The rain does not stop. It has not stopped for three days. You walk through the mist. Your boots are heavy. The mud is deep. You are a knight. You wear silver mail. It is cold. The metal bites your skin. You carry a sword. It is long. It is sharp. You do not want to use it. You walk toward the gate.

The gate is black. It is made of iron. It stands alone. There is no wall. There is no city. Only the gate. And the mist. You stop. You look at the gate. It looks like a mouth. It is open. Inside, there is light. Pale light. Like moonlight. Like bone.

You know this place. You have seen it in dreams. It is not real. You think. You are tired. You are cold. You need warmth. You need fire. You step forward. The ground gives way. You fall.

You do not hit the ground. You land on grass. The grass is green. It is soft. It smells of rain. You stand up. You are in a square. The square is round. It is paved with stone. The stones are white. They are clean. There is no mud here. There is no rain here. The sky is gray. It is still. The air is still.

You look around. You see tents. They are red. They are white. They are blue. They are arranged in a circle. There is a big tent in the center. It is white. It is pale. It looks like a cloud. It looks like a ghost. You walk toward it. Your boots make no sound on the stone. You are silent. You are a ghost.

You enter the tent. It is empty. There is no one. There is a platform. The platform is high. The wood is old. It is smooth. You touch it. It is warm. You sit down. You rest. Your legs hurt. Your back hurts. You close your eyes. You sleep.

You wake up. The tent is full. People are standing. They are silent. They watch you. They are dressed in strange clothes. They are tall. They are thin. Their faces are pale. They have no eyes. They have no mouths. They only have holes where features should be. You stand up. Your hand goes to your sword. You are afraid.

A man walks onto the platform. He is not one of them. He has eyes. He has a mouth. He is old. His hair is white. He wears a red coat. The coat is torn. He looks at you. He smiles. His teeth are black.

"Welcome," he says. His voice is dry. It sounds like leaves. "You are late."

"I was not invited," you say. Your voice is rough. You are angry. You do not like this. You do not like being watched. "This is not a place for knights. This is a place for tricks."

The old man laughs. It is a short sound. It is not kind. "It is a place for choices," he says. "You are a soldier. You fight for a king. You fight for a flag. You fight because you are told to. But here, you fight for yourself. Or you do not fight at all."

"I have no self," you say. "I have a duty. I have a lord. I have a war. I am not here to play games."

"Then why are you here?" he asks.

"I do not know." You look at the faceless people. They lean closer. The air feels heavy. It feels thick. It is hard to breathe. "I was walking. I saw the gate. I came in."

The old man nods. He walks to the edge of the platform. He gestures to the air. A table appears. On the table, there is a sword. It is your sword. It is lying there. It is clean. It is bright. Next to it, there is a ring. It is gold. It is simple.

"Pick up the sword," the old man says.

You pick it up. It is light. It feels right in your hand. You have held it many times. It is familiar.

"Now pick up the ring."

You pick up the ring. It is cold. It feels heavy. It is not familiar. You look at the old man.

"What is this?" you ask.

"It is a choice," he says. "You can keep the sword. You can go back to your war. You can kill. You can die. You can be a tool. Or you can keep the ring. You can stay here. You can be part of the circus. You can be one of us. But you will not be a knight. You will not be a soldier. You will be empty. You will be still."

"I do not understand," you say.

"You will understand later," he says. "But you must choose now. The time is short. The mist is rising. If you do not choose, you will be lost. You will be nothing."

You look at the sword. It is sharp. It is beautiful. It is what you are. You are a man of steel. You are a man of action. You think of your lord. You think of the battle. You think of the blood. You think of the fear. You are afraid. You have always been afraid. You hide behind the sword. You hide behind the duty.

You look at the ring. It is gold. It is empty. It is a circle. It has no end. It has no beginning. You do not want it. You do not want to be still. You do not want to be empty. You want to fight. You want to win. You want to matter.

"Which one?" the old man asks. His voice is close. It is in your ear. It is cold.

"I choose the sword," you say.

The old man nods. He does not smile. He looks sad. He looks tired. "Then you must prove it," he says.

He points to the faceless people. They move. They begin to dance. They do not make sound. They move in a circle. They get closer. They are fast. They are like shadows. They surround you.

"Fight them," the old man says. "Break them. Show me that you are strong. Show me that you are real."

You draw your sword. The steel sings. It is a high note. It is clear. You swing. You cut the air. You hit the first one. It falls. It does not bleed. It does not cry. It just stops. It becomes dust. The dust flies in the wind. The wind is cold.

