The feast was loud. It was too loud. The candles burned low, dripping wax like slow, golden tears onto the tablecloth. Lord Ashworth sat at the head. He ate. He did not speak. He smiled. The smile was a fixed thing. A mask of porcelain. It did not reach his eyes. His eyes were dead. They were flat and black. They held no light. They held only hunger. A quiet, cold hunger. The guests ate. They laughed. The laughter sounded thin. It sounded like paper tearing.

Elias sat in the shadow. He was not a guest. He was a servant. Or so they thought. He wore a coat of grey wool. It was old. It was thin. It smelled of dust. It smelled of time. In his hand, he held a cup of wine. The wine was dark. It was red. It looked like blood. He did not drink. He watched. He watched the lord. He watched the food. The food was rich. Roast pheasant. Creamed spinach. Bread with butter. The bread was white. It was soft. It was fresh. It was a trap.

The lord raised his glass. He spoke. His voice was low. It was smooth. It was like oil. "To the night," he said. "To the end." The guests raised their glasses. They drank. They slurred. Their eyes glazed over. The wine took them. It took their minds. It took their wills. One by one, they collapsed. They fell onto the table. They fell onto the floor. They slept. A heavy, black sleep. A sleep from which there was no waking.

The room was silent. Only the fire crackled. Only the candles hissed. The lord stood. He stretched. He yawned. He looked at Elias. He did not look at the bodies. He looked only at Elias. "You," he said. "Stay."

Elias did not move. He held his cup. The wine swirled. It was thick. It was heavy. "Why?" Elias asked. His voice was quiet. It was steady.

"Because you are the same," the lord said. "We are the same. You hunt. I feed. We are one."

Elias felt a chill. It ran down his spine. It was cold. It was sharp. He looked at the lord. He looked at the bodies. He looked at the food. The food waited. The food was patient. The food was eternal. It would always be there. It would always be hungry.

"I am not the same," Elias said.

The lord laughed. It was a dry sound. It was like dead leaves. "You are. You have always been. Look at your hands."

Elias looked at his hands. They were pale. They were thin. They were trembling. He looked at the cup. He looked at the wine. He remembered. He remembered the taste. He remembered the feeling. He remembered the hunger. It was not a hunger for meat. It was not a hunger for wine. It was a hunger for time. A hunger for the living. A hunger to stop the clock.

He had tried before. He had tried in other centuries. He had tried in other cities. He had tried in other masks. He was a doctor. He was a priest. He was a king. He was a beggar. He was always the same. He was always the hunter. He was always the one who could not let go. He wanted to save them. He wanted to save the world. He wanted to stop the wheel. But the wheel did not stop. The wheel only turned. And with every turn, he was pulled back. He was pulled back into the flesh. He was pulled back into the desire. He was pulled back into the sin.

The lord stepped closer. He was tall. He was strong. He was beautiful. He was terrible. "Drink," the lord said. "Join me. Be free. Be eternal. Be with me."

Elias looked at the wine. The wine was a mirror. It showed his face. It showed his eyes. They were not his eyes. They were the eyes of the beast. They were the eyes of the hunger. He saw the truth. He saw the lie. He had not been hunting the lord. He had been hunting himself. He had been trying to kill his own nature. He had been trying to escape the cycle. But you cannot escape the self. You cannot kill the shadow. You can only join it.

He looked at the dead guests. They were so still. They were so peaceful. They had given up. They had accepted. They had found rest. Elias looked at the lord. The lord waited. The lord smiled. The lord was patient. The lord was wise. The lord knew the way.

Elias raised the cup. His hand was steady. His heart was slow. He felt the weight of the glass. He felt the weight of the liquid. He felt the weight of the history. It was heavy. It was crushing. It was the weight of a thousand lives. It was the weight of a thousand deaths.

He drank.

The taste was metallic. The taste was sweet. The taste was old. It was the taste of the earth. It was the taste of the bone. It was the taste of the blood. It filled his mouth. It filled his throat. It filled his stomach. It filled his veins. It filled his soul.

He closed his eyes. He waited. He waited for the change. He waited for the power. He waited for the freedom. He waited for the end.

Nothing happened.

