The iron bit tasted of blood.

It was not the sweet red of life. It was the cold, metallic tang of old machinery. Thomas Ashworth spat into the mud. His knees locked. The horse beneath him, a vast grey beast named Barnaby, shuddered. They were in the street. No, not a street. A throat. The city of Oakhaven was a throat and the citizens were the teeth.

They were coming.

The Wardens wore their coats of polished chrome. It reflected the rain. It reflected the fear. It reflected the golden chain around Thomas’s neck.

He looked down.

The chain was heavy. It was gold. It did not tarnish. It did not rust. It hummed against his skin like a live wire. It was the only warm thing in the world.

“Run,” said a voice.

It was not a human voice. It was the voice of the rain hitting the cobblestones. It was the voice of the wind in the ruins. It was the voice of his mother, dead these ten years, still echoing in the wet bones of the city.

Thomas pulled the reins. Barnaby screamed.

The Wardens raised their batons. The batons were long. They were black. They were silent until they struck.

One struck Barnaby’s flank. The horse bucked. Thomas was thrown. He hit the ground. The impact was a thunderclap in his skull.

He rolled.

He scrambled.

The golden chain tangled around his ankle. He yanked it free. It cut deep. He did not feel it.

He ran.

He ran through the alleyways. The walls were high. The walls were covered in graffiti. The graffiti was red. The graffiti was old.

He ran until his lungs burned.

He ran until the city blurred.

He stopped.

He was in the Square.

The Square was empty.

The Square was full of statues.

The statues were stone.

The statues were men.

The statues were women.

The statues were children.

They all wore chains.

They all had their heads bowed.

They all looked peaceful.

Thomas looked at them.

He looked at his own hands.

They were shaking.

He looked at the chain.

It was glowing.

A soft, pulsing light.

Like a heartbeat.

He touched it.

It was warm.

He remembered.

He remembered the day it was put on him.

He was seven.

The Wardens came to his house.

His mother was in the kitchen.

She was making bread.

The dough was white.

The flour was dust.

The air was thick.

“Thomas,” she said.

Her voice was calm.

It was the calm of deep water.

It was the calm before the storm.

“Go to the cellar,” she said.

“No,” he said.

“Go.”

He went.

He sat in the dark.

He heard the door break.

He heard the shouts.

He heard the click of the mechanism.

He heard his mother breathe.

It was a long breath.

It was a final breath.

Then, silence.

Then, the click.

Then, the weight.

They put the chain on him.

They said it was a gift.

They said it was a mark of distinction.

They said it would keep him safe.

They lied.

It was a brand.

It was a cage.

It was a curse.

The city was built on the curse.

The Wardens were the keepers of the curse.

The people were the fuel of the curse.

Thomas stood up.

He walked to the center of the Square.

The statues watched.

They did not blink.

They did not move.

They were stone.

But their eyes were gold.

The same gold as the chain.

Thomas looked at the nearest statue.

It was a man.

He had a scar on his cheek.

The scar was golden.

Thomas looked at the next statue.

A woman.

A scar on her throat.

Golden.

The next.

A child.

A scar on the forehead.

Golden.

They were all marked.

They were all trapped.

They were all silent.

Thomas looked at the chain on his neck.

It was tightening.

Not physically.

Metaphysically.

It was tightening around his soul.

He tried to pull it off.

He pulled.

The chain did not move.

He pulled harder.

His neck bent.

His head tilted back.

The sky was grey.

The rain was cold.

The chain was warm.

He stopped.

He breathed.

The breath was ragged.

The breath was loud.

The Wardens were coming.

He could hear their boots.

The sound was rhythmic.

The sound was inevitable.

They were close.

Very close.

Thomas looked at the statues again.

He looked at the child.

The child had a sad face.

The child’s eyes were closed.

The child was dreaming.

Thomas knew what the child was dreaming of.

The child was dreaming of freedom.

The child was dreaming of a world without chains.

The child was dreaming of his mother.

Thomas felt a pain in his chest.

It was sharp.

It was bright.

It was the pain of recognition.

He recognized the child.

The child was him.

The child was his past.

The child was his sin.

He had not escaped.

He had never escaped.

He was part of the cycle.

He was part of the stone.

He was part of the city.

The Wardens emerged from the fog.

There were five of them.

They wore their chrome coats.

They held their black batons.

The leader stepped forward.

His face was hidden by a mask.

The mask was smooth.

The mask was featureless.

He raised his hand.

A signal.

The other Wardens raised their batons.

Thomas stood still.

He did not run.

He did not fight.

He looked at the chain.

He looked at the golden light.

He understood.

The chain was not a prison.

The chain was a bridge.

It connected him to the others.

It connected him to his mother.

It connected him to the city.

It connected him to the truth.

The truth was that there was no escape.

The truth was that the pain was the purpose.

The truth was that the loop was eternal.

The leader struck.

The baton hit the ground.

The sound was a crack.

The sound was a break.

Thomas did not flinch.

He closed his eyes.

He opened his mouth.

He did not scream.

He sang.

It was a low note.

It was a deep note.

It was the note of the earth.

It was the note of the stone.

It was the note of the chain.

The sound filled the Square.

The sound filled the city.

The sound filled the sky.

The Wardens froze.

The batons lowered.

The leader tilted his head.

The mask cracked.

A tiny fissure.

A line of light.

Gold.

The leader stepped back.

He lowered his hand.

He turned.

He walked away.

The other Wardens followed.

They disappeared into the fog.

They disappeared into the past.

They disappeared into the stone.

Thomas stood alone.

The rain stopped.

The sun broke through the clouds.

It was a pale sun.

It was a weak sun.

It was a dying sun.

It shone on the chain.

The chain blazed.

The light was blinding.

The light was beautiful.

Thomas fell to his knees.

He touched the ground.

The ground was warm.

The ground was alive.

He looked at his hands.

They were no longer shaking.

They were still.

They were stone.

He looked at the statues.

They were no longer silent.

They were breathing.

They were moving.

They were turning.

They were looking at him.

They were smiling.

It was a sad smile.

It was a knowing smile.

It was a final smile.

Thomas looked at the sky.

The sky was gold.

The clouds were gold.

The light was gold.

He was inside the light.

He was part of the light.

He was the light.

The pain was gone.

The fear was gone.

The self was gone.

Only the chain remained.

Only the gold remained.

Only the eternal loop remained.

He closed his eyes.

He waited.

He knew what would happen next.

The Wardens would come again.

The batons would strike again.

The blood would flow again.

The song would rise again.

The stone would form again.

The loop would close again.

It was the only way.

It was the only truth.

It was the only peace.

Thomas Ashworth became the statue.

He joined the others.

He joined the city.

He joined the silence.

The golden scar on his forehead remained.

It glowed in the dark.

It glowed in the rain.

It glowed in the sun.

It glowed forever.

The cycle continued.

The city breathed.

The stone remembered.

The gold endured.