The feast was cold. I knew it was cold. The candles had burned low, their wax pooling in dark, heavy lakes across the table. The meat was grey. The wine was stale. But the noise remained. A low, thrumming hum that vibrated in my teeth. It was the sound of the guild hall. It was the sound of us.

I am a maker of locks. Fine locks. Brass and iron. Keys that fit no other door. I sit at the far end of the table. My hands are still. They are always still. I watch them. The masters. The men who decide who is clean and who is not.

The air smells of sweat and old fear. There is no dialogue. We do not need words. The eyes do the work. They cut. They slice. They peel the skin from the bone of our intentions.

I am Arthur. I am a good man. I believe this. I have always believed this. I make things that keep the wicked out. That is the purpose. That is the good.

But the room is a beast. It breathes. It wants to eat.

The Master, Silas, stands. He is tall. He is thin. His face is a map of lines. He does not look at me. He looks at the wall. He speaks. I do not hear the words. I see the shape of them. They are jagged. They are sharp. They are a trap.

They are talking about the new apprentice.

His name is Thomas. He is young. He is soft. His hands are white. He has not yet learned the smell of the metal. He has not yet learned the pain.

I look at Thomas. He sits near the fire. His eyes are wide. They are bright. They are alive. He does not know. He is happy. He thinks he is one of us. He thinks the guild is a family.

I feel a cold stone in my stomach. It grows. It gets heavier.

I am the senior maker. I am the one who knows the secrets. I am the one who holds the keys. Or so I thought.

Silas turns his head. He looks at me. His eyes are black pits. He smiles. It is a small smile. It is a cruel smile.

I understand. I am not the keeper. I am the key. I am the thing that is used. And then discarded.

The room shifts. The walls move in. The shadows lengthen. They touch my hands. They wrap around my wrists. They are tight.

I look down. My hands are shaking. I do not want them to shake. I am strong. I am steady. I am the maker.

But I am afraid.

I look at Thomas again. He is laughing. He is holding a cup. The wine spills. It runs down his chin. He wipes it with his sleeve. He looks so free.

I want to be him. I want to be new. I want to be blind.

But I am not. I see everything. I see the rot in the wood. I see the rust in the iron. I see the lie in the face.

Silas speaks again. The words are like knives. They cut the air. They cut the silence.

They are voting.

I do not know for what. I do not care. I know the result. I know what they want. They want a sacrifice. They want a clean slate. They want to wash their hands.

And they will use me.

I look at the door. It is closed. It is locked. I know the lock. I made it. I know how it works. I know how to open it.

But I do not move.

I am frozen.

The fire pops. A spark flies up. It dies in the dark.

I am a fool. I have been a fool for years. I thought I was safe. I thought my skill was my shield. I thought my loyalty was my currency.

It was nothing. It was dust.

Thomas looks at me. He sees the fear. He sees the shake in my hands. His face changes. The light goes out. He looks at Silas. He looks at the other masters. He looks at the door.

He understands.

He is not happy anymore.

I feel a surge of anger. It is hot. It is red. It burns in my chest.

I am not a victim. I am a maker. I make things. I control things.

I stand up.

The chair scrapes against the stone floor. The sound is loud. It is sharp. It stops the hum.

Silas looks at me. He waits.

I do not speak. I do not need to.

I reach into my pocket. I take out a small tool. It is a pick. It is thin. It is silver. It is perfect.

I walk to the door.

The men watch me. They do not stop me. They do not need to. They know what I will do. They know I will open it. They know I will leave.

They want me to leave.

I reach for the handle.

I stop.

I look at the lock.

I look at my hand.

I look at Thomas.

I see the truth.

The lock is not for them. The lock is for me.

I am the lock. I am the barrier. I am the thing that holds the door shut.

If I open it, I am free.

If I open it, I am alone.

If I open it, I am nothing.

I look at the faces. They are hard. They are stone. They are unchanging.

I look at Thomas. He is young. He is afraid. But he is there. He is with us.

I am not alone. I have the guild. I have the work. I have the craft.

I have the fear.

I put the tool back in my pocket.

I sit down.

The chair does not scrape.

The hum returns. It is louder now. It is in my head. It is in my blood.

Silas nods. He sits back down. He pours himself more wine. He drinks.

The feast continues.

The meat is cold. The wine is stale.

I eat. I chew. I swallow.

The taste is ash.

I am safe. I am part of them. I am the lock.

But I know the secret. I know the weight of it.

I look at Thomas. He is eating. He is looking down. He is hiding.

I feel a pity for him. It is deep. It is dark.

I will not save him. I will not speak. I will not act.

I am a maker. I make locks.

I will keep the door closed.

The candles burn lower. The shadows grow longer. They touch my face. They feel cold.

I am cold.

I am part of the cold.

The story is over. The feast is over.

I am still here.

I am the lock.

And the door is shut.

The silence is not empty. It is full. It is full of the sound of my own heartbeat. It is loud. It is fast. It is afraid.

I look at my hands. They are still. They are steady.

They are dirty.

There is oil under the nails. There is rust in the creases.

I wash my hands. I wash them in the basin by the door. The water is cold. It stings.

I look at my reflection.

The face is old. The eyes are tired.

But the eyes are clear.

I see the truth.

I am not good. I am not bad.

I am the lock.

And the lock does not care who is on the other side.

It only cares that it is closed.

I dry my hands. I put on my coat.

I walk out of the hall.

The night is dark. The street is empty.

The air is sharp. It cuts my face.

I walk home.

I walk to my workshop.

I sit at my bench.

I pick up a piece of brass.

I pick up a file.

I begin to work.

The sound is small. It is rhythmic. It is steady.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

I do not think. I do not feel.

I only make.

I make the lock.

I make the key.

I make the silence.

And I hold it.

I hold it tight.

I will not let go.

The door is shut.

The lock is perfect.

I am safe.

I am alone.

I am the maker.

And I am done.