The rain did not fall. It hung. A grey, suspended mist clung to the walls of the Watch Tower. Inside, the air smelled of wet wool and rust.

Silas sat on the cold stone floor. His knees were pulled to his chest. He held the sash in his hands. It was blue. Once it had been bright, the color of a summer sky. Now it was the color of a bruise. The fabric was frayed at the edges. He rubbed his thumb over the threads. They were rough. They tore at his skin.

The door opened. No creak. No warning.

Captain Hale stood in the doorway. He was tall. He wore the uniform of the Order. The cloth was black. It absorbed the light. His face was pale. His eyes were red.

"Silas."

The name hung in the air. It felt heavy. It felt like a stone.

Silas did not look up. He kept rubbing the sash. The threads pulled. A single strand detached. He let it go. It floated down. It landed on the stone.

"Hale," Silas said. His voice was low. It was hoarse. "You came."

"I came."

Hale stepped inside. The door closed behind him. The lock clicked. The sound was sharp. It cut the silence.

Hale did not sit. He stood by the door. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The metal was cold. The leather grip was worn. He looked at Silas. He looked at the sash.

"Give it to me," Hale said.

Silas stopped rubbing the fabric. He looked up. His eyes were dark. They were dry.

"Why?" Silas asked.

"Because you are guilty."

"Guilty of what?"

"Of weakness."

Silas smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes.

"I am a soldier," Silas said. "I do not know weakness."

"You know it now." Hale took a step forward. "The Council has decided. You are compromised. The mist... it gets in. It changes you."

"The mist is the world," Silas said. "It is what we fight."

"It is what we fear."

They stared at each other. The silence stretched. It pulled taut. It threatened to snap.

Hale drew his sword. The steel hissed. It was a thin sound. It was the sound of a breath held too long. The blade was dull. It had not been sharpened in days. It was not meant to kill. It was meant to punish.

"Silas." Hale’s voice was soft. "Do not make me do this."

"You already have," Silas said. "You are here. That is enough."

Hale’s hand trembled. The sword wavered. He looked at the sash in Silas’s lap. The blue cloth looked like a wound. It looked like a mouth.

"I trusted you," Hale said. His voice cracked. It was a small sound. It was the sound of a branch breaking under snow.

"I know," Silas said. "I know."

"I thought we were brothers."

"We are."

"Brothers do not betray."

"Brothers do not understand."

Hale raised the sword. His arm shook. His face was twisted. It was not anger. It was grief. It was deep. It was old.

"Stand up," Hale commanded.

Silas did not move. He stayed on the floor. He held the sash tight. His knuckles were white.

"Silas."

Silas looked at Hale. He saw the fear in Hale’s eyes. He saw the love. It was a terrible thing. It was a bright thing. It burned.

"I cannot," Silas said.

Hale lunged.

The blade slashed. It missed the flesh. It caught the sash. The blue fabric tore. It ripped with a sound like a scream. The sash fell in two pieces. One piece stayed on Silas’s lap. The other flew into the air.

Hale froze. The sword hung in the air. His hand was open. The blade was empty.

Silas looked at the torn cloth. He picked up the piece in his lap. He held it to his chest. He pressed it hard. The fibers dug into his skin.

"You cut it," Silas said. His voice was flat. "You cut it."

"I... I did not mean to." Hale’s face was white. "I missed."

"You missed," Silas agreed. "You always miss."

Hale lowered the sword. He sheathed it. The click was final. He stepped back. He leaned against the wall. He slid down until he was on the floor. He sat opposite Silas.

They were separated by a foot of stone. The air between them was thick. It was heavy with things unsaid.

"Tell me," Hale whispered. "Tell me why."

"Why?" Silas asked. "You know why."

"I don't."

"I don't know either."

Hale looked at the floor. He stared at the crack in the stone. The crack was pale. It ran across the center of the room. It looked like a river. It looked like a scar.

"The Council says you spoke to the mist," Hale said. "They say you listened."

"I did not speak," Silas said. "I listened. There is a difference."

"To them, no."

"To them, no." Silas looked at Hale. "Do you believe them?"

