The bell tolled. Not once. Not twice. But a long, continuous shudder that seemed to come from the stone itself. Sir Thomas stood in the center of the hall. His sword was drawn. The steel was black. It looked like a wound in the air.

He waited.

The door opened. No one entered. Only the wind. It smelled of rot. It smelled of old blood.

Thomas tightened his grip. His knuckles were white. He was the King’s Hand. He was the shield of the realm. He had killed men for less. He had killed men for nothing. But this was different. This was a test.

A voice spoke. It was not loud. It was a whisper.

"Come, Thomas."

He stepped forward. His boots creaked on the flagstones. The floor was cold. It leached the heat from his legs. He walked to the balcony. The city lay below. It was dark. It was silent. The fog rolled in like a white ghost.

He looked down. There was a garden below. It was pale. The flowers were white. The leaves were white. The dirt was white. It was a garden of bone.

"Is it there?" he asked.

"Yes," said the voice.

Thomas sheathed his sword. He did not need it for a garden. He needed his hands. He needed to touch it. He needed to know if it was real.

He climbed down the ladder. The rungs were slick with moss. He slipped. He caught the wall. His heart hammered. It was a bird trapped in his chest. He kept going.

He reached the garden. The air was thick. It tasted of iron. He stepped onto the white soil. It crunched under his feet. It sounded like breaking teeth.

The flowers were tall. They reached up to his knees. They were not flowers. They were hands. Pale, slender hands. They reached for him.

He did not pull away. He reached back.

His fingers touched the petals. They were warm. They were soft. They were alive.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The hands opened. They formed a shape. A face. It was his face.

Thomas stared. The face on the flower was younger. It was unlined. It was full of hope. It was the face he had before the war. Before the blood. Before the silence.

"You are me," the face said.

"No," Thomas said. "I am the King’s Hand. You are a weed."

"We are the same root," the face replied. "We are the same poison."

Thomas felt a chill. It was not cold. It was fear. He tried to pull his hand back. The flower held him. It was strong. It was desperate. It wanted to be seen.

"I am not a weed," Thomas said. "I am a servant. I am a tool. I am nothing."

"You are everything," the flower said. "You are the shadow. You are the light. You are the lie. You are the truth."

Thomas pulled. He yanked his hand free. The flower tore. It left a mark on his skin. A red line. It bled. The blood was black.

He backed away. His breath came in short gasps. He looked at his hand. The mark was fading. It was turning white. It was becoming part of the garden.

He ran back to the ladder. He climbed. His hands shook. His legs trembled. He reached the balcony. He fell to his knees.

The door opened again.

This time, someone entered.

It was the King.

He wore a crown of thorns. His eyes were closed. He walked toward Thomas. The floor shook with his steps.

"Did you find it?" the King asked.

Thomas looked up. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Did you destroy it?"

Thomas hesitated. The black blood was still on his hand. It dried quickly. It turned into ash.

"I... I touched it."

The King opened his eyes. They were empty. They were mirrors.

"Touching is not destroying," the King said. "Touching is accepting."

"I am your servant," Thomas said. "I do not accept. I obey."

"Obey what?" the King asked.

"Obey you."

"Obey yourself," the King said.

The King reached out. His hand was large. It was rough. It was like stone. He grabbed Thomas’s arm. He pulled him up.

"Look," the King said.

Thomas looked. The King held a mirror. It was small. It was round. It was made of ice.

Thomas looked into the mirror. He saw his face. But it was not his face. It was the face of the flower. It was pale. It was dead. It was beautiful.

"This is you," the King said. "This is what you have become. Not a man. A thing. A symbol. A ghost."

Thomas felt a scream rising in his throat. It was a raw, animal sound. It was the sound of a beast in pain.

"I am not a ghost," Thomas said.

"You are a memory," the King said. "You are a mistake. You are a draft that was never burned."

The King pushed the mirror into Thomas’s hand.

"Shatter it," the King said.

Thomas looked at the mirror. He saw the face again. The pale face. The dead face. He wanted to throw it. He wanted to run. He wanted to hide.

But he did not move.

He raised the mirror. He looked at his reflection one last time. He saw the sadness. He saw the emptiness. He saw the end.

He threw the mirror.

It hit the floor. It did not break. It dissolved. It turned into water. The water spread. It soaked into the stone. It soaked into Thomas’s feet.

He felt cold. He felt wet. He felt heavy.

The King smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a kind smile.

"It is done," the King said.

Thomas looked at his hand. The black blood was gone. The mark was gone. His hand was normal. It was his hand.

He looked at the King. The King was gone. The hall was empty. The door was closed. The bell had stopped.

Thomas stood alone.

He walked to the window. He looked down at the garden. The flowers were still there. The white hands were still reaching up. But they were still. They were waiting.

He picked up his sword. It was heavy. It was cold.

He walked out of the hall. He walked down the stairs. He walked out of the castle.

The fog was thick. The city was silent.

He walked to the garden. He stood among the white flowers. He did not touch them. He did not look at them.

He drew his sword.

He swung it.

He cut the flowers. They fell. They crumbled. They turned to dust.

He swung again. And again.

He cut every flower. He cut every leaf. He cut every root.

The garden was bare. The soil was dark. It was wet. It was empty.

Thomas stopped. He was out of breath. His arms were shaking. He dropped the sword. It clanged against the stone.

He stood in the empty garden. He was alone. He was free.

He looked up at the sky. It was clear. The stars were out. They were cold. They were distant.

He felt a tear roll down his cheek. It was hot. It was salty.

He wiped it away. He did not care.

He turned. He walked back to the castle. He did not look back.

The gate was open. The guards were gone. The courtyard was empty.

He walked into the shadow. He disappeared.

The bell tolled again. It was a single note. It was clear. It was pure.

It faded into the night.

The garden remained. The soil remained. The memory remained.

Thomas was gone.

The wind blew. The dust settled. The stars watched.

Nothing changed.

Everything changed.

The end.