The iron bit was cold against my lip. The sword was heavier than it had ever been. I could feel the weight of it pulling at my shoulder, dragging me down into the mud, but I did not stop. I could not stop. The man before me was tall, his armor dented and dark with rain, but his eyes were clear. He raised his blade. I raised mine. We did not speak. There was no time for words in the heat of the strike. The air split. The sound was a dull, wet thud, followed by the screech of metal on metal. Sparks flew, bright and brief, like dying stars. I pushed him back. He stumbled. I lunged.

Who are you? he gasped. His voice was ragged, torn by the effort of breathing.

I am the one who kills you, I said. My voice was flat. It did not sound like my voice. It sounded like stone.

You do not know me, he said. He parried my next blow, but his guard was failing. He was tired. He was old. I could see the gray in his beard, the tremor in his hand. I was young. I was fast. I was the future, and he was the past, rotting in the mud.

Let me go, he whispered.

No, I said.

Why?

Because you are in my way.

He looked at me, and something in his expression shifted. It was not fear. It was recognition. A deep, sorrowful recognition that made my stomach turn, though I told myself it was just the exertion.

I know you, he said.

You are a liar, I said. And I drove my sword forward.

The tip of the blade caught his throat. Not deep. Not enough to kill. Just enough to draw a thin line of red. He coughed, a spray of blood misting the air between us. He dropped his sword. It clattered into the mud. He did not reach for it. He fell to his knees, and I stood over him, chest heaving, the sword still raised, the tip dripping.

You are my son, he said.

The words hung in the air, impossible. Absurd. I looked at him. He was a stranger. He was an enemy. He was a man I had just tried to kill. But the words stayed. They did not dissolve. They did not vanish with the next breath. They settled into my bones like a cold stone.

No, I said.

Yes, he said. And he closed his eyes.

I sheathed my sword. The sound was sharp, a finality. I looked around. The battlefield was quiet. The rain had stopped. The sky was a pale, washed-out gray, the clouds hanging low and heavy, pressing down on the earth. There were bodies everywhere, scattered across the field like broken toys. Some were still. Some were moving. But here, in this small circle of mud and blood, it was just him and me.

Get up, I said.

He did not move.

Get up, I said again, and my voice cracked.

He opened his eyes. They were wet. He looked at me with a pity that I could not bear.

You are the exile, he said.

I am no one, I said.

You are the heir, he said.

I turned and walked away. I did not look back. I walked through the mud, over the bodies, past the tents and the fires. The camp was quiet. The men were sleeping, or dying, or waiting for the dawn. I did not know where I was going. I did not know who I was. I only knew that the sword on my back was lighter now, as if it had lost some of its weight, some of its meaning.

I found a fire near the edge of the camp. It was small, barely a glow in the darkness. A man sat by it, an old man with a face like crumpled paper. He was cleaning a knife, the blade flashing in the firelight. He did not look up when I approached.

You fought well, he said.

I sat down across from him. The heat dried the blood on my hands. I watched the flames dance.

Who is he? I asked.

The old man stopped cleaning his knife. He looked at me. His eyes were sharp, piercing, seeing through me and into the dark places where I kept my secrets.

You know who he is, he said.

I don't know what you're talking about.

Don't lie to me, boy. I have been dead for a hundred years, and I still know the weight of a lie.

I looked at my hands. They were clean now, but they felt stained. I could not wash it off. I could not scrub the memory from the skin.

He said I was his son, I said.

The old man smiled. It was a sad smile, devoid of humor.

He is the King, he said.

And I am nothing.

You are the blood, he said. The blood does not choose. It flows.

I want to leave, I said.

You cannot leave, he said. The war is not over.

The war is over, I said. I killed the King.

You wounded him, he said. He will heal. And you will be hunted.

I stood up. My legs were shaky. The ground seemed to tilt beneath me.

What do I do? I asked.

You do what you have always done, he said. You fight.

I looked at the old man. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to strike him. But I felt only a deep, abiding exhaustion. A weariness that went deeper than the body, into the spirit, into the soul.

I am tired, I said.

Rest, he said.

I did not rest. I walked back to the center of the camp. The King was still there, kneeling in the mud. His men had gathered around him, their faces grim, their hands on their swords. They saw me coming. They raised their weapons.

Stop, I said.

One step closer, and we kill you, the leader said.

I am his son, I said.

The leader laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound.

Lies, he said.

It is the truth, I said.

Kill him, the leader said.

The arrows flew. I did not dodge. I did not raise my shield. I just stood there, and I waited. The first arrow hit me in the shoulder. The second in the leg. I fell to my knees. The pain was sharp, bright, clarifying. It cut through the fog in my mind. I saw the King. He was not looking at me. He was looking at the sky. He was praying.

I understood then. I had been wrong. I had been so sure of my anger, my hate, my desire to destroy. I had thought that violence was the answer. I had thought that strength was the only thing that mattered. But I was wrong. The King was not an enemy. He was a father. And I was not a hero. I was a son. And sons do not kill their fathers. Sons forgive them.

I got up. The arrows were burning in my flesh. I walked toward the King. The arrows flew again. I did not stop. I reached him. I took his hand. It was cold.

Forgive me, I said.

He looked at me. His eyes were clear.

I forgive you, he said.

And then he died.

The silence that followed was absolute. No wind. No birds. No voices. Just the sound of my own breathing. I held his hand until the cold took it. Then I let go. I stood up. The arrows in my body were burning, but I did not feel them. I felt only a sense of peace. A quiet, terrible peace.

I walked away. I did not look back. I walked out of the camp, into the forest. The trees were dark, their branches twisted and gnarled, like the hands of giants. The moon was full, a pale disk in the sky. I walked for hours. I walked until my legs gave out. I fell into the snow. I lay there, looking up at the stars. They were bright, cold, indifferent.

I thought of my mother. She was dead, too. She had died when I was a child, in a house that was no longer there. I had forgotten her face. I had forgotten her voice. But now, in the snow, I remembered. I remembered her hands. I remembered her smell. I remembered the way she used to sing to me, a song without words, a melody that hung in the air like smoke.

I closed my eyes. I let the snow cover me. I let the cold take me. I did not fight it. I did not struggle. I just let go.

The snow fell. It covered me. It covered the world. It covered the past, the present, the future. It covered the blood, the pain, the guilt. It covered everything.

And then, I woke up.

I was in a room. The walls were white. The air was warm. I was in a bed. I looked at my hands. They were clean. There were no arrows. There was no blood. I looked at my body. It was whole. It was young. It was mine.

I sat up. My head was clear. The fog was gone. I remembered everything. The battle. The King. The snow. The song.

I went to the window. Outside, there was a garden. The flowers were blooming, red and yellow and white. The sun was shining. It was a beautiful day.

I went to the door. I opened it. I walked out into the garden. The air smelled of earth and flowers. I took a deep breath. I felt alive.

I had lost everything. I had lost my home. I had lost my name. I had lost my father. But I had found something else. I had found myself. And that was enough.

I walked to the edge of the garden. There was a path. It led away from the house, into the woods. I followed it. I walked. I did not know where I was going. I did not need to know. I was free.

The song was in my head. It was quiet. It was soft. It was the sound of my mother's voice. It was the sound of the wind in the trees. It was the sound of the snow falling. It was the sound of life, continuing.

I walked on.