The cake was white.

It sat in the center of the table.

A mountain of sugar.

It smelled of vanilla.

And rot.

I looked at it.

I did not blink.

The room was dark.

Candles burned low.

The wax pooled like blood.

We were gathered.

Seven of us.

Or maybe eight.

I lost count.

My hands shook.

I reached for a knife.

The steel was cold.

I felt the weight of it.

Heavy.

Always heavy.

"You are ready," said Elias.

He sat opposite me.

His face was a mask.

Smooth.

Pale.

Like the cake.

"I am," I said.

My voice cracked.

It sounded like dry leaves.

Elias smiled.

It did not reach his eyes.

"Eat," he commanded.

I looked around.

The others watched.

Silent.

Stone-faced.

Thomas Bradshaw chewed.

Slowly.

Loudly.

His teeth were yellow.

I hated him.

I hated them all.

I picked up the knife.

My fingers slipped.

The blade slipped.

The cake fell.

It hit the floor.

White powder exploded.

Like dust.

Like bones.

Silence.

Total silence.

Then Thomas laughed.

A wet, hacking sound.

"Careful, witch," he spat.

The word hung in the air.

Witch.

I looked at Elias.

His face had changed.

The mask was gone.

It was a mask of flesh.

Twisting.

"Try again," he said.

His voice was soft.

Like silk.

Like a knife.

I picked up the knife.

My heart pounded.

It hit my ribs.

Hard.

Fast.

I cut.

A slice.

Thin.

Perfect.

I put it on a plate.

I held the plate.

It trembled.

"I am ready," I said again.

Elias nodded.

He took the plate.

He ate.

He closed his eyes.

I waited.

Nothing happened.

No fire.

No frost.

No voice in my head.

Just a man eating cake.

"More," he said.

I cut again.

And again.

And again.

The cake grew smaller.

The floor grew whiter.

I felt empty.

Hollow.

Like a shell.

"Why?" I asked.

The words came out.

Against my will.

Elias stopped chewing.

He looked at me.

His eyes were black.

Deep.

Bottomless.

"Because you must," he said.

"Because the world is broken."

"Because only you can fix it."

I shook my head.

"No."

The word was small.

Weak.

But it was mine.

Elias’s face darkened.

The shadows in the room lengthened.

They touched my feet.

They crawled up my legs.

Cold.

Icy.

"Obey," he whispered.

I looked at Thomas.

Thomas looked at the floor.

He was crying.

Quiet tears.

Tracing paths down his cheeks.

He looked up.

At me.

His eyes were wet.

Terrified.

But clear.

"I can't," he whispered.

Elias turned his head.

Slowly.

Like a doll.

"Thomas," he said.

His voice was ice.

"Speak."

Thomas swallowed.

The sound was loud.

In the silence.

"I am tired," Thomas said.

His voice was a thread.

"Of the magic."

"Of the power."

"Of the war."

Elias stood up.

The chair scraped back.

A harsh, grinding noise.

The candles flickered.

Died.

Only the moonlight remained.

Silver.

Cold.

It cut through the window.

It hit the cake.

It hit my face.

Elias was tall.

Taller than before.

His shadow stretched across the room.

It covered Thomas.

It covered me.

"You are weak," Elias said.

His voice was not a whisper.

It was a shout.

It shook the walls.

"The enemies are at the gate."

"The city is burning."

"Only the cake saves us."

I looked at the cake.

It was gone.

Only crumbs remained.

White dust.

On the wood.

On my hands.

I wiped my hands.

On my dress.

The dust stuck.

It would not come off.

"It is not enough," I said.

My voice was steady.

For the first time.

Elias laughed.

It was a horrible sound.

Like glass breaking.

"You are a fool."

"You think you are good."

"You think you are kind."

"I am the only one who sees."

"See what?" I asked.

I stepped forward.

My boots were muddy.

The mud mixed with the sugar.

Brown.

White.

A mess.

Elias’s face was contorted.

Anger.

Fear.

Something else.

"See the truth," he hissed.

"The world is evil."

"We must crush it."

"We must burn it."

I looked at Thomas.

He was on his knees.

His hands were bound.

With vines.

Green.

Living.

Pulsing.

He looked at me.

His lips moved.

No sound.

I read it.

*Run.*

I looked at Elias.

He was reaching for me.

His hand was long.

His fingers were claws.

I raised the knife.