He opened his eyes. The room was the same. The fire was the same. The bodies were the same. The lord was the same. The lord was smiling. The lord was watching.

"You drank," the lord said. "You joined. You are mine now. We are one."

Elias looked at the cup. The cup was empty. The wine was gone. The wine was in him. But he was still Elias. He was still the servant. He was still the hunter. He was still the man. The wine did not change him. The wine did not save him. The wine did not kill him. It only fed the hunger. It only deepened the pit.

The lord laughed again. It was a cruel sound. It was a mocking sound. "You see?" he said. "There is no escape. There is only the cycle. You drink. You hunt. You fail. You drink again. It is eternal. It is beautiful. It is real."

Elias felt the despair. It was cold. It was deep. It was bottomless. He had tried so hard. He had suffered so much. He had lost so many people. He had lost his name. He had lost his face. He had lost his soul. And now he was here. He was back. He was at the beginning. He was at the end. It was the same point. It was a circle. It was a cage.

He looked at the lord. He saw the pity in the lord's eyes. The lord was not an enemy. The lord was a teacher. The lord was a guide. The lord had led him here. The lord had shown him the truth. The truth was simple. The truth was terrible. The truth was that he was the monster. The truth was that he was the disease. The truth was that he would never be cured.

"Let me go," Elias said. His voice was weak. It was broken. It was small.

"You cannot go," the lord said. "You are here. You are always here. You are the night. You are the dark. You are the hunger. You are the feast."

Elias looked at the dead guests. They were his friends. They were his family. They were his love. They were his obsession. He had tried to save them. He had failed. They were gone. They were dust. They were memory. And he was still here. He was still hungry. He was still alone.

He stood up. His legs were shaky. His head was spinning. The room tilted. The fire blurred. The faces blurred. He walked to the door. The door was heavy. It was iron. It was cold. He pushed it. It opened.

Outside, it was night. The sky was black. The stars were bright. The wind was cold. It blew into his face. It bit his skin. It woke him. He looked at the city. The city was dark. The city was sleeping. The city was waiting.

He looked back at the door. The lord was gone. The room was empty. The tables were bare. The food was gone. The wine was gone. The smell was gone. It was all gone. It was a dream. It was a memory. It was a lie.

He walked into the street. The street was wet. The street was quiet. He walked and walked. He did not know where he was going. He did not know where he was. He did not know who he was. He was nothing. He was a ghost. He was a shadow. He was a breath.

He walked past a bakery. The bakery was open. The light was warm. The light was yellow. He saw the bread. The bread was white. The bread was soft. The bread was fresh. He stopped. He looked at the bread. The bread called to him. The bread whispered to him. The bread promised him rest. The bread promised him peace. The bread promised him the end.

He walked into the bakery. The baker was asleep. The baker was old. The baker was kind. The baker was dead. He touched the baker's face. The face was cold. The face was still. The face was peaceful.

He took a loaf of bread. He held it in his hands. He felt the warmth. He felt the life. He felt the time. He ate the bread. He ate it slowly. He ate it carefully. He tasted the salt. He tasted the grain. He tasted the earth.

It was good. It was simple. It was real.

He sat on the floor. He held the bread. He closed his eyes. He let the hunger go. He let the fear go. He let the hope go. He let the self go. He was not the hunter. He was not the beast. He was not the man. He was the hunger. And the hunger was satisfied.

He slept.

The night passed. The night was long. The night was deep. The night was endless.

When the sun rose, the bakery was empty. The door was open. The light was bright. The light was white. The light was clean. There was no one inside. There was no body. There was no blood. There was no wine. There was only the bread. The bread was gone. The crumbs were on the floor. The crumbs were small. The crumbs were grey. The crumbs were dust.

The wind blew. The wind took the dust. The wind took the memory. The wind took the name. The wind took the soul.

The city woke. The city moved. The city lived. The city did not know. The city did not care. The city turned. The wheel turned. The clock ticked. The time moved.

It was a new day. It was an old day. It was the same day.

In the attic, a jar sat on the shelf. The jar was glass. The jar was old. The jar was empty. But it was not empty. It was full. It was full of dust. It was full of time. It was full of silence.

The dust settled. The dust stayed. The dust remained.

It was eternal.

It was quiet.

It was done.