The hand is gone.

You remember the weight of it. The calluses. The way the knuckles swollen like old fruit. Now there is only the sleeve. Empty. You pull it back. You look at the stump. It is red. It is raw. It is yours.

The castle breathes. Stone breathes. Cold air seeps through the cracks in the floor. You sit on the chair. Your legs do not work right. They shake. You are a soldier. You are the King’s man. You are the fist of the realm. But the fist is broken.

Thomas stands in the doorway. He is tall. He is thin. He is your friend. He has been your friend for ten years. You fought together. You bled together. You drank the same wine. Now he looks at you. His eyes are wide. They are wet. He does not speak. He cannot speak. The secret is too heavy. It sits in his throat like a stone.

“Look,” he says. His voice is a rasp. “Look at him.”

You look.

The Duke is there. Duke Edward Ashworth. He sits at the high table. He eats. He eats with his hands. He does not use forks. He is fat. He is red. He laughs. He laughs at a joke. You do not hear the joke. You only hear the sound of his jaw chewing. The grease runs down his chin. He is alive. He is whole.

You feel a heat in your chest. It is anger. It is hot. It is bright. You want to kill him. You want to tear him apart. You want to make him feel the pain you feel. You want to show him the empty sleeve.

But you cannot move.

The room spins. The candles flicker. The shadows stretch. They are long. They are black. They reach for you.

“Who are you?” Thomas asks.

You do not know.

You try to remember. You try to grab the memory. It slips. It is like water. It is like smoke.

You were the guard. You were the watcher. You stood by the door. You held the door. You watched the Duke sleep. You watched the Duke wake. You watched the Duke eat. You were the wall. You were the stone.

But now you are the hole.

“You hit him,” Thomas whispers.

You shake your head. No. You did not hit him. You did not touch him. You were far away. You were in the courtyard. You were watching the rain.

But your hand is gone.

“Tell me,” Thomas says. “Tell me what you saw.”

“I saw nothing.”

“You saw everything.”

He steps closer. His face is pale. His lips are blue. He is cold. You are cold. The fire in the hearth is dying. It makes a low sound. A moan. A cry.

“Who did it?” you ask.

Thomas looks at the floor. He looks at your empty sleeve. He looks at your face. He sees the truth in your eyes. He knows. He has always known.

“It was me,” he says.

The sound stops. The air stops. Time stops.

It was him.

Thomas. Your brother in arms. Your shadow. Your mirror.

He did it.

He came to you. He asked for your hand. He asked you to hold the knife. You held it. You thought you were only holding a knife. You did not know what it was for. You did not know who it was for.

You were blind.

You were proud.

You were the weapon.

Now you are the rust.

“I was wrong,” Thomas says. His voice breaks. It is a small sound. A bird dying. “I was wrong to trust you. I was wrong to trust anyone.”

“You used me.”

“I saved us.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He takes a step. He is close now. You can smell him. He smells of sweat. He smells of fear. He smells of the old world. The world of honor. The world of blood.

“We were going to be kings,” he says. “We were going to rule. But he was in the way. He was always in the way. He was the stone in the shoe. He was the thorn in the flesh.”

You close your eyes. You see the night. You see the room. You see the Duke in his bed. You see the knife in your hand. You see the light. You see the dark.

You did not see the face.

You did not see the name.

You only saw the duty.

“You killed him,” you say.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he was evil.”

“Was he?”

Thomas laughs. It is a dry laugh. It is a hollow laugh. “Who decides? The King? The Pope? The Duke? We decide. We are the law. We are the order. We are the sword.”

You open your eyes. You look at him. He is beautiful. He is terrible. He is you.

He is the part of you that wanted to rule. The part of you that wanted to be free. The part of you that hated the chains.

He took that part. He cut it out. And he gave it to the Duke.

And the Duke ate it.

The Duke is still eating. He is still laughing. He is still whole.

You feel the pain in your shoulder. It is a sharp pain. It is a clean pain. It is a truth.

“You should have told me,” you say.

“I couldn’t.”

“You lied to me.”

“I loved you.”

The words hang in the air. They are heavy. They are thick. They are like mud.

You hate him.

You love him.

You want to kill him.

You cannot kill him.

You have no hand.

You have no power.

You have no voice.

Thomas reaches out. He touches your face. His fingers are cold. They are rough. They are like the stones outside.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I know.”

He steps back. He walks to the door. He opens it. The wind blows in. It is cold. It is wild. It is free.

He leaves.

You are alone.

The candles burn. The shadows dance. The Duke eats.

You look at your sleeve. You pull it up. You look at the stump. It is healing. It is scarring. It is becoming part of you.

It is your identity.

It is your curse.

You know now.

You know what you are.

You are the witness.

You are the one who saw.

You are the one who knew.

And you are the one who said nothing.

The silence is loud.

The silence is heavy.

The silence is alive.

You stand up. Your legs hold. You walk to the window. The glass is cold. You press your face against it. You look out.

The moon is full.

The moon is white.

The moon is watching.

It sees your empty sleeve.

It sees your broken face.

It sees your hollow eyes.

It sees the truth.

And it does not care.

You are the stone.

You are the wall.

You are the silence.

And the silence is the loudest sound in the world.

The Duke finishes his meal. He wipes his mouth. He looks at you. He smiles. He knows. He always knows. He knows you are the one who held the knife. He knows you are the one who stayed silent. He knows you are the one who paid the price.

He raises his cup. He drinks. He toasts you.

You do not toast back.

You have nothing to say.

You have nothing to give.

You have nothing to keep.

You sit down. You close your eyes. You listen to the blood in your ears. It is a drum. It is a beat. It is a pulse.

It is your life.

It is your death.

It is your story.

And the story ends here.

Not with a bang.

Not with a whimper.

But with a hand.

An empty hand.

A hand that held the truth.

A hand that let it go.

The night is long.

The night is dark.

The night is yours.