The feast hall smells of roasted boar and wet wool. You sit at the high table. The wood is cold under your palms. You are a soldier. Your armor is polished steel. It reflects the firelight. You do not look at the mirrors. You look at the people. They are watching you. Their eyes are hard. They see the mark on your face. They see the scar from the border war. They whisper. You hear them. The noise is a low hum. It vibrates in your teeth.

You are here for the King. You are here to serve. But the King is gone. The throne is empty. The court is in chaos. You are the last of the old guard. The new men do not trust you. They call you a relic. A broken thing. You keep your head down. You eat the bread. It is dry. You drink the ale. It is bitter.

A girl walks in. She is small. She wears a dress of grey wool. It is plain. She has no jewelry. She holds a basket. It is empty. She looks at you. Her eyes are dark. They are deep. She does not blink. She walks to the center of the room. The crowd goes silent. The hum stops. The silence is heavy. It presses against your eardrums.

She speaks. Her voice is quiet. It cuts through the air. She says your name. She knows your name. She says you are not who you think you are. She says you are a ghost. She says you died ten years ago. You did not die. You are here. You are breathing. You are alive. But she says you are a shadow. A copy. A mistake.

You stand up. The chair scrapes against the floor. The sound is loud. Everyone looks at you. The new men draw their swords. The steel shines. It is bright. It is sharp. They are afraid of you. They are angry. They want to prove you are a threat. They want to destroy the lie.

You do not draw your sword. You reach for your cloak. It is heavy. It is red. It is lined with fur. You pull it over your shoulders. You feel the weight. It is familiar. It is yours. Or is it? You have worn it for years. You have bled into it. You have slept in it. It is part of you. But the girl says it is not. She says it belongs to the dead.

You walk toward the door. The guards block your path. They stand in a line. Their spears are raised. The points glint in the firelight. You stop. You look at the girl. She is still in the center. She is watching you. She does not move. She does not speak. She waits.

You push past the first guard. He swings his spear. You duck. The metal whizzes past your ear. You feel the wind. It is cold. You grab his arm. You twist. The spear falls. The guard falls. He crashes to the floor. He does not get up. You push past the second guard. He punches you. The fist hits your jaw. You taste blood. The taste is copper. It is real. You are real. You swing your arm. You hit him in the chest. He flies back. He hits the wall. He slides down. He is unconscious.

You are at the door. You push it open. The night air hits you. It is cold. It is sharp. It smells of rain. It smells of earth. It smells of death. You step out. The gate is locked. The iron is cold. You pull. It does not move. You pull again. Your muscles burn. Your back aches. You are strong. You are tired. You are old.

The girl is behind you. She walks slowly. She does not run. She does not hurry. She walks with purpose. She walks with certainty. She comes to the gate. She places her hand on the iron. The iron is warm. It is hot. You feel the heat. It seeps through your gloves. You look at her. She looks at you. She smiles. It is a small smile. It is sad. It is kind.

The gate opens. It swings wide. There is no sound. There is no creak. It just moves. It moves like water. It moves like smoke. You step through. The world changes. The air is different. The light is different. The colors are different. You are in a field. The grass is green. It is tall. It sways in the wind. The sky is grey. The clouds are low. They are heavy. They are close.

You are alone. The girl is gone. The gate is gone. The feast hall is gone. You are in the field. You are in the grass. You are in the wind. You feel the grass under your feet. It is soft. It is damp. It is alive. You look down at your hands. They are shaking. You look at your armor. It is still there. The steel is still shiny. The red cloak is still heavy. But it feels wrong. It feels heavy. It feels like a cage.

You take off your helmet. The metal is cold against your skin. You take off your gauntlets. Your fingers are stiff. They are pale. You take off your breastplate. The leather straps cut into your skin. You take off your greaves. Your legs are bare. They are thin. They are weak. You are not a soldier. You are a man. You are a body. You are flesh.

You sit in the grass. The wind blows. It cools your sweat. It dries your blood. You breathe. The air is sweet. It is clean. It is free. You close your eyes. You feel the sun. It is warm. It is gentle. It is kind. You feel the earth. It is solid. It is real. It is yours.

You remember the girl. You remember her eyes. You remember her voice. You remember the silence. You remember the fear. You remember the violence. You remember the pain. You remember the truth. You were not a soldier. You were a memory. You were a story. You were a lie. The court was a dream. The King was a ghost. The war was a nightmare. You were trapped in a loop. You were trapped in a role. You were trapped in a name.

You were free. But freedom is painful. Freedom is cold. Freedom is lonely. You have no rank. You have no duty. You have no purpose. You have no history. You have no future. You are here. You are now. You are alone.

You stand up. Your legs tremble. You walk. You do not know where you are going. You do not know where you are. You walk through the grass. The grass parts around you. It does not resist. It accepts you. You walk into the fog. The fog is thick. It is white. It is soft. It erases the world. It erases you.

You walk. You walk. You walk. The wind blows. The clouds move. The light changes. You are not a hero. You are not a villain. You are not a ghost. You are a person. You are a body. You are a soul. You are free.

The fog lifts. You are in a village. It is small. It is quiet. The houses are stone. The roofs are thatch. The streets are empty. No one is there. No one is watching. No one is judging. You walk through the village. You pass a well. The water is clear. You pass a church. The door is open. The candles are out. The pews are empty. You pass a market. The stalls are bare. The baskets are empty.

You are in a town. It is larger. It is busier. There are people. They are walking. They are talking. They are living. They do not look at you. They do not whisper. They do not fear you. You are just a man. You are just a body. You are just a soul.

You stop. You are in a square. There is a fountain. The water is clear. You look into it. You see your face. It is old. It is tired. It is scarred. It is real. You are not the soldier. You are not the ghost. You are the man. You are the one who was lost. You are the one who was found.

You take off your red cloak. You leave it on the ground. You leave it in the dirt. You leave it in the rain. You leave it behind. You walk away. You walk into the crowd. You walk into the life. You walk into the future.

The sun sets. The sky is orange. The sky is red. The sky is dark. You walk. The streetlights come on. They are yellow. They are warm. They are bright. You walk. The shadows lengthen. The shadows deepen. You walk. The night falls. The night is quiet. The night is still. You are still. You are quiet. You are free.

You do not look back. You do not remember the name. You do not remember the war. You do not remember the girl. You do not remember the feast. You do not remember the steel. You do not remember the blood. You do not remember the pain. You do not remember the fear. You do not remember the lie.

You are here. You are now. You are free. The wind blows. The rain falls. The earth turns. You walk. You breathe. You live. You are alive. You are real. You are free.

The price of freedom is silence. The price of truth is pain. The price of life is death. You pay the price. You pay it all. You pay it now. You pay it always. You walk. You walk. You walk. The road is long. The road is dark. The road is yours. You walk. You walk. You walk. You are free. You are free. You are free.