The hammer struck the anvil.

Thomas felt the vibration in his teeth.

The forge was hot.

Too hot.

He was a blacksmith.

He was also the King’s son.

The crown was heavy.

It sat upon the mind.

It pressed down.

It did not fit.

The iron glowed orange.

Then yellow.

Then white.

Thomas lifted the tongs.

His arms trembled.

Not from heat.

From fear.

The door opened.

Wind rushed in.

Dust swirled.

A figure entered.

Tall.

Gray.

Cloaked in shadow.

This was the High Priest.

He held a staff.

The wood was black.

It smoked.

The air grew thick.

The air grew cold.

Thomas lowered the tongs.

The iron dimmed.

The light died.

The priest spoke.

His voice was dry.

Like leaves on stone.

"You have failed."

Thomas said nothing.

He could not breathe.

The words hung in the air.

They did not move.

They did not fade.

They burned.

Thomas looked at the floor.

The floor was cold.

The floor was hard.

He saw his own reflection.

Broken.

Distorted.

He was not a king.

He was a worker.

He was a slave to the metal.

He was a slave to the duty.

He had trained for years.

His hands were rough.

His back was bent.

He had given his body to the work.

He had given his mind to the weight.

He thought he was strong.

He was wrong.

The priest stepped forward.

The staff tapped the ground.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Each sound was a heartbeat.

Each sound was a nail.

"Your blood is royal," the priest said.

"Your soul is iron."

"Iron breaks."

"Iron rusts."

"Iron is cold."

Thomas lifted his head.

His eyes were dry.

He had no tears.

Tears were for the soft.

He was not soft.

He was hard.

He was ready.

The priest raised the staff.

The tip glowed.

A pale blue light.

It hurt to look at.

It hurt to see.

The light was a wound.

It opened the air.

It opened the time.

Thomas saw his father.

The King.

He sat on the throne.

The throne was gold.

The gold was dead.

The King looked at Thomas.

His face was a mask.

His eyes were empty.

The King did not speak.

The King did not move.

He was a statue.

He was a ghost.

He was the end.

Thomas saw his mother.

She was kneeling.

She was weeping.

Her face was wet.

Her hands were clasped.

She was begging.

She was pleading.

For whom?

For him.

For the King.

For the crown.

The vision faded.

The light dimmed.

The priest lowered the staff.

The room was silent.

The silence was loud.

It screamed.

It roared.

It filled the ears.

Thomas felt the weight.

The weight of the crown.

The weight of the blood.

The weight of the name.

It crushed him.

It crushed his chest.

It crushed his will.

He could not stand.

His knees buckled.

He fell to his knees.

The iron cooled.

The fire died.

The flames turned to ash.

The ash was black.

The ash was cold.

The priest stood over him.

The priest looked down.

His face was kind.

His face was sad.

He reached out.

His hand was gentle.

He touched Thomas’s head.

The touch was warm.

The touch was light.

It was a release.

The tension snapped.

The knot untied.

The rope let go.

Thomas closed his eyes.

He let go.

He let the weight go.

He let the crown go.

He let the title go.

He was only Thomas.

He was only flesh.

He was only bone.

The priest spoke again.

His voice was soft.

It was a whisper.

It was a lullaby.

"You are free."

The words were strange.

They were new.

They were light.

Thomas did not understand.

Freedom was heavy.

Freedom was a burden.

He had never known it.

He had only known duty.

He had only known service.

Now he was free.

And he was empty.

The emptiness was vast.

The emptiness was deep.

It was the sea.

It was the sky.

It was the void.

The priest turned away.

He walked to the door.

The door was open.

The wind blew in.

The wind carried the scent of rain.

The priest stepped out.

He did not look back.

The door closed.

The room was dark.

The room was quiet.

Thomas remained on his knees.

His hands were on the ground.

The ground was cold.

He stayed there.

He stayed for a long time.

The minutes passed.

The hours passed.

The day turned to night.

The night turned to day.

He did not move.

He did not eat.

He did not drink.

He was a statue.

He was a stone.

He was part of the floor.

Finally, he moved.

Slowly.

Painfully.

He stood up.

His legs shook.

His head spun.

He looked at the anvil.

The anvil was black.

The anvil was cold.

The anvil was dead.

He looked at the forge.

The forge was cold.

The forge was dark.

The forge was empty.

He looked at his hands.

The hands were rough.

The hands were scarred.

The hands were his.

He raised them.

He looked at the scars.

The scars were maps.

The scars were stories.

The scars were his life.

He had built them.

He had earned them.

He had suffered for them.

And now he let them go.

He opened his hands.

The air touched the skin.

The air was cool.

The air was clean.

He took a breath.

The breath was deep.

The breath was long.

It filled the lungs.

It filled the chest.

It filled the soul.

He exhaled.

The breath left him.

The breath was gone.

The weight was gone.

The crown was gone.

The title was gone.

He was no one.

He was everything.

He was the earth.

He was the stone.

He was the dust.

He walked to the door.

The door was heavy.

The door was old.

He pushed it open.

The light entered.

The light was bright.

The light was white.

The light was pure.

It blinded him.

He squinted.

He stepped out.

The world was new.

The sky was blue.

The grass was green.

The air was sweet.

He walked.

He walked slowly.

He walked steadily.

He did not look back.

He did not run.

He did not hurry.

He walked toward the horizon.

The horizon was far.

The horizon was bright.

The horizon was waiting.

He walked into the light.

The light took him.

The light wrapped him.

The light held him.

He was gone.

He was free.

The forge stood empty.

The anvil stood silent.

The fire was dead.

The iron was cold.

The crown was lost.

The king was dead.

The son was free.

The wind blew.

The wind sang.

The wind carried the story.

The story was simple.

The story was true.

The story was over.

The end was the beginning.

The beginning was the end.

The circle was closed.

The loop was broken.

The chain was cut.

The lock was open.

The door was open.

The way was clear.

The path was straight.

The journey was done.

The rest was peace.

The peace was deep.

The peace was still.

The peace was eternal.

Thomas was at peace.

The world was at peace.

The sky was at peace.

The earth was at peace.

All was well.

All was right.

All was done.

The hammer lay on the floor.

The tongs lay beside it.

The tools were cold.

The tools were silent.

The tools were finished.

The work was done.

The labor was over.

The pain was past.

The fear was gone.

The doubt was gone.

The hope was gone.

Only the truth remained.

The truth was simple.

The truth was bare.

The truth was enough.

Enough to live.

Enough to die.

Enough to be.

Thomas was.

He simply was.

And that was all.

And that was all it was.

And that was all it needed to be.

The end.