The seal was gold.

Pressed into wax.

Heavy.

Cold.

I held it in my palm.

The metal bit in.

It felt like a tooth.

Broken.

Cracked.

My name was Elias Thorne.

Captain.

First Regiment.

We stood before the gate.

The iron was black.

Rusted.

Thick as a man’s arm.

Behind it, the palace.

Stone.

Grey.

Silent.

Industrial smoke hung low.

A yellow shroud.

It choked the sky.

The city slept.

Or died.

I did not know.

My hand trembled.

Not from cold.

Fear.

Pure.

White.

My friend was inside.

Arthur.

Arthur Pendelton.

We had served together.

Bled together.

In the dunes.

In the mud.

He was my brother.

In blood.

In bone.

Now he was a prisoner.

Of the Crown.

Of the King.

The gate creaked.

A sound like a groan.

We stepped through.

The courtyard was vast.

Empty.

Lamps flickered.

Gaslight.

Hissing.

Sputtering.

Shadows danced.

Long.

Thin.

Like fingers.

Reaching.

Grabbing.

I tightened my grip.

The seal.

The key.

The proof.

Arthur had sent it.

Days ago.

A note.

No words.

Just the seal.

He was calling me.

To save him.

Or to end it.

I did not know.

The air was thick.

Stagnant.

It tasted of iron.

And old dust.

I walked.

My boots clacked.

Sharp.

Rhythmic.

A heartbeat.

My heart.

Thumping.

Loud.

In my ears.

The walls were high.

Windows barred.

Glass dark.

Like eyes.

Watching.

Judging.

We reached the door.

Oak.

Massive.

Carved with lions.

Snarling.

Silent.

I raised the seal.

I pressed it.

To the lock.

The metal was hot.

Burned my skin.

A brand.

A mark.

The lock clicked.

A sound.

Small.

Final.

The door swung open.

Darkness.

Total.

Absolute.

I stepped in.

The light from the gaslamp

Faded.

Died.

I was blind.

I felt the air.

Cold.

Still.

A presence.

Heavy.

Pressing.

On my chest.

I reached out.

My hand.

Searching.

Touching stone.

Cold.

Smooth.

Then.

A hand.

Grabbed me.

Hard.

Tight.

I gasped.

I pulled back.

I drew my sword.

The steel sang.

A high note.

Sharp.

Clear.

I swung.

Blindly.

Wildly.

The blade struck air.

And bone.

A cry.

Soft.

Short.

Then.

Silence.

I swung again.

Faster.

Harder.

The darkness moved.

It breathed.

It laughed.

A low rumble.

In the walls.

In the floor.

In my bones.

I was alone.

Or so I thought.

The light returned.

Slowly.

A glow.

Blue.

Pale.

It filled the room.

And I saw.

The room was empty.

Save for Arthur.

He sat on a chair.

Bound.

Handcuffed.

His face was pale.

White.

Like paper.

His eyes.

Open.

Wide.

But empty.

Hollow.

Dark.

Like pits.

Like wells.

No soul.

No spark.

Just.

Void.

I froze.

My sword.

Dripped.

Red.

On the stone.

A pool.

Spreading.

Growing.

I looked at my hand.

My sword.

The blood.

Not his.

Mine?

No.

The air.

The dark.

I had cut the dark.

And it bled.

Arthur looked at me.

He smiled.

A thin line.

Cruel.

Cold.

He moved his lips.

No sound.

But I heard.

In my head.

Let go.

Let go.

I shook my head.

No.

I would not.

I would save him.

I would break the chains.

I would fight the dark.

I would win.

I raised my sword.

Again.

I charged.

At the air.

At the ghost.

At the fear.

I slashed.

Down.

Up.

Left.

Right.

The sword.

Vibrated.

Hummed.

A low tone.

A drone.

The blue light.

Flashed.

Strobed.

Fast.

Blinding.

The shadows.

Shrieked.

A sound.

High.

Piercing.

Like glass.

Breaking.

Shattering.

I fell.

Knees.

To the stone.

Hard.

Pain.

Sharp.

Acute.

I looked up.

The light.

Was gone.

The room.

Was dark.

Again.

But different.

Warmer.

Softer.

I heard a voice.

Arthur.

Real.

Alive.

He was behind me.

I turned.

He stood there.

Free.

Unbound.

His face.

Whole.

Full.

Alive.

He looked at me.

Sad.

Proud.

He held a key.

Iron.

Rusted.

He held it out.

To me.

I took it.

Cold.

Heavy.

I looked at the door.

The exit.

The way out.

I walked to it.

I unlocked it.

The door opened.

Light.

Bright.

White.

The courtyard.

The gaslamps.

The smoke.

I stepped out.

The air.

Fresh.

Cold.

Real.

I looked back.

The palace.

Silent.

Dark.

The door.

Closed.

I was free.

Arthur was free.

But.

I felt it.

In my chest.

A weight.

A stone.

I had left something.

Inside.

In the dark.

In the blue light.

I turned.

I walked.

Away.

From the palace.

From the gate.

Into the city.

The streets.

Empty.

Quiet.

I walked.

Fast.

Then.

Slower.

I stopped.

At a bench.

Wood.

Wet.

Rain.

Had fallen.

I sat.

My hand.

In my pocket.

I touched it.

The seal.

The gold.

It was gone.

My pocket.

Empty.

I searched.

My coat.

My belt.

My boots.

Nothing.

The seal.

Was gone.

I looked at my hand.

My palm.

There was a mark.

A scar.

A circle.

Gold.

Faded.

But there.

It pulsed.

Slow.

Soft.

A heartbeat.

Not mine.

His.

Arthur’s.

Or the dark’s.

I did not know.

I looked at the sky.

The smoke.

Clearing.

Stars.

Emerging.

One by one.

Bright.

Cold.

Distant.

I thought of Arthur.

He was free.

He was alive.

But he was not the same.

The dark had touched him.

Changed him.

As it changed me.

I was a soldier.

I fought.

I won.

But what did I win?

Freedom.

From what?

From the cage.

Or from myself?

I stood.

I walked.

Home.

The city.

Slept.

The night.

Was long.

The mark.

On my hand.

Pulsed.

Warm.

Alive.

I was not alone.

I was never alone.

The dark.

Was with me.

Always.

It watched.

It waited.

It knew.

I was part of it.

Now.

I was the seal.

The key.

The lock.

The door.

I was the dark.

And the light.

I walked.

Into the night.

Into the unknown.

Into myself.

The end.