The hall burns with a light that is not of this world. It is white. It is sharp. It cuts the air like a blade. You stand at the edge of the floor. Your feet are bare. The stone is cold. It bites your skin. You do not flinch. You are a soldier. You do not feel pain. You only feel duty.

The feast is loud. It is a roar. It is a storm of voices and clinking silver. The nobles sit in their high-backed chairs. They wear furs of black bear and ermine. They laugh. The sound is like cracking ice. You watch them. You know their secrets. You know their sins. You know the blood on their hands. But you say nothing. Silence is your armor.

Beside you stands Thomas. He is your brother in arms. He is your brother in blood. He is your love. His hand rests on your shoulder. The touch is heavy. It is warm. It is the only warmth in this freezing palace. He leans in. His breath is hot on your ear.

"Hold," he whispers. "It is time."

You nod. You do not speak. Words are for the weak. Words are for the courtiers. You are a weapon. Weapons do not talk. Weapons strike.

The King rises. He is a giant. He is crowned with gold that seems to glow from within. His eyes are dark. They are deep. They are wells with no bottom. He raises his goblet. The wine is red. It is thick. It looks like life.

"Drink," he commands.

The hall goes silent. The silence is heavy. It presses against your chest. You look at Thomas. His face is pale. His lips are tight. He looks at you. He nods.

You pick up the goblet. It is silver. It is cold. You lift it to your lips. You do not drink. You wait.

The King smiles. It is a thin smile. It is a cruel smile.

"Is it not beautiful?" he asks.

It is a trap. You know it is a trap. But you do not know the shape of it. You do not know the end of it. You only know the beginning.

The doors open. The air changes. It smells of ozone. It smells of rain. It smells of death.

A figure enters. She is tall. She is thin. She wears a dress of white silk. It moves around her like water. It moves like smoke. She has no face. Where her face should be, there is only a smooth expanse of skin. She is beautiful. She is terrible.

The courtiers scream. They fall back in their chairs. They knock over their goblets. The wine spills. It pools on the stone. It looks like blood.

You do not move. You stand firm. You hold the goblet. Your hands do not shake. You are a soldier. You do not fear the unknown.

The faceless woman walks toward the throne. She walks toward the King. The King does not rise. He does not speak. He is frozen. He is trapped in his own majesty.

The woman stops before him. She raises her hand. Her hand is long. Her fingers are pale. She touches the King’s crown.

The crown shatters.

It does not break. It dissolves. It turns to dust. It turns to ash. The ash falls like snow. It covers the King’s face. It covers his shoulders. It covers the floor.

The King falls. He falls backward. He hits the stone with a dull thud. He does not move. He does not breathe.

The hall is silent. The silence is absolute. It is a void.

You look at Thomas. He is staring at the body. His eyes are wide. His mouth is open. A sound comes out of him. It is a moan. It is a cry. It is a prayer.

"Run," he says.

His voice is small. It is broken. It is the voice of a child.

You do not run. You cannot run. You are a soldier. You do not flee.

The faceless woman turns. She looks at you. She has no eyes. But you feel her gaze. It is a weight. It is a pressure. It is a judgment.

She points at you.

Her finger is a spear. It is a brand. It is a mark.

You feel it. It hits you in the chest. It burns. It is hot. It is cold. It is both. It is neither.

You drop the goblet. It crashes on the floor. The silver bends. It twists. It dies.

You look at Thomas. He is backing away. He is moving toward the door. He is moving away from you.

"Thomas," you call out.

Your voice is rough. It is raw. It is a stone in your throat.

He stops. He turns. He looks at you. His face is a mask. It is a mask of fear. It is a mask of shame. It is a mask of betrayal.

"I am sorry," he says.

The words are heavy. They are stones. They fall on you. They crush you.

"I could not stay," he says.

"I could not be with you in this."

He runs. He runs into the night. He runs into the dark. He runs into the unknown.

You are alone.

The hall is empty. The nobles are gone. They have fled. They have vanished. They have dissolved into the shadows.

Only the King remains. Only the King and the ash. Only the King and the silence.

The faceless woman is still there. She stands in the center of the room. She is still. She is still as death.

You walk toward her. Your feet are heavy. Your legs are lead. Your mind is fog.

You are a soldier. You must end this. You must strike. You must kill.

But you have no weapon. You have no sword. You have no spear. You have only your hands. You have only your body. You have only your will.

You reach out. You grab her arm.

It is cold. It is hard. It is stone. It is ice.

You pull. You pull with all your strength. You pull with all your hate. You pull with all your love.

She does not move. She does not resist. She does not feel.

You look at her. You look at the place where her face should be. You see nothing. You see only yourself.

You see your own face.

It is pale. It is thin. It is empty.

You are the faceless one.

You have always been the faceless one.

You have worn a mask. You have worn a uniform. You have worn a title. But you have no face. You have no self. You have no soul.

You are a vessel. You are a tool. You are a shadow.

You let go of her arm. Your hand falls. It hits the floor. It makes a small sound. It is the sound of a bone breaking. It is the sound of a heart stopping.

You sit down. You sit on the stone. The stone is cold. It is familiar. It is home.

You look at the King. You look at the ash. You look at the wine.

It is all the same. It is all one thing. It is death. It is decay. It is the end.

You close your eyes. You open them. You close them. You open them.

Time passes. Time is a river. It flows. It does not stop. It does not care.

The light changes. The white light fades. The shadows grow. The shadows stretch. They reach for you. They touch you. They wrap around you. They hold you.

You do not fight. You do not struggle. You let them in. You let them in.

You think of Thomas. You think of his hand on your shoulder. You think of his breath on your ear. You think of his voice.

"Hold."

You did not hold. You let go. You let go of the world. You let go of the man. You let go of the duty.

You let go of the self.

The hall is gone. The throne is gone. The King is gone. The woman is gone.

There is only the bridge.

It is a bridge of light. It is a bridge of white. It is a bridge of silence.

It spans the void. It spans the dark. It spans the end.

You stand on it. Your feet are bare. The bridge is cold. It is hard. It is real.

You walk. You walk slowly. You walk steadily. You do not look back. You do not look forward. You look only at your feet. You look only at the step in front of you.

You walk.

The wind blows. It is cold. It is sharp. It cuts your skin. You do not flinch. You do not feel pain. You only feel the wind. You only feel the life.

You walk.

The bridge is long. It is endless. It is a line. It is a thread. It is a breath.

You walk.

The light is bright. It is blinding. It is pure. It is clean.

You walk.

You do not know where you are going. You do not know what is waiting. You do not know who is waiting.

You do not care.

You are free.

You are free from the mask. You are free from the duty. You are free from the love. You are free from the hate.

You are free from the self.

You walk.

The bridge ends.

It does not end. It fades. It dissolves. It turns to mist. It turns to air.

You step off.

You step into the nothing.

You step into the everything.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

The hall is silent. The feast is over. The wine is spilled. The crown is ash. The King is dead.

The soldiers are gone. The nobles are gone. The woman is gone.

There is only the stone. There is only the cold. There is only the silence.

The silence is loud. The silence is heavy. The silence is full.

It is full of memory. It is full of loss. It is full of love.

It is full of the bridge.

It is full of the light.

It is full of the end.

It is full of the beginning.

The stone waits. The stone remembers. The stone holds the weight of the world. The stone holds the weight of the soul.

The stone does not move. The stone does not change. The stone is eternal.

The story ends. The story begins.

The bridge remains. The light remains. The silence remains.

You remain.

You are gone.

You are here.