You are standing in the hall. The stone is cold. It bites through the soles of your boots. You are a scribe. A minor one. Your name is barely worth the ink. You are Thomas. You are here because the King is dying. And you are here because you must write what comes next. The air smells of wax and old blood. And fear.

The King sits on the throne. He is small. He looks like a child in a giant’s coat. He holds a tablet. It is slate. Black. Smooth. He looks at you. His eyes are wet. He does not blink.

“Write,” he says.

His voice is a thread. Thin. Taut. It could snap at any moment. You step forward. Your legs are lead. You hold the stylus. It is heavy. The slate waits. It is hungry. You know what you must do. You know the fate of this kingdom. You know the fate of your own soul. You are not a warrior. You are a clerk. But today, you are the sword.

You begin to carve. The tip bites into the stone. A spark flies. It is orange. Bright. It dies in the dark. You write the first word. It is your father’s name. You do not know why. It is instinct. It is blood. Your father was a soldier. He died in the mud. He died for this throne. And now, you give his name to the stone. You give it to the King.

The King watches. He leans forward. His breath fogs in the cold air. He does not stop you. He cannot stop you. You are already inside the ritual. The ritual is older than him. Older than you. It is the law.

You write the second word. It is a promise. A promise of peace. A promise of no more war. It is a lie. You know it is a lie. But the stone does not care. The stone only takes. You feel the weight of the lie in your hand. It is heavier than the slate. It is heavier than your body.

The hall is silent. The candles flicker. Shadows dance on the walls. They look like hands. Reaching. Grabbing. You ignore them. You look at the King. He is pale. His lips are blue. He is fading. The light is leaving him. You are stealing it.

You write the third word. It is your mother’s name. She was a weaver. She sat by the window. She sang while she worked. Her songs were simple. They were about rain. About bread. About love. You remember the smell of her hair. It smelled of lavender. And dust. You remember her hands. They were rough. They were strong. She held you when you were small. She held you when you cried. She held you when the world was too loud.

Now, you are holding the slate. And you are carving her name into it. You are binding her to this moment. You are binding her to the end. You feel a tear slide down your cheek. It is hot. It stings your skin. You do not wipe it away. You let it fall. It lands on the slate. It is absorbed. The stone drinks it.

The King coughs. It is a wet sound. A horrible sound. He gags. He tries to stand. He fails. He slumps back. The crown falls. It rolls across the floor. It stops at your feet. You do not pick it up. You keep writing.

You write the fourth word. It is a command. It is an order. It is the word that ends the war. It is the word that kills the enemy. It is the word that saves the innocent. Or so they say. You know the truth. The truth is that the word only kills the writer. It kills the one who holds the pen. It kills the one who speaks.

You look at the King. He is watching you. His eyes are wide. He sees you. He sees what you are doing. He sees the trap. He knows. He knows you are sealing his fate. And yours. He opens his mouth. He tries to speak. No sound comes out. Only a whisper. A ghost of a sound.

You write the fifth word. It is your own name. Thomas. It is small. It is insignificant. But it is there. It is the anchor. It is the point of no return. You carve it deep. You carve it hard. You feel the pain in your wrist. It is sharp. It is clean. It is real.

The King dies. His body goes slack. The color drains from his face. He is gone. The silence rushes in. It is loud. It is deafening. It fills the hall. It fills your ears. It fills your mind. You stop writing. Your hand is shaking. You drop the stylus. It clatters on the floor. The sound is violent. It echoes.

You stand there. You are alone. The King is dead. The throne is empty. The slate is full. The words are carved. They are permanent. They are eternal. You look at the words. They look back at you. They are your mirror. They are your face. They are your soul.

You realize you have made a mistake. You have not ended the war. You have started it. The words are a challenge. They are a dare. They are a blood curse. The enemy will see the slate. They will read the words. They will see the King’s death. They will see your name. They will come. They will burn the hall. They will kill you. They will kill everyone.

You try to erase the words. You rub your hand over the slate. The stone is smooth. The words remain. They are etched in the rock. They are etched in time. You cannot change them. You cannot undo them. You are bound. You are trapped. You are the prisoner of your own making.

You look at the crown. It is still on the floor. It is gold. It is bright. It is beautiful. It is worthless. You step over it. You walk to the door. The door is heavy. It is iron. It is locked. You push it. It does not move. You pull it. It does not move. You are sealed in. With the dead King. With the living curse.

You sit on the floor. You lean against the wall. The cold seeps into your bones. You feel tired. You feel empty. You feel light. You are light. You are dust. You are nothing. You are a scribe. You are a ghost. You are waiting.

You close your eyes. You remember your mother. You remember her hands. You remember her songs. You remember the rain. You remember the bread. You remember the love. It is warm. It is soft. It is safe. You hold it in your mind. You hold it in your heart. You hold it in your soul.

The hours pass. The candles burn down. The shadows grow long. The dark closes in. You do not move. You do not speak. You do not eat. You do not drink. You just wait. You wait for the end. You wait for the enemy. You wait for the fire.

You hear a sound. It is faint. It is distant. It is a footstep. It is heavy. It is slow. It is coming. You open your eyes. The door is open. A figure stands there. It is tall. It is dark. It is wearing armor. It is holding a sword.

You know who it is. It is the executioner. It is the King’s man. It is the one who will finish the work. It steps into the hall. It walks toward you. Its boots clang on the stone. The sound is rhythmic. It is steady. It is inevitable.

You look at the slate. You look at the words. You look at your name. You smile. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is a true smile. You are not afraid. You are not angry. You are not sorry. You are done. You are free.

The executioner stops in front of you. He looks at you. He does not speak. He does not need to. His eyes say everything. They say goodbye. They say farewell. They say it is over. He raises the sword. The blade catches the last of the candlelight. It is bright. It is sharp. It is beautiful.

You close your eyes. You breathe in. You breathe out. You feel the wind. You feel the cold. You feel the life. You let it go. You let it go. You let it go.

The sword falls. The pain is bright. It is white. It is hot. It is quick. It is done. You are gone. You are free. You are home.