The bowl was blue.

Not the blue of the sky. Not the blue of the sea. A bruise. A deep, swollen, purple-blue that pulsed like a living thing in the dim light of the High Court. It sat on the table. It waited.

Elias sat opposite. He wore his armor. It was heavy. Iron. Rust. The weight of his duties. The weight of his sins. He did not look at the bowl. He looked at the door. He was a soldier. He was the King’s Hand. He was a man who broke things.

"Sit down, Elias."

The voice was thin. It was the voice of the Court Mage, Oram. Oram was old. His skin was paper. His eyes were bright. Too bright.

"Is it here?" Elias asked.

"Always."

Elias stood. He walked to the table. He touched the rim. The ceramic was cold. It hummed. A low vibration. It went into his bone. Into his teeth.

"It’s cracked," Elias said.

"A hairline fracture," Oram said. "A whisper. It has been waiting for the right hand."

"My hand."

"Yours."

Elias pulled his glove off. His fingers were thick. Calloused. They had strangled men. They had pulled triggers. They had held the hands of the dying. He placed them on the bowl.

The hum stopped.

Silence.

It was a bad silence.

"I can’t do it," Elias said.

"You must." Oram leaned forward. "The King demands the truth. The truth is in the bowl. You are the key. You are the lock."

"I am a soldier, not a mystic."

"You are a fool," Oram said. "And fools are the only ones who can see clearly. The wise are blinded by their wisdom. You have no wisdom. You have only pain. That is enough."

Elias looked at his friend. Or so he thought. Oram had been his mentor. His teacher. For ten years, Oram had taught him how to fight. How to think. How to survive. But Oram was dead inside. Oram had been dead for years. Elias had known it. He had seen the emptiness behind those bright eyes.

"Tell me what to do," Elias said.

"Break it."

"What?"

"Break the bowl. Pour your blood into the crack. Let it drink. Then, look inside. You will see what the King fears. You will see the truth."

"Will it hurt?"

"Knowledge always hurts."

Elias nodded. He gripped the bowl. He squeezed.

The ceramic did not bend. It resisted. It was hard. It was strong. It was alive.

"Use your anger," Oram said. "Use your rage. You are angry at the King. You are angry at yourself. You are angry at the world. Use it."

Elias closed his eyes. He thought of the village. The fire. The screams. The King’s orders. *Burn it all.* He had obeyed. He had led the men. He had lit the match.

He squeezed harder.

A crack appeared.

A thin line. Like a vein.

It spread.

Elias screamed.

The sound was not human. It was the sound of metal tearing. The sound of bone snapping.

The bowl shattered.

Not into pieces. Into light.

Blue light.

It exploded outward. It hit the walls. It hit the floor. It hit Oram.

Oram screamed.

His face twisted. His body convulsed. He fell back into his chair. He gasped. He coughed.

Elias stood there. He was shaking. His hands were empty. The bowl was gone.

On the floor, there were shards. Blue shards. They glowed. They pulsed.

"Look," Oram whispered. His voice was broken. "Look at the floor."

Elias looked.

He saw his reflection.

But it was not his face.

It was the face of the boy he had killed. The boy from the village. The boy who had run into the fire.

The face smiled at him.

Elias stepped back.

"It’s a trick," he said.

"It is the truth," Oram said. "You are not the soldier. You are the monster. You always were. The armor is the lie. The blood is the truth."

Elias looked at his hands. They were stained. Not with blood. With blue light.

He looked at Oram.

"Why?" Elias asked.

"Because I needed a vessel," Oram said. "The bowl was weak. It could not hold the power. You are strong. You are full of hate. You are full of guilt. You are the perfect vessel."

Elias realized it then.

He had not broken the bowl.

The bowl had broken him.

Oram was not a teacher. He was a thief. He had been stealing Elias’s life. His strength. His sanity. For ten years. He had been feeding on Elias’s pain.

"You lied," Elias said.

"I needed the truth," Oram said. "And the truth requires sacrifice. You are the sacrifice."

Elias moved.

He was fast.

He was a soldier.

He grabbed Oram by the throat.

He lifted him out of the chair.

Oram’s legs kicked. His hands clawed at Elias’s armor.

"Let me go," Oram gasped. "You don’t know what you’re doing."

"I know," Elias said. "I am the monster."

He squeezed.

He squeezed until he heard the sound.

A wet crack.

Oram’s eyes rolled back.

His body went limp.

Elias dropped him.

He stood in the room.

The blue light was fading.

The shards on the floor were dark now. Just ceramic. Just broken glass.

Elias looked at his hands.

The blue stain was gone.

He was clean.

He was empty.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The corridor was long. It was dark.

He walked.

He walked past the guards. They did not stop him. They looked at him. They saw nothing. He was invisible.

He walked to the throne room.

The King was there.

He sat on the chair. He wore a crown. He looked small.

Elias stopped.

He did not draw his sword.

He did not shout.

He just stood there.

The King looked up.

"Who are you?" the King asked.

"I am the truth," Elias said.

The King smiled.

"You are a ghost," the King said. "You have no power. You have no name. You are nothing."

Elias nodded.

He was right.

Elias was nothing.

He had given everything away. His strength. His sanity. His life. He had given it to the bowl. He had given it to Oram. He had given it to the truth.

And the truth was that he was nothing.

He was a man who had killed children.

He was a man who had betrayed his friend.

He was a man who had broken a thing he could not fix.

He turned around.

He walked out.

He walked out of the castle.

The night was cold.

The stars were bright.

He walked into the forest.

He walked until his legs gave out.

He sat down.

He looked at his hands.

They were just hands.

Human hands.

Weak hands.

He closed them.

He opened them.

He closed them.

He opened them.

There was no light.

There was no hum.

There was no truth.

There was only the dark.

And the dark was quiet.

And the quiet was good.

He slept.

He slept for a long time.

He did not dream.

He did not wake.

He became part of the earth.

He became part of the roots.

He became part of the silence.

And the silence held him.

And the silence kept him.

And the silence forgot him.

And the world moved on.

And the world forgot.

And the world forgot.

And the world forgot.