The rain tastes of iron. You know this because you have drunk it for three days. It coats your teeth, a metallic film that no amount of spitting can remove. You walk the road. The road is mud. The mud is black. It sucks at your boots with a wet, sucking sound. It sounds like a dying breath. You do not stop. Stopping is death. Moving is life.

The castle looms ahead. It is not a castle of stone and mortar. It is a castle of mist and bone. The walls are pale. They glow with a faint, sickly light. The trees around it have no leaves. Their branches claw at the sky like broken fingers. You climb the hill. Your legs burn. The pain is sharp. It is a good pain. It means you are still here. It means the mark is still active.

You are not a man. You are a vessel. The mark on your chest is the proof. It is a brand of ash and salt. It burns cold. It has burned cold for ten years. You were a soldier once. You fought for the King. You killed for the King. The King gave you the mark. He said it was a gift. He said it was a bond. You did not understand then. You are beginning to understand now.

The gate stands open. It should be closed. It should be barred. But it is open. The wood is rot. It smells of decay. You step inside. The courtyard is empty. There are no guards. There are no banners. There is only the silence. The silence is heavy. It presses against your eardrums. It is a physical weight. You feel your heart hammering against your ribs. It beats out of time. It beats too fast.

You walk to the door. The door is oak. It is thick. It is old. You push it. It creaks. The sound is loud in the quiet. It sounds like a groan. You step into the hall. The hall is vast. The ceiling is high. The floor is cold. The air is stale. It smells of old paper and dried blood.

You are here for the King. You must see the King. You must end this. The mark pulls at you. It is a hook in your soul. It drags you forward. You do not want to go. You want to turn back. You want to run. But you cannot. The mark will not let you. It is stronger than you. It is older than you. It is part of you.

You climb the stairs. The stairs are narrow. They spiral upward. Your breath comes in short gasps. Your lungs burn. The air gets thinner as you rise. The light gets dimmer. You are moving into the dark. You are moving into the unknown.

The door at the top is open. You enter the room. The room is small. It is round. The walls are bare. There is a throne in the center. The throne is made of black wood. It is high. It is imposing. Someone sits on it.

The figure is small. It is hunched. It is covered in robes. The robes are gray. They are tattered. The figure does not move. You step forward. Your boots scrape on the stone. The sound is loud. The figure turns its head.

The face is familiar. The face is yours.

You stop. Your blood runs cold. The coldness spreads from your feet to your head. It freezes your thoughts. It freezes your breath. You look at the face. It is your face. It is older. It is gaunt. The eyes are hollow. The lips are cracked. But it is you. It is the you that came before. It is the you that stayed.

The figure speaks. Its voice is dry. It is like leaves rubbing together.

"You have returned," it says.

You do not answer. You cannot. Your mouth is dry. Your throat is tight. You look at the mark on your chest. It burns hotter. It pulses. It is angry.

"I am the King," the figure says. "I am the Keeper. I am the Mark."

You realize then. The mark is not a gift. It is a prison. It is a chain. It binds you to this place. It binds you to this time. You are not a soldier. You are a servant. You are a ghost. You have been here before. You will be here again.

The figure stands up. It moves slowly. It moves with a grace that is not human. It walks toward you. It stops an arm’s length away. It reaches out. Its hand is thin. Its fingers are long. It touches your cheek. The touch is cold. It is like ice.

"You cannot leave," it whispers. "You never could."

The room begins to shake. The walls crack. Dust falls from the ceiling. The light flickers. The world is ending. Or perhaps it is beginning. You do not know. You do not care. You only feel the pull. The pull is strong. It is irresistible. It is love. It is a primal force. It is the need to belong. To be part of something. To be part of the whole.

You look at the figure. You see the pain in its eyes. You see the weariness. You see the acceptance. It has been here for a long time. It has given up. It has surrendered. It has become the thing it was meant to be.

You understand now. The war is not outside. The war is inside. The enemy is not the other man. The enemy is the self. The self that wants to run. The self that wants to save. The self that wants to live. You must let go. You must let go of the self. You must become the mark.

The figure smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a gentle smile.

"Welcome," it says.

The room disappears. The light goes out. The sound stops. There is only the dark. There is only the silence. There is only the mark. It burns. It burns bright. It burns white. It burns everything away.

You are gone. You are here. You are the King. You are the Keeper. You are the Mark.

You sit on the throne. The wood is cold. The air is still. You wait. You wait for the next one. You wait for the one who will come up the stairs. You wait for the one who will see your face. You wait for the one who will understand.

You do not speak. You do not move. You are still. You are eternal. You are the story. You are the end. And the beginning.

The rain continues to fall. It falls on the castle. It falls on the road. It falls on the mud. It falls on the world. It washes the dust. It washes the blood. It washes the memory. But it does not wash the mark. The mark remains. The mark endures. The mark is true.

You close your eyes. You feel the next step on the stairs. You feel the weight of the body. You feel the fear. You feel the hope. You feel the love. It is the same love you felt when you were young. It is the same love that drove you to war. It is the same love that brought you here. It is the love of the cause. It is the love of the duty. It is the love of the self that must die so that the whole may live.

You open your eyes. The door is open. A figure stands in the doorway. It is a man. He is young. He is strong. He is brave. He is you.

You stand up. You walk toward him. You reach out. You touch his cheek.

"You have returned," you say.

The story begins again. The cycle continues. The mark burns. The rain falls. The silence holds. The truth is visible. The truth is hidden. The truth is everything. The truth is nothing. The truth is you.