The feast is loud.

Too loud.

Candlelight shakes.

Dust motes dance.

You sit.

You are still.

The hall smells of roasting pork.

And stale beer.

And sweat.

You are Sir Aldric.

Or so they say.

The name hangs heavy.

Like wet wool.

You look down.

At your hands.

They are rough.

They are scarred.

They are yours.

But the gauntlets.

The gauntlets are not yours.

No.

They are old.

Bronze.

Dented.

They belong to the order.

To the King.

To the law.

You grip the hilt.

Steel bites leather.

The leather bites you.

Pain is good.

Pain is real.

Around you.

Laughing.

Drinking.

Spitting.

The men are fat.

The men are soft.

They are the Judges.

The Inquisitors.

The Keepers of the Peace.

They drink from silver cups.

You drink from wood.

The wood is rough.

It scratches your tongue.

A man stands.

Lord Thomas.

His face is red.

His eyes are wet.

He raises his cup.

To the King.

To the Law.

To Justice.

The hall roars.

You do not roar.

You sip.

The ale is sour.

It tastes of iron.

You think of your son.

He is in the cell below.

He is seven.

He is afraid.

He is innocent.

But the Law says otherwise.

The Law is a machine.

It grinds.

It does not care.

It does not see.

It only weighs.

And the weight is wrong.

You look at the gauntlets again.

The metal is cold.

It is worn.

The engraving is faded.

It used to say *Servant of Truth*.

Now it is just a mark.

A bruise on the metal.

You remember your father.

He wore these.

Before you.

He died for the Law.

He bled for the Law.

He thought the Law was God.

He was wrong.

You know this now.

The knowledge burns.

It is a coal in your chest.

It will not go out.

Lord Thomas approaches.

He smells of wine.

And power.

He smiles.

It is a thin smile.

A knife’s edge.

“Sir Aldric.”

His voice is low.

“Your son.”

You do not answer.

You look at him.

Your eyes are flat.

Dead.

“He is a thief.”

Thomas says.

“He stole from the granary.”

“Did he?”

You ask.

Your voice is quiet.

It carries.

The noise in the hall dips.

Just for a moment.

A ripple.

“Did he?”

You ask again.

Thomas laughs.

A sharp sound.

“Do you doubt the evidence?”

“I doubt the weight.”

You say.

“You are a soldier.”

Thomas steps closer.

His shadow falls on you.

“You are not a judge.”

“I am a holder.”

You say.

“I hold the blade.”

“I hold the shield.”

“I hold the line.”

“And the line is broken.”

You look at the gauntlets.

The bronze is dull.

It reflects no light.

It is a mirror of nothing.

“You are tired.”

Thomas says.

“You have been fighting too long.”

“I have been waiting.”

You say.

“For what?”

“For the truth.”

Thomas frowns.

Confusion.

Then anger.

“The truth is the Law.”

“The Law is a lie.”

You say.

The word hangs.

Heavy.

Sharp.

The hall goes silent.

Total silence.

Even the fire crackles.

And even that stops.

Thomas’s face changes.

The red fades.

The eyes harden.

He is no longer a man.

He is a system.

A gear.

A wall.

“You are insubordinate.”

He says.

His voice is flat.

Cold.

“Draw your sword.”

“I will not draw.”

You say.

“I will not fight.”

“Then you are a coward.”

“Or a fool.”

“Choose.”

You look at your son’s cell.

It is dark.

It is deep.

You hear a cough.

Small.

Weak.

A child’s cough.

It cuts through the silence.

It is a needle.

It pierces your heart.

Your hand moves.

Not to the sword.

To the gauntlet.

You unclasp it.

The sound is loud.

A clack.

Like a bone breaking.

You remove the right hand.

The metal slides off.

It falls on the floor.

It does not clang.

It thuds.

Dull.

Dead.

You remove the left.

It follows.

You stand.

You are bare-handed.

You are small.

You are human.

Thomas steps back.

Surprised.

Scared.

He does not expect this.

The system expects force.

It expects violence.

It expects the blade.

It does not expect the void.

You look at the gauntlets on the floor.

They are empty.

They are shells.

They are the bones of the beast.

You step over them.

You walk toward the door.

“Where do you think you are going?”

Thomas shouts.

His voice cracks.

It is not command.

It is panic.

“I am going home.”

You say.

“You cannot.”

“I can.”

You say.

You push through the double doors.

The night air hits you.

It is cold.

It is clean.

It smells of rain.

And earth.

You walk into the dark.

The castle looms behind you.

A black mountain.

A stone beast.

It watches you.

It hates you.

You do not care.

You walk to the gate.

The guard sees you.

He raises his spear.

“Halt.”

He says.

“Who are you?”

“I am Aldric.”

You say.

“No.”

He says.

“Sir Aldric is inside.”

“I was Sir Aldric.”

You say.

“I am not anymore.”

The guard lowers the spear.

He looks at your hands.

They are empty.

They are open.

He sees the truth.

Not in your words.

In your hands.

He steps aside.

He does not speak.

He bows.

A small bow.

A private bow.

You walk out.

The gate closes behind you.

The sound is final.

A slam.

A lock.

You are free.

And you are alone.

The road is long.

The stars are out.

They are cold.

They are distant.

You think of your son.

He is still there.

In the dark.

In the cell.

You cannot save him now.

Not with a sword.

Not with a shield.

Not with a name.

You can only save yourself.

You can only break the cycle.

You walk.

Your feet hurt.

Your heart aches.

It is a dull pain.

A deep pain.

It is the pain of letting go.

Of releasing the thing you held for years.

The gauntlets were heavy.

Not because of the metal.

Because of the weight of the lie.

You carried it.

You bore it.

You bled for it.

And it was nothing.

It was just bronze.

Just a shell.

Just a lie.

You keep walking.

The night deepens.

The fog rolls in.

It covers the land.

It covers the past.

It covers the King.

It covers the Law.

It covers the truth.

You are in the fog.

You are invisible.

You are free.

You think of your father.

He would be proud.

He would be angry.

He would be confused.

He would not understand.

But you understand.

You understand now.

Justice is not a system.

It is not a court.

It is not a crown.

It is a choice.

It is a hand.

It is a heart.

And it is fragile.

It breaks easily.

You stop.

You sit on a stone.

You look at the sky.

The stars are watching.

They do not judge.

They do not weigh.

They just shine.

They are distant.

They are cold.

But they are real.

You close your eyes.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

The pain is still there.

It will always be there.

But it is yours.

Only yours.

You are not a servant.

You are not a soldier.

You are a man.

A father.

A son.

You are human.

And that is enough.

The fog thickens.

You stand.

You walk on.

The road disappears.

The path is gone.

But you keep walking.

You do not look back.

The castle is gone.

The feast is gone.

The laughter is gone.

The silence is here.

And it is loud.

It is the loudest thing.

It is the truth.

You walk into the dark.

And you are gone.