.

I had thought it was a game. A trick. A way to save her. To save me.

I had thought it was trust.

It was not.

It was a lie.

A beautiful lie. A deadly lie.

I opened my eyes. The stars were still there. They did not care. They did not judge. They just burned.

A footstep.

I turned.

Catherine was there. She stood in the moonlight. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wet.

"Thomas," she said.

I did not move. I did not speak. I just looked at her.

"I am sorry," she said.

"Go away," I said.

My voice was rough. Broken.

"I cannot."

"Go."

She sat down. Beside me. Close. Too close. I could smell her. Rosewater. Sweat. Fear.

"He knows," she said.

"I know."

"He will kill you."

"Yes."

"He will kill me."

"Yes."

We sat in silence. The wind blew. The leaves rustled. The sound was like breathing.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why what?"

"Why did you do it?"

I looked at the sky. The stars. The moon. The darkness.

"Because I could not bear it," I said. "The silence. The fear. The hunger. I wanted to end it. I wanted to be free."

"Was it for me?"

I turned to her. Her face was in the shadow. I could not see her eyes.

"Was it?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "It was."

I nodded. I felt a pain in my chest. A sharp sting. A crack in the bone.

"I am tired, Catherine," I said.

"I know."

"Let me go."

"I will not."

"You must."

"No."

She reached out. She took my hand. Her fingers were cold. Her grip was tight.

"I am with you," she said.

I looked at our hands. Interlocked. Twisted. Tangled.

The wine was still in my mouth. The taste was stronger now. The sweetness was gone. Only the rot remained.

I felt the poison spreading. In my veins. In my heart. In my mind.

I felt the truth.

It was not a betrayal.

It was a gift.

A terrible gift. A final gift.

I had not sent the letter to save us. I had sent it to destroy us. To burn the house down. To burn the system down. To burn the lie down.

I had wanted them to suffer. Like I suffered. Like we suffered.

I had wanted the blood. The wine. The red.

I had wanted the end.

Catherine pulled me closer. Her head rested on my shoulder. Her hair smelled of ash.

"Thomas," she whispered.

I closed my eyes. The darkness was warm. The darkness was safe.

"I am here," I said.

"I know."

We sat in the garden. The night deepened. The stars burned. The wind blew.

The wine was in my blood. The poison was in my soul.

I was free.

I was broken.

I was alive.

The gate creaked. The heavy sound echoed. The guards were coming. I could hear their boots. The clank of iron. The shout of men.

They were coming for us.

They were coming to end it.

I opened my eyes. I looked at Catherine. Her face was still. Her eyes were closed.

She was asleep. Or dead.

I did not know.

I did not care.

The wine was red. The wine was thick. The wine was mine.

I smiled.

The first drop of blood fell on the stone.

It was warm.

It was sweet.