The ink was wet. It bled into the parchment like a wound.

Garrick sat in the high tower. The stone was cold. It bit through his tunic. He did not move. He watched the rain. It fell on the moor. The moor was black. The moor was still.

He held the staff. It was yew. It was dry. It was light. He had held it for forty years. His fingers were white. They were thin. The wood wore a groove where his thumb rested. That groove was deep. It was smooth. It was him.

The door creaked.

It opened.

Lord Thorne entered. He was tall. He was red. His face was a map of anger. He wore steel. It clinked. He did not bow.

"You are late, Garrick," Thorne said.

His voice was sharp. It cut the air.

"I am here," Garrick said.

His voice was low. It was tired.

"You are old," Thorne said.

He stepped forward. The rain dripped from his cloak. It pooled on the flagstones. It darkened.

"I know," Garrick said.

He did not look up. He looked at the staff. He looked at the groove.

"Your time is done," Thorne said.

The words hung. They were heavy. They were iron.

"The King wants the staff," Thorne said.

"The King wants the magic," Garrick said.

"The King wants the power," Thorne said.

He stopped. He was close. He smelled of iron. He smelled of sweat. He smelled of fear.

"Give it to me," Thorne said.

Garrick did not move.

"You are a soldier," Thorne said. "You serve the Crown. You serve the Law. You do not serve the trees."

"I serve the land," Garrick said.

"The land is dead," Thorne said. "The land is sick. The magic is a poison. It rots the soil. It blights the grain. The people are hungry. The people are afraid."

Garrick lifted his head. His eyes were grey. They were deep. They held the rain.

"The magic is life," Garrick said.

"It is chaos," Thorne said. "It is wild. It must be tamed. It must be controlled. It must be put in the King's hand."

Thorne reached out. His hand was gloved. The leather was black. It was tight.

"Give it to me, old man. Or I will take it. And I will break your arm."

Garrick looked at the staff.

The yew wood pulsed. It was faint. It was warm. It was a heartbeat.

He felt it. He felt it in his bones. He felt it in his blood. He felt it in his breath.

He did not want to give it. He wanted to keep it. He wanted to protect it. He wanted to hide it. He wanted to bury it. He wanted to run.

But he was old. His knees ached. His back was bent. His hands shook.

He looked at Thorne. Thorne looked at him.

There was no love in Thorne’s eyes. There was no hate. There was only duty. There was only fear.

Garrick understood.

Thorne was not evil. Thorne was afraid. Thorne thought he was saving the world. Thorne thought he was saving the people.

Garrick smiled. It was a small smile. It was sad.

"You are right," Garrick said.

Thorne frowned. "What?"

"The King needs the power," Garrick said. "The King needs the control. The King needs the order."

Garrick stood up. He was slow. His joints cracked. He was stiff. He was old.

He held the staff with both hands. He felt the warmth. He felt the life. He felt the wind in the leaves. He felt the rain in the soil. He felt the roots in the earth.

He felt the end.

He looked at Thorne.

"Take it," Garrick said.

Thorne hesitated. He looked at the door. He looked at the window. He looked at Garrick.

"Are you sure?" Thorne asked.

Garrick nodded.

Thorne stepped forward. He took the staff.

His hands were strong. His grip was firm.

Garrick let go.

The moment his fingers left the wood, the cold rushed in. It was sudden. It was violent. It was absolute.

The staff went dark. The pulse stopped. The warmth died. It was just wood. It was just dead wood.

Garrick fell to his knees.

He gasped. He coughed. Blood spattered the stone. It was red. It was bright.

Thorne held the staff. He looked at it. He looked at Garrick.

"It is dead," Thorne said.

His voice was flat. It was confused.

"It is only wood," Thorne said.

He shook it. He struck it against the floor. It made a dull sound. It was hollow. It was empty.

"The magic is gone," Thorne said.

He looked at Garrick. "Did you kill it?"

Garrick did not answer. He could not answer. He was breathing. It was hard. It was wet.

Thorne looked at the staff. He looked at the King’s seal on the hilt. He looked at the dead wood.

He felt nothing.

He felt no power. He felt no magic. He felt no life.

He felt only weight.

He looked at Garrick. Garrick looked at the window. The rain was still falling. The moor was still black.

But the moor was silent.

The birds were gone. The wind was gone. The roots were gone.

The land was still. The land was empty.

Thorne walked to the door. He held the staff. He held it like a club. He held it like a sword.

"Come," Thorne said.

Garrick did not move.

"Come," Thorne said.

He turned. He left. The door closed. The lock clicked. The sound was loud. The sound was final.

Garrick was alone.

He was on the floor. The stone was cold. The blood was warm.

He looked at his hands. They were empty. They were bare. They were clean.

He felt nothing.

He had expected pain. He had expected anger. He had expected grief.

He felt nothing.

He looked at the window. The rain stopped. The clouds broke. The sun came out. It was pale. It was weak. It was thin.

It lit the room. It lit the blood. It lit the empty hands.

Garrick stood up. He was slow. He was steady.

He walked to the window. He opened it. The air came in. It was dry. It was cold. It was dead.

He breathed it in. He breathed it out.

He looked at the moor. The moor was grey. The moor was flat. The moor was empty.

He had saved the people. He had saved the King. He had saved the law.

He had killed the world.

He closed the window. The latch clicked.

He sat down. He sat in the chair. He sat in the silence.

He was old. He was tired. He was done.

He did not write. He did not speak. He did not move.

He sat.

He waited.

The sun moved