The bell rang before the sun was fully awake. It did not chime; it screamed. A jagged, iron shriek that tore through the morning mist and settled in my teeth. I was awake. I was always awake. The dormitory smelled of damp wool and old sweat. I pulled my tunic tighter against the chill. My hands were shaking. Not from the cold. From the hunger. A deep, hollow ache that had nothing to do with food.

The infirmary was a long, low building of gray stone. The windows were narrow slits, barred with iron. We were the Order of the Clean Hand. We kept the village safe. We kept the secrets safe. Or so we told ourselves. The truth was thinner than parchment. It tore easily.

Father Malachi walked ahead of me. His robes were white, stained at the hem with something dark and rusty. He did not look back. He never looked back. To look back was to question. To question was to fall. I followed. My boots scraped against the cobblestones. The rhythm was steady. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. My own heartbeat tried to keep time but failed. It was too fast. Too frantic.

Inside, the air was thick. It hung heavy in the lungs. The smell of herbs. Of blood. Of fear. The patients lay in rows. They did not sleep. They stared. Their eyes were wide, white, unblinking. They watched us pass. I looked away. I had to. If I looked too long, I saw their pain. If I saw their pain, I remembered my own.

Thomas stood by the central table. He was young. Too young for this. His face was pale, his lips cracked. He held a vial of green liquid. It glowed softly in the dim light. A sickly, pulsing green. Like the eye of a snake.

"Is it ready?" Father Malachi asked. His voice was soft. Gentle. The voice of a shepherd.

"Yes, Father," Thomas said. His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. "The extraction is complete."

Father Malachi nodded. He reached for the vial. Thomas hesitated. His hand trembled. He looked at me. There was something in his eyes. A plea. A warning. I wanted to speak. To tell him to run. To tell him to break the vial and scatter the dust. But my mouth was dry. My tongue felt like wood. I said nothing. I had learned silence long ago. It was a shield. It was a weapon.

Father Malachi took the vial. He uncorked it. The scent hit me. Sweet. Cloying. Like rotting fruit. Like death. I turned away. My stomach churned. I fought the urge to retch. I held my breath. I counted to ten. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

"Drink," Father Malachi said.

The patients began to move. Not quickly. Not violently. They rose. Slowly. Like marionettes whose strings had been cut. They shuffled toward the table. Their faces were blank. Empty. They opened their mouths. They did not speak. They did not scream. They simply waited.

Thomas stepped forward. He held the vial out. Father Malachi poured a single drop onto the tip of the patient’s tongue. The man swallowed. His body jerked. A single, violent spasm. Then he was still. His eyes closed. A smile spread across his face. A peaceful, serene smile. The smile of the dead.

One by one. Drop by drop. The room filled with the sound of swallowing. The wet, thick sound of liquid going down a throat. I watched. I could not look away now. The magic of it held me. The terrible, hypnotic beauty of it. The green liquid flowed like water. Like life. Like death.

When it was done, the room was silent. The patients lay back down. They breathed softly. Their faces were calm. Their eyes were closed. They were at peace. They were gone.

Father Malachi corked the vial. He placed it in his pocket. He turned to us. His eyes were cold. Hard. Like flint.

"Good work," he said.

Thomas slumped. He leaned against the wall. His face was gray. He looked at me. Again. That look. The plea. The warning. He mouthed a word. I could not hear it. The silence was too loud. I shook my head. I could not save him. I could not save myself.

We left the infirmary. The sun was high now. The light was harsh. It blinded us. I squinted. The world was sharp. Edgy. Too bright. I felt the heat on my skin. I felt the weight of my tunic. I felt the emptiness in my gut.

Father Malachi walked quickly. I followed. Thomas walked slowly. He lagged behind. I looked back. He was standing still. He was looking at the infirmary. His hands were at his sides. He was trembling.

"Thomas," Father Malachi said. He did not turn around. "Walk."

Thomas did not move.

"Walk," Father Malachi said again. His voice was harder now. Colder.

Thomas turned. He looked at Father Malachi. Then he looked at me. He opened his mouth. He tried to speak. But no sound came out. He fell to his knees. He vomited. It was green. Bright, vivid green. It spread across the cobblestones. It bubbled. It hissed.

Father Malachi stopped. He turned slowly. He looked at Thomas. Then he looked at the vomit. He raised his hand. He did not strike Thomas. He did not yell. He simply raised his hand. And Thomas died. He collapsed. His body went limp. His eyes opened. They were green. Bright, vivid green. Like the vial. Like the liquid.

I stared. My heart stopped. Then it started again. Fast. Frantic. I ran. I ran away from the body. I ran away from the blood. I ran into the village. The people were in the square. They were dancing. They were laughing. They held cups of green liquid. They drank. They smiled. They did not see me. They did not see Thomas. They did not see the truth.

I ran to the church. The door was open. The pews were empty. The altar was bare. I fell to my knees. I prayed. I begged. I cried. I shook. I wanted to forget. I wanted to wipe the memory from my mind. I wanted to be clean. I wanted to be pure.

But I could not. The green was in my eyes. The green was in my throat. The green was in my soul.

I had been a soldier. I had been a keeper. I had been a man. Now I was a thing. A vessel. A cup.

I stood up. My legs were weak. My head was spinning. I walked out of the church. The sun was setting. The sky was orange. Red. Dark. The shadows were long. They stretched across the cobblestones. They reached for me. They grabbed me. They pulled me down.

I saw Thomas. He was still on the ground. His eyes were closed. His face was peaceful. He was at peace. He was gone.

I looked at my hands. They were clean. They were white. They were the Clean Hand.

I walked back to the infirmary. I did not run. I did not tremble. I walked with purpose. I walked with certainty. I knew what I had to do. I knew what was expected. I knew the price.

The door was open. The air was thick. The smell was strong. The patients were waiting. They were still. They were silent. They were mine.

I picked up the vial. It was empty. I uncorked it. I held it to my nose. I inhaled. The scent was sweet. Cloying. Like rotting fruit. Like death.

I drank.

It was cold. It was smooth. It burned. It felt like fire. It felt like ice. It felt like nothing.

I closed my eyes. I felt the change. I felt the peace. I felt the silence.

The bell rang. It did not scream. It hummed. A low, deep hum. It vibrated in my bones. In my blood. In my mind.

I opened my eyes. The room was dark. The patients were gone. The table was empty. The vial was empty.

I was alone.

I was clean.

I was free.

The green was in my eyes. The green was in my throat. The green was in my soul.

I smiled.

It was a peaceful, serene smile.

The smile of the dead.