The watch ended at dusk. The mud was deep, sucking at our boots with a sound like wet breath. I stood before the gate of the old mill, the stone cold against my palm. Behind me, the men waited. We were few. Six of us, left of the thirty who had marched out of the valley three days prior. The air smelled of woodsmoke and iron.

"Hold the line," I said to Thomas. He nodded. His face was a map of scars, pale and thin. He did not speak. He never did. He just held his spear. The tip was chipped, the wood splintered. It was all he had.

We were soldiers. Or so the King called us. In truth, we were beggars with blades. The hunger had eaten the fat from our cheeks. It had sharpened our eyes. We fought for bread. We fought for a place to sleep that was not under a bridge. The King’s banner hung above the mill, a pale cloth stained with rain and old blood. It looked like a shroud.

I looked at the gate. It was iron, rusted black. Above it, a small window, dark as a pupil.

"Open it," I shouted. My voice cracked. It was a weak sound. I cleared my throat. I shouted again. "Open it. We have the right."

No answer. Only the wind. It whistled through the broken slats of the roof.

Thomas stepped forward. He struck the iron with the butt of his spear. The sound was dull. Heavy. He struck again. And again. The metal rang out, a sharp, painful note.

"They will not open," I said.

"Then we break it," Thomas said. His voice was low. Rough. Like gravel.

I looked at the others. They were trembling. Not from cold. From fear. Or maybe from the weight of what they carried. We carried nothing but our hunger and our rage. But it was enough. It was always enough.

I signaled for them to raise the ram. It was a thick log, stripped of its bark. It was heavy. Too heavy. We lifted it. The strain in our arms was immediate. Sharp. We swung it back.

The first hit shook the ground. Dust fell from the lintel. The iron groaned. It did not break.

The second hit was harder. The wood splintered. A shard flew past my ear. It hit the stone wall and vanished.

The third hit. The iron buckled. It bowed inward. A crack ran through the frame. A thin line of light appeared at the top. Then more. The door swung open.

It did not crash. It slid. Slowly. As if invited.

We ran in.

The interior was vast. A warehouse, I thought. But the air was thick. Stagnant. It pressed against my lungs. We moved forward, our boots echoing on the stone floor. The floor was wet. Slime. It was not mud. It was something else.

In the center of the room, a figure stood.

He was tall. Dressed in robes of grey. His face was hidden by a hood. He held a staff. The staff was white. Bone, perhaps. Or wood. It glowed with a faint, sick light.

"Who goes?" he asked. His voice was soft. It did not belong to the room. It seemed to come from everywhere.

"We are the garrison," I said. I tried to sound strong. My legs felt weak. "We claim this place by the King’s order."

The figure laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on stone.

"King," he said. The word was a joke. "You speak of the King. You are hungry. You are cold. You are empty. What does your King have for you?"

"Land," I said. "Law. Order."

"Order," the figure repeated. He tilted his head. "You bring order to this place? This is the place of the Unseen. This is the place where the world ends."

I felt a chill. It was not the wind. It was something else. A feeling of being watched. Of being known.

"Step aside," I said. I raised my sword. The steel was dull. It needed oil. It needed care. We had none.

The figure did not move. He simply stood there.

Thomas moved past me. He was faster. He was desperate. He swung his spear. It flew through the air. It struck the figure.

But it did not hit flesh. It hit air. The spear passed through the hood. It struck the wall behind. The stone crumbled.

Thomas stared. His eyes were wide.

"What is this?" he whispered.

The figure smiled. I could not see his face, but I felt the smile. It was cold. It was old.

"You cannot fight what you cannot touch," he said.

The men looked at each other. Fear spread. It was visible. A mist in their eyes.

I stepped forward again. I was the captain. I had to lead. I swung my sword. I cut at the air. I cut again. The sword felt heavy. Too heavy. It was as if I were cutting water.

The figure raised his staff. The light on the staff flared. It was bright. Blinding. I shielded my eyes.

When I looked again, the room had changed.

The walls were gone. The floor was gone. We were standing on nothing. Below us, a void. Dark. Deep. Endless. Above us, a sky that was not a sky. It was a canvas of swirling colors. Purple. Green. Black.

We were in a dream. Or a hell. Or a heaven I did not recognize.

"This is the truth," the figure said. He was no longer in front of us. He was everywhere. His voice was in our heads. "You fight for a banner. A piece of cloth. You fight for a name. A title. You fight for a lie."

"I fight for my men," I said. My voice was small. It disappeared into the void.

"They are not yours," the figure said. "You do not own them. You are owned by the hunger. You are owned by the fear. You are owned by the need to be something. To be more than dust."

I looked at Thomas. He was on his knees. He was weeping. His face was wet. He looked at me. He looked broken.

"I am tired," he said.

I looked at the others. They were all kneeling. They had dropped their weapons. The swords lay on the invisible ground. They were just men. Hungry men. Cold men.

I felt the hunger. It was not in my stomach. It was in my soul. It was a void. A hole that could not be filled.

"I know," I said. I knelt. My knees hit the nothing. I fell through. I did not fall. I sank. I was sinking into the dark.

"Look up," the figure said.

I looked up. The sky was closing in. The colors were fading. The purple was turning to grey. The green was turning to black.

"There is a choice," the figure said. "You can stay. You can fight the dark. You can keep the banner. You can keep the name. But you will die. You will die alone. You will die empty."

Or," the figure continued. "You can let it go. You can let the banner fall. You can let the name die. You can become what you are. Just men. Just dust. But you will be free. You will be together."

I thought of the King. I thought of the orders. I thought of the law. I thought of the honor.

I thought of the bread. The warm bread. The smell of it. The taste.

I looked at Thomas. He looked at me. He nodded.

I stood up. I raised my sword. I held it high.

I did not swing it. I let it drop.

It fell. It made no sound. It vanished into the dark.

I looked at the figure. He was gone. The staff was gone. The light was gone.

The sky was clear. It was night. A real night. Stars. Distant. Cold.

We were back in the mill. The door was open. The moonlight poured in. It was silver. It touched our faces.

Thomas was standing. He held his spear. But he had not dropped it. He looked at me. He looked at the sword on the ground.

I picked it up. It was heavy. It was real.

I looked at the banner. It was still hanging. It was pale. It was stained.

I walked to it. I reached up. I touched the cloth. It was rough. It was dry.

I cut it.

The cloth fell. It hit the floor. It was just a piece of fabric. It was dead.

I looked at the men. They were standing. They were silent.

We walked out of the mill. The night was cold. The air was sharp.

We did not go back to the King. We did not go back to the city.

We walked into the forest. We walked into the dark.

We were free.

But the hunger remained. It was a part of us now. It was the price.

I looked at the stars. They were beautiful. They were indifferent.

I looked at my hands. They were rough. They were scarred.

I was a soldier no more. I was a man.

I was alone.

And yet.

I was not alone.

We walked on.

The forest was deep. The trees were tall. They blocked the stars.

But we could see the moon. It was pale. It was bright.

It was enough.