You wake with the taste of iron on your tongue. It is not blood. It is the bitter tang of the dried herb, the *wort*, that sits in the clay bowl by your bedside. You do not drink it. You never drink it now. You simply stare at it. The liquid is still. It is a dark, opaque mirror. In it, you see the ceiling beams of the keep, black with age and smoke. You see your own face. It is a stranger’s face. Gaunt. Hardened. The eyes are sunk deep into sockets carved by sleepless nights.

The door opens.

It is not a creak. It is a shove. Heavy. Deliberate.

William stands there. He holds his hand out. The bowl is in his grip.

“Drink,” he says.

His voice is flat. It is the voice of a man who has spoken these words a thousand times. He does not look at you. He looks at the bowl. He looks at the floor.

“I cannot,” you say.

Your voice is a rasp. A dry leaf scraping against stone.

“Drink,” he says again.

You take the bowl. The clay is warm. It has been held in his hand for too long. You bring it to your lips. The smell hits you first. Earthy. Rotting. Alive. It smells like the garden behind the kitchen, where the weeds choke the vegetables. It smells like the grave they dug for the boy last week.

You drink.

The liquid burns. It is thick. It coats your throat. You swallow, and it feels like swallowing a stone. It settles in your gut. A heavy, cold weight.

William watches you. His eyes are wide. They are the eyes of a child. They are the eyes of a witness. He has seen too much. He has seen the way the lord’s men break the prisoners. He has seen the way the lord breaks the men. He is the only one left who remembers what you were before.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod. You cannot speak. The words are stuck in your throat, behind the taste of the herb.

He leaves. The door shuts. The lock clicks.

You are alone.

The pain begins an hour later. It starts in the center of your chest. It is not a pain. It is a presence. It is a hand, closing around your heart. It squeezes. It does not let go.

You fall to your knees. The stone floor is cold. It bites into your skin. You breathe. You try to breathe. The air does not come.

You think of her.

Elara.

She is in the room next door. She is in the room where the light comes in through the small, barred window. She is alive. Or she is not. You do not know. You do not go to check. You do not have the right. You are the guard. You are the one who holds the key. You are the one who brings the food. You are the one who brings the *wort*.

You remember the morning she left. It was spring. The air was sweet with the scent of hyacinths. She kissed your cheek. It was a light kiss. It lasted a second. It lasted a lifetime.

“I will be back,” she said.

You did not answer. You were too busy looking at the sword in your hand. You were too busy looking at the enemy at the gate.

You did not know.

Now you know.

The pain gets worse. It spreads to your arms. Your fingers cramp. You reach for the wall. You need to hold on. You need to stop the spinning.

The door opens again.

It is not William.

It is Thomas.

Thomas is the lord’s captain. He is tall. He is clean. He wears a tunic of fine linen. It is white. It is spotless. He stands in the doorway. He does not enter. He just watches.

“Get up,” he says.

You do not move.

“Get up,” he says again. His voice is calm. It is the voice of a man who is in control.

You look up. You see his face. It is kind. It is almost gentle. It is the face of a man who believes he is doing the right thing.

“I have to,” he says.

He steps into the room. He moves to you. He does not draw his sword. He does not need to. He places a hand on your shoulder. It is a firm grip. It is a warning.

“Drink,” he says.

He points to the bowl. It is still on the floor. You have not finished it.

“I have,” you say.

“Finish it.”

You look at the bowl. The remaining liquid is dark. It is thick. It is waiting.

You think of Elara. You think of her face. You think of the way she laughed. You think of the way she held your hand.

You think of the boy. The boy they killed. He was not a spy. He was a messenger. He carried a letter. The letter was from Elara. It was a plea. It was a request for mercy.

Thomas knows. Thomas knows everything.

You pick up the bowl.

Your hand shakes. The clay slips. You catch it. You bring it to your lips.

The taste is the same. Iron. Earth. Rot.

You drink.

You drink until the bowl is empty.

You drop it. It shatters on the stone floor. The shards scatter. The liquid pools in the cracks.

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

“Good,” he says.

He turns. He walks to the door.

“Wait,” you say.

He stops. He does not turn around.

“Why?” you ask.

He turns. He looks at you. His eyes are empty.

“Because she is not who you think she is,” he says.

The words hit you. They are harder than the pain. They are colder than the stone floor.

“What?” you say.

Thomas does not answer. He leaves.

The door shuts.

You are alone.

The pain is gone.

You are still. You are empty.

You get up. Your legs are weak. They shake. You walk to the window. You look out.

The yard is empty. The men are in the barracks. The lord is in the hall.

You walk to the door. You do not have the key. You do not need it.

You walk to the next room.

The door is open.

Elara is there.

She is sitting on the bed. She is wearing a white dress. It is the same dress she wore when she left.

She looks at you. She does not smile. She does not cry.

“Drink,” she says.

Her voice is yours. It is your voice. It is the voice of the man who holds the sword. It is the voice of the man who drinks the *wort*.

You look at her. You see the bowl in her hand.

You do not speak.

You take the bowl.

You drink.

The liquid burns. It is thick. It is cold.

You swallow.

The pain returns.

It is worse.

It is in your head. It is in your hands. It is in your soul.

You look at Elara.

She is not Elara.

She is you.

She is the mirror.

She is the thing you have been running from.

She is the enemy.

She is the self.

You drop the bowl.

It shatters.

You look at her.

She looks at you.

She smiles.

It is a sad smile.

It is the smile of a man who knows he is doomed.

You pick up the sword.

It is on the wall. It is your sword. It is the sword you used to kill the boy.

You hold it.

Your hand is steady.

You step forward.

You raise the blade.

The air is still.

The light is dim.

You swing.

The blade cuts the air.

It cuts the silence.

It cuts the truth.

You do not know if it cuts her.

You do not know if it cuts you.

You only know that you are still.

You only know that you are empty.

You only know that you have finished.

The room is quiet.

The bowl is broken.

The herb is spilled.

The mirror is cracked.

You stand there.

You hold the sword.

You wait.

Nothing comes.

Nothing goes.

You are still.

You are alone.

You are the guard.

You are the prisoner.

You are the one who drinks.

You are the one who dies.

You are the one who lives.

You are the one who is wrong.

You are the one who is right.

You are the one who is nothing.

You look at the mirror.

It is dark.

It is empty.

It is you.