You hit the second one. It falls. You hit the third. You hit the fourth. You are strong. You are fast. You are good. You have done this before. You are a killer. You are a machine. You do not think. You do not feel. You only cut.

The faceless people fall. One by one. The square is full of dust. The dust is white. It covers your boots. It covers your hands. It covers your face. You cough. You spit. You keep fighting.

There is one left. It is standing in front of the old man. It is tall. It is thin. It looks at you. It has no eyes. But you feel it looking. You feel it judging.

You raise your sword. You aim for its head. You swing.

The sword does not hit the man. It hits the ground. The stone cracks. The ground shakes. You are thrown back. You fall. You lie on the stone. You cannot move. Your arm hurts. Your shoulder hurts. You try to stand. You cannot.

The old man walks toward you. He is slow. He is calm. He stops in front of you. He looks down.

"You failed," he says.

"I did not fail," you say. You are angry. You are confused. "I was strong. I was ready. I chose the sword."

"You chose the sword," he says. "But you did not choose yourself. You chose the role. You chose the fear. You are not a warrior. You are a puppet. And puppets do not dance well."

You try to stand again. You fall. You are weak. You are tired. You are cold. The mist is rising. It is coming from the ground. It is coming from the dust. It is coming from you.

"I want to leave," you say. Your voice is small. It is weak. "Take me back. I will fight. I will do whatever you want. Just take me back."

The old man looks at you. He looks at the sword. The sword is lying in the dust. It is dirty. It is dull. It is just metal.

"You cannot leave," he says. "Not with the sword. Not with the fear. You must leave with the ring."

"I do not want the ring," you say.

"You must," he says.

The mist is thick. It is around your head. You cannot see the old man. You cannot see the square. You can only see the white. It is bright. It is blinding. It hurts.

You reach out. You feel something. It is cold. It is hard. It is the ring. You do not know how it got there. You do not know when. But it is in your hand. It is in your palm. It is warm.

You look at the old man. He is gone. The faceless people are gone. The tents are gone. The square is gone. There is only the mist. And the ring.

You put the ring on your finger. It fits. It is tight. It is painful. It burns. You feel a change. You feel a loss. You feel a gain. You do not know what you lost. You do not know what you gained.

You stand up. The mist is thin. You can see the gate. It is open. The rain is outside. The mud is outside. The war is outside. You walk toward the gate. Your boots are light. They do not make sound. You are not a knight. You are not a soldier. You are a man. You are empty. You are full.

You step through the gate. You fall. You hit the ground. The mud is deep. The rain is cold. You are wet. You are cold. You are alone.

You look at your hand. The ring is gone. Your finger is bare. It is clean. It is normal. You look at the ground. There is no dust. There is no white. There is only the mud.

You stand up. You look around. You are in a field. It is gray. It is quiet. There is no one. There is no gate. There is no circus. There is no old man.

You look at your sword. It is in your hand. It is clean. It is sharp. It is real. You feel the weight of it. You feel the balance. You feel the strength.

You think of the faceless people. You think of the old man. You think of the choice. You know what you did. You know what you gave up. You gave up the fear. You gave up the role. You gave up the need to be a hero. You are just a man. You are just a soldier. You are just yourself.

It is not enough. It is not what you wanted. You wanted to be brave. You wanted to be strong. You wanted to be special. You are none of those things. You are ordinary. You are mortal. You are human.

You look at the horizon. The rain is stopping. The clouds are breaking. A single ray of light hits the field. It is pale. It is soft. It is beautiful. You feel a sadness. It is deep. It is quiet. It is yours.

You walk. You do not know where you are going. You do not know who you are. You do not know what you will do. You walk. You breathe. You live.

The sword is heavy. The rain is cold. The world is big. You are small. You are free.

You do not look back. You do not look for the gate. You do not look for the ring. You do not look for the old man. You look forward. You look at the road. You look at the path. You walk.

The mist is gone. The silence is gone. The sound of the rain returns. It is a drum. It is a heartbeat. It is a song. You walk to the song. You walk to the sound. You walk to the life.

You are a man. You are a soldier. You are a ghost. You are real. You are here. You are now.

The end is not a death. The end is a beginning. You do not know what comes next. You do not know what you will face. You do not know what you will do. You only know that you are walking. You only know that you are breathing. You only know that you are alive.

And that is enough.

It is not what you wanted. It is not what you hoped for. It is not what you dreamed. It is what you have. It is what you are. It is what you chose.

You walk on. The road is long. The rain is light. The sun is out. You are alone. You are free. You are you.