It was empty.

Just steel.

But I felt the power.

The old power.

The one they gave me.

The one I hated.

I felt the heat.

It rose in my chest.

Like a tide.

I pointed the knife at Elias.

He stopped.

His hand froze.

In the air.

His eyes widened.

Not with anger.

With surprise.

"With recognition."

"You feel it," he said.

His voice was low.

Broken.

"Yes," I said.

"I feel it."

"Then you know."

"I know," I said.

I lowered the knife.

The heat faded.

The power receded.

Like a tide going out.

Leaving sand.

Dry.

Cold.

Elias looked at me.

He looked at the floor.

At the crumbs.

He sat down.

Slowly.

His body sagged.

The mask returned.

But it was cracked.

"I am tired," he said.

It was the same words.

Thomas had used.

But his voice was older.

Weary.

"I have been here so long," he whispered.

"Waiting for someone to break the cake."

I looked at him.

He was not a monster.

He was a man.

Old.

Worn.

Hollow.

Like me.

"We are all hollow," I said.

He nodded.

A single motion.

Small.

Sad.

The vines on Thomas’s arms withered.

They turned to dust.

Thomas fell back.

He gasped.

Air filled his lungs.

He looked at his hands.

Free.

He looked at me.

He did not smile.

He did not cry.

He just breathed.

I looked at the knife.

It was just a knife.

I put it on the table.

It clinked.

A small sound.

Final.

The room was quiet.

The moonlight shifted.

It moved across the floor.

It touched the dust.

It touched the cake crumbs.

I picked up a crumb.

It was white.

It was sweet.

I put it in my mouth.

I chewed.

It tasted of nothing.

It tasted of everything.

I swallowed.

It was hard.

Like a stone.

It went down.

Into the dark.

Elias stood up.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The night was cold.

The wind howled.

I could hear the distant sound of fire.

Crackling.

Roaring.

It was not a battle.

It was a cleanup.

Elias looked back.

He did not speak.

He just nodded.

A gesture of respect.

Or pity.

He stepped out.

The door closed.

The latch clicked.

A small sound.

Final.

I looked at Thomas.

He was staring at the ceiling.

His eyes were open.

Empty.

"Go," I said.

He blinked.

He stood up.

His legs were shaky.

He walked to the door.

He did not look back.

He opened it.

The light spilled in.

Blue.

Cold.

He stepped out.

The door closed.

I was alone.

The room was empty.

Except for the table.

And the crumbs.

I looked at my hands.

They were clean.

No dust.

No mud.

Just skin.

Pale.

Trembling.

I sat down.

At the table.

I put my hands on the wood.

It was smooth.

Cold.

I closed my eyes.

I waited.

For the fire.

For the voice.

For the power.

Nothing came.

Only the silence.

Only the dust.

Only the taste of the crumb.

In my throat.

I opened my eyes.

The moon was high.

It was a full moon.

White.

Round.

Perfect.

It looked like a cake.

Floating in the sky.

I stood up.

I walked to the window.

I opened it.

The wind hit my face.

It was sharp.

It cut.

I breathed in.

The air was clean.

It smelled of rain.

And ash.

I looked out.

The city was dark.

But I could see the lights.

Flickering.

Dying.

One by one.

I did not feel sad.

I did not feel angry.

I felt light.

Empty.

Free.

I closed my eyes.

I let the wind in.

It filled me.

It took the dust.

It took the sweetness.

It took the fear.

I was just air.

Just breath.

Just a shadow.

In the night.

I did not move.

I did not speak.

I just stood there.

In the dark.

Waiting for nothing.

The moon watched.

It did not judge.

It just was.

I was.

We were.

The end was not a fire.

It was a silence.

A clean, white silence.

Like the cake.

Like the dust.

Like the snow.

I smiled.

It was a small smile.

It did not reach my eyes.

But it was real.

I opened my mouth.

I breathed out.

My breath fogged in the cold air.

It rose.

It vanished.

Gone.

I was gone.

The room was empty.

The table was bare.

The night was endless.

And I was free.

To be nothing.

To be everything.

To be the dust.

In the wind.

I closed the window.

The latch clicked.

A small sound.

Final.

I sat down.

I waited.

For the morning.

Or the end.

It did not matter.

I was quiet.

I was still.

I was home.

In the hollow.

In the dark.

In the white.

I was nothing.

And it was enough.