Hale did not answer. He looked at his hands. They were dirty. There was blood under his nails. It was not his blood. It was old. It was from the training yard. It was from a drill.

"I don't know," Hale said. "I want to believe you. But I cannot."

"Then why are you here?"

"To watch."

"To kill?"

"To keep you alive. Until they come."

Silas nodded. He pulled his knees tighter. He wrapped the torn sash around his wrist. He tied it tight. The knot was small. It was tight. It hurt.

"Hale," Silas said. "Remember the tower?"

"The old tower?"

"Yes. Before the Order. Before the walls."

Hale closed his eyes. A shadow crossed his face. "The wind was strong," he said. "It shook the beams."

"It did," Silas said. "We sang. To keep it out."

"We sang."

"We were small," Silas said. "We were afraid. But we were together."

Hale opened his eyes. He looked at Silas. The fear was still there. But it was joined by something else. It was sorrow. It was deep. It was quiet.

"I am afraid," Hale said.

"I know."

"I don't want to be the one who breaks you."

"Break me," Silas said. "It is easier."

Hale shook his head. He reached out. His hand hovered over the stone. He did not touch Silas. He could not. The distance was too great. The distance was everything.

"They will come at dawn," Hale said. "The mist is rising. The sensors... they are screaming."

"The sensors are wrong," Silas said.

"The sensors are right."

"Then I am wrong."

"No." Hale’s voice was a whisper. "You are right. And that is why they must kill you."

Silas looked at the torn sash on his wrist. The blue was fading. It was turning grey. It was turning to dust.

"Help me," Silas said.

"Help you how?"

"Believe me."

Hale closed his eyes. He leaned his head back against the wall. The stone was cold. It bit into his skull.

"I believe you," Hale said. "I have always believed you. That is why I am here. That is why I cannot leave."

Silas nodded. He let out a breath. It was long. It was shaky.

"Stay," Silas said. "Just stay. Until the end."

"I will."

The mist pressed against the window. It swirled. It moved like a living thing. It tapped on the glass. It was soft. It was persistent.

Silas looked at Hale. He looked at the sash. He looked at the crack in the floor.

"Do you remember the song?" Silas asked.

Hale opened his eyes. He looked at Silas. "Yes."

"Sing it."

Hale’s lips moved. The words were soft. They were old. They were worn.

"Sing," Silas urged.

Hale began. His voice was low. It was rough. It scraped against the silence. The words were a plea. They were a prayer.

Silas listened. He closed his eyes. He felt the sash on his wrist. He felt the pain. He felt the cold.

The mist outside grew thicker. It filled the room. It filled the space between them. It touched their skin. It was cold. It was wet. It was hungry.

Hale kept singing. His voice broke. He did not stop. He sang through the pain. He sang through the fear.

Silas opened his eyes. The mist was inside. It swirled around them. It wrapped around Hale’s neck. It wrapped around Silas’s throat.

Hale stopped singing. He gasped. He reached for his sword. His hand fumbled. The hilt was slippery.

Silas reached out. He grabbed Hale’s wrist. His grip was tight. His fingers dug in.

"Let go," Silas said.

"I can't breathe," Hale wheezed.

"Let go."

Hale’s hand fell. The sword clattered on the floor. The sound was loud. It was the only sound.

The mist swirled. It was bright. It was white. It was everything.

Silas held the sash. He held it tight. He pulled it. The threads tore. The blue cloth dissolved. It turned to mist. It joined the swirl.

Hale watched. He watched the sash disappear. He watched Silas’s face change. The pain left. The fear left. Only the calm remained.

Silas looked at Hale. His eyes were clear. They were bright.

"Trust," Silas said.

Hale nodded. Tears ran down his face. He did not wipe them.

Silas let go of Hale’s wrist. He leaned back. He closed his eyes. He smiled.

The mist rose. It filled the tower. It swallowed the light. It swallowed the sound. It swallowed the two men.

The tower was empty. The door was locked. The sword lay on the floor. The sash was gone. Only the dust remained. It settled on the stone. It settled in the crack. It was pale. It was quiet. It was still.