The seal broke.

It was not a sound. It was a sensation. A cold pressure behind the eyes. I held the parchment. The ink was black. The lines were straight.

I am the Warden.

I stand in the hall. The stone is old. The torches burn low. The air smells of wax and sweat.

I am thirty years old. My hands are steady. They have always been steady. I am the law. I am the order. I hold the key.

The door opens.

A man enters. He is tall. He wears gray. His face is blank. He is me. Not my twin. Not my brother. He is the shape of me. He is the echo.

He carries a box.

He does not speak. He places the box on the table. He leaves.

I look at the box. It is small. It is wooden. It has no lock.

I open it.

Inside is a quill.

It is black. It is dry. It is sharp.

I pick it up.

It is light. It is cold.

I feel a pull. A deep, primal tug in the chest. It is not fear. It is hunger. I want to write. I want to end things.

I put the quill back.

I close the box.

I turn away.

The hall is empty. The shadows are long.

I go to the office.

I sit at the desk. The papers are stacked. High. White. Silent.

I take a sheet.

I do not write.

I stare at the blank page.

The quill is in the box. The box is in the room.

I cannot stop looking at it.

Day two.

The man in gray returns.

He stands in the corner. He watches. He does not move.

I work. I sign orders. I judge. I condemn.

My hand moves. It is automatic. It is precise.

The man smiles. It is a thin smile. It is my smile.

I feel a drop of sweat on my neck.

I look at the box. It is on the table.

I do not touch it.

Day three.

The hall is crowded.

People wait. They are afraid. They look at me. They see the judge. They see the wall.

I hear a whisper.

*Break.*

It is in my head. It is in the air.

The man in gray is gone.

I feel the absence. It is worse than his presence.

I go to the box.

I open it.

The quill is there.

I take it.

It fits my hand. It feels like an extension of my finger. It feels like a bone.

I feel power. It is sharp. It is clean.

I want to write a new law. I want to erase the old ones. I want to burn the book.

I do not do it.

I put the quill down.

I wipe my hand.

I go back to the desk.

The papers are there.

I sign.

Day four.

The night is dark.

The wind howls outside. The castle is old. It groans.

I am alone.

The man in gray is there.

He sits in the chair across from me.

He looks tired. He looks broken.

I look at him.

I see my future.

I see the end.

He holds up the quill.

He does not speak.

I understand.

The law is a cage.

I am the jailer.

I am also the prisoner.

The quill is the key.

Or the knife.

I do not know which.

I reach out.

My hand shakes.

I take the quill.

I hold it tight.

I feel the instinct. It is wild. It is strong. It is love. It is hate. It is the need to make things true.

I look at the box.

I look at the man.

I look at the door.

I stand up.

I walk to the door.

I open it.

The night is cold.

The stars are bright.

I step out.

The air hits my face.

It is sharp.

I look at the quill.

I throw it.

It flies.

It lands in the mud.

I walk away.

The man in gray vanishes.

The box is empty.

I am alone.

I am free.

I am not free.

I am the law.

I return to the hall.

The torches are out.

The dark is total.

I find my way by memory.

I sit at the desk.

The papers are there.

I pick up my pen.

I write.

The words come. They are hard. They are cold.

I judge.

I condemn.

I am the Warden.

The truth is delayed.

I see it now.

The system does not care about justice.

It cares about order.

It cares about the shape of things.

I am the shape.

I am the mirror.

I am defeated.

I accept it.

The pain is inside me.

It is heavy.

It is real.

I cannot stop.

I will not stop.

The quill is in the mud.

The box is empty.

I am full.

I am the cause.

I am the ideal.

I am the lie.

The story ends.

The door closes.

The stone is cold.

The night is long.

I am here.

I am the Warden.

The seal is broken.

The ink is dry.

The end.