The bell tolled. It was a heavy, iron sound. It shook the dust from the rafters. I stood by the window. I watched my sister leave. She walked toward the square. She walked toward the fire. She did not look back. I could not follow. I was bound. I was the Watch.

My name is Elias. I am the Town Watchman. I carry the iron staff. I wear the grey cloak. I keep the peace. Or so they say. The town is small. It is called Oakhaven. It sits in a valley. The mist never leaves. It clings to the cobblestones. It clings to the skin. It smells of wet ash and old blood.

My sister is Clara. She has my face. But her eyes are different. Her eyes are bright. They burn like coals. She is a healer. She uses herbs. She uses songs. The people call her a witch. They fear her. They hate her. She is kind. She is gentle. She gives away her food. She mends their clothes. They still hate her.

Today is the day of the Purge. The old ways must end. The new ways must begin. The Mayor speaks. He stands on the stone. His voice is loud. He is a fat man. His face is red. He speaks of purity. He speaks of order. He points at Clara. He points at me.

"Take her down," he says. "She defiles us."

I do not move. My hand is on my staff. My knuckles are white. I look at the crowd. They stare. Their faces are masks. They are stone. They are cold.

"Take her, Elias," the Mayor says. "Or you are with her."

I close my eyes. I breathe in. The air is thick. It tastes of fear. I open my eyes. I look at Clara. She looks at me. She smiles. It is a small smile. It is sad. It is loving. She knows what I must do. She knows what I am.

I step forward. I lift my staff. The iron gleams. It is cold. I hold it out. I point it at her. My hand trembles. The crowd cheers. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air. Clara steps down the stairs. She walks toward me. She does not run. She does not beg. She walks. Her feet are bare. The stones are cold. She shivers.

I reach for her. My hand closes around her arm. It is soft. It is warm. I pull her. I drag her. We walk. The crowd parts. They do not touch us. They stand back. They watch. They are hungry. They want to see the end.

We reach the square. The fire is waiting. It is a great pile of wood. It has not started yet. The pyromancer stands by. He holds the torch. He is old. His face is wrinkled. He looks at me. He does not smile. He nods.

I tie Clara to the post. The rope is rough. It bites into her wrists. I tighten it. She winces. I look away. I cannot look at her. I turn to the crowd. I raise my staff. I must give the order. I must say the words.

"Light it," I say. My voice is weak. It is a whisper. The crowd is silent. The pyromancer raises the torch. The flame is blue. It is hungry. He brings it close. The wood catches. The smoke rises. It curls into the grey sky.

Clara looks at me. Her face is pale. Her lips are blue. She opens her mouth. She speaks. Her voice is clear. It cuts through the smoke.

"Elias," she says. "Look at me."

I do not look. I look at the fire. The flames grow. They dance. They leap. They roar. I hear her cry. It is not a scream. It is a song. It is a lullaby. It is the song she sang to me. It is the song of our mother. It is the song of home.

I close my eyes. I lean on my staff. My legs give way. I fall to my knees. The crowd gasps. They see me. They see the Watchman fall. They see the iron staff drop. It clangs on the stone. The sound is loud. It is final.

The fire grows. It eats the wood. It eats the post. It eats the rope. I feel the heat. It is a physical weight. It presses on my chest. It presses on my face. I open my eyes. I look at Clara. She is gone. There is only ash. There is only smoke.

The pyromancer steps back. He blows out his torch. He walks away. He does not look at me. The crowd begins to move. They step back. They leave. They leave me with the ashes. They leave me with the silence.

I stay. I stay on my knees. I stay in the heat. I stay in the smoke. I do not move. I do not breathe. I am still. I am stone. I am part of the town. I am the Watch.

Days pass. I do not leave the square. I sit by the post. The post is charred. It is black. It is brittle. I touch it. I feel the heat. It is still warm. I close my hand around it. I pull. The wood breaks. It crumbles in my hand. Ash falls. It is grey. It is light.

I eat. I drink. I sleep. I wake. I repeat. The town watches me. They do not speak. They do not come close. They throw food. They throw bread. They throw water. I do not eat. I do not drink. I am empty. I am a shell.

The Mayor comes. He stands before me. He looks down. His face is hard. He is angry. He is afraid.

"Get up," he says. "You are a disgrace."

I do not answer. I look at my hands. They are black. They are stained. They are dirty.

"Take her staff," he says. He kicks the iron pole. It rolls. It stops at my feet. "You must guard the gate. You must watch the night. You must do your duty."

I stand. My legs are stiff. My joints crack. I pick up the staff. It is heavy. It is cold. I hold it. I look at the Mayor. I do not blink.

"Go," he says. "Leave this place. Go to the wall. Stand there. Do not come back."

I turn. I walk. My feet are bare. The stones are cold. I walk to the wall. The wall is high. It is thick. It is old. I stand. I face the town. I face the dark.

The night falls. The mist rises. The town sleeps. The town dreams. The town fears. I stand. I watch. I do not blink. I do not move. I am the eye. I am the stone. I am the silence.

Weeks pass. The cold comes. The wind howls. It cuts my skin. It bites my bone. I do not shiver. I do not feel. I am empty. I am full. I am the fire. I am the ash.

One night, the mist clears. The moon is bright. It is a full moon. It hangs in the sky. It is white. It is cold. It looks at me. I look at it.

I see a figure. It stands in the square. It is small. It is pale. It is Clara. She is not burning. She is not dying. She is standing. She is whole. She looks at me. She smiles. It is the same smile. It is sad. It is loving.

I lift my staff. I point it at her. I do not move. I do not speak. I am the Watch. I am the law. I am the end.

She walks toward me. She walks through the mist. She walks through the dark. She walks through the fear. She does not run. She does not hide. She walks.

She stops before me. She looks up. Her eyes are bright. They are not coals. They are stars. They are deep. They are dark.

"Elias," she says. Her voice is soft. It is like wind. It is like rain. "Let go."

I look at her. I look at my staff. I look at my hands. They are black. They are stained. They are dirty. I remember the song. I remember the lullaby. I remember the heat. I remember the smoke.

I lower the staff. My arm is tired. My arm is weak. I let it drop. It falls. It clangs on the stone. The sound is loud. It is final.

Clara touches my face. Her hand is cold. It is like ice. It is like the moon. I close my eyes. I feel the touch. I feel the cold. I feel the love.

"I am free," she says. "You are free."

She steps back. She fades. The mist returns. The moon is gone. The dark is deep. I am alone.

I stand. I am alone. I am empty. I am full.

I pick up my staff. I do not hold it. I let it lie. I walk away. I walk into the town. I walk into the night. I walk into the dark.

The town sleeps. The town dreams. The town fears. I am gone. I am here. I am the Watch. I am the silence. I am the end.

I do not look back. I do not cry. I do not feel. I am stone. I am ash. I am the night.

The bell tolled. It was a heavy, iron sound. It shook the dust from the rafters. I stood by the window. I watched the town. I watched the dark. I watched the silence.

I was alone. I was free. I was gone.