The mirror cracked before I broke.

I stood in the antechamber of the High Court, the air thick with the scent of ozone and old stone. In my hands, I held the glass. It was a pane of polished obsidian, thin as a whisper, heavy with the weight of centuries. I was a craftsman. I ground the stone. I shaped the light. I did not judge the reflections.

The door opened.

King Aldous entered. He was small for his title, his crown a jagged thing of iron and bone. He did not look at me. He looked at the mirror. His eyes were red, swollen from sleepless nights and the blood of the border wars.

Is it done? he asked. His voice was a dry leaf scraping across gravel.

Yes, Your Majesty.

Show me.

I stepped forward. The floor was cold marble. It bit into the soles of my boots. I placed the mirror on the table of obsidian. The surface was dark. It held no image. It held only the room, distorted and deep.

Aldous leaned in. He touched the glass. His finger trailed a line of dust.

Why is it black? he whispered.

Because it is true, I said.

He pulled back. His face twisted. A muscle in his jaw jumped.

True? he spat. The bards say I am the shield of the realm. The priests say I am the hand of the god.

The bards lie, I said. The priests pray for power, not for truth.

He laughed. It was a sharp, brittle sound. A bird breaking its wing.

Then show me the shield, I said. Show me the hand.

I turned the mirror.

The light in the chamber was dim. Candles burned in iron sconces. Their flames were steady. I adjusted the angle. The obsidian caught the light. It did not reflect the room. It reflected the soul.

Aldous gasped.

In the glass, he did not see a king. He saw a man. A man with dirt under his fingernails. A man with a scar running from his ear to his chin, a scar he had hidden for years. He saw the fear in his eyes. He saw the hunger. Not for food. For control.

What is this? he hissed.

It is you, I said.

He struck the table. The mirror jumped. A hairline fracture appeared at the edge.

Liar, he said.

I did not move. I kept my hands behind my back. My fingers were stained with black dust. I had been grinding the stone for three days. I had not slept. I had not eaten. I had only listened. I listened to the stone. I listened to the war. I listened to the screams of the men I had sent to die.

I am a craftsman, I said. I make the glass. I do not make the image.

Aldous grabbed the edge of the mirror. His fingers were white.

I will order your execution, he said.

You may, I said.

He released the glass. He stepped back. He looked at his hands. They were shaking.

Why did you make this? he asked.

Because you asked for a mirror, I said.

He walked to the window. The window looked out over the city. The city was burning. Smoke rose in black columns against the grey sky. The war was not at the borders anymore. It was in the streets. It was in the homes. It was in the marrow of the people.

I am the king, he said. I command the armies.

No, I said. You command the fear.

He turned to me. His face was calm now. Too calm.

Fear is a tool, he said.

Fear is a poison, I said.

He smiled. It was a thin, cold smile.

Then drink it with me.

I did not drink. I watched him. I watched the crack in the mirror widen. A spiderweb of fractures spread from the center. The image of Aldous in the glass shattered into a thousand pieces. Each piece held a different face. One piece showed a child. One piece showed a soldier. One piece showed a corpse.

Aldous stared at the broken glass. He did not see himself. He saw the chaos. He saw the end.

Fix it, he said.

I cannot, I said.

I will order you to fix it.

I cannot, I repeated.

He drew his sword. The steel was old. It was stained with rust and blood. He pointed it at my throat.

I am the king, he said.

You are a man, I said.

He slashed the air. The blade hummed.

I will kill you, he said.

Do it, I said.

He hesitated. The sword trembled in his hand. He looked at the broken mirror. He looked at his own reflection, fractured and scattered. He looked at the smoke rising from the city.

Why? he asked. His voice was small.

Because you are afraid, I said.

He lowered the sword. He did not sheathe it. He held it at his side. His hand was steady again.

I am the shield, he said.

You are the wound, I said.

He walked to the door. He stopped. He looked back at me.

You will stay in the dungeon, he said.

I will stay, I said.

He left. The door closed. The sound was final. A heavy thud.

I looked at the mirror. The cracks were deep. The glass was ready to fall. I picked up a piece. It was sharp. It cut my thumb. A drop of blood fell onto the obsidian. It spread. It turned the black stone red.

I am a craftsman, I thought.

I picked up another piece. And another. I did not try to put them together. I tried to break them further. I smashed the remaining glass against the stone table. It exploded into dust. Black dust.

I swept it into a pile. I swept it into a box. I closed the box.

The room was empty. The candles were still burning. The smoke was still rising.

I walked to the window. I looked out at the city. The fire was growing. It was beautiful. It was terrible. It was real.

I had made the mirror. I had made the truth. And the truth had broken him. Or had it broken me?

I touched my face. My skin was dry. My eyes were tired. I was still here. I was still whole.

But the glass was gone. The image was gone. The king was gone.

I was alone.

I sat on the floor. The cold marble bit into my knees. I closed my eyes. I listened to the silence. It was not empty. It was full. Full of the sound of breaking.

I thought of my hands. They were strong. They had shaped the stone. They had shaped the light. They had shaped the truth.

I thought of the blood on my thumb. It had stopped bleeding. The cut was closed. The skin had healed.

I thought of Aldous. He would come back. He would send his men. He would try to fix the mirror. He would try to fix the world.

But the world is not a mirror. The world is a stone. And stones do not heal.

I opened my eyes. The candle had burned low. The flame flickered. It cast long shadows on the wall. The shadows moved. They looked like hands. They looked like faces.

I stood up. My knees cracked. I walked to the door. I opened it.

The corridor was dark. The air smelled of iron. I walked out.

The guards were waiting. They held their spears. They did not speak. They looked at me with eyes like dead fish.

Take him to the dungeon, one said.

I did not resist. I walked with them. My hands were empty. My mind was empty.

As we walked, I heard a sound. A soft crack. It came from my chest. It came from my heart.

I did not stop. I did not look back.

The dungeon was deep. The stairs were stone. They were wet. I climbed down. The air grew cold. The air grew thick.

At the bottom, there was a cell. It was small. It was dark. It smelled of rot.

The guard threw me in. The door locked. The sound was heavy.

I sat in the dark. I waited.

I thought of the mirror. I thought of the glass. I thought of the king.

I thought of myself.

I was the craftsman. I was the stone. I was the light.

I was the crack.

I closed my eyes. I let the dark take me.

The pain was sharp. It was clear. It was mine.

I held it. I held it tight.

I did not let go.

The silence was loud. It filled the cell. It filled my bones. It filled my soul.

I was alone.

I was free.

The mirror was broken. The king was broken.

And I was still here.

I breathed in. The air was cold. It tasted of dust.

I breathed out.

The darkness waited.

I waited too.

The stone did not move. The light did not shine.

Only the crack remained.

Wide. Deep. Open.

I was the crack.

I was the light.

I was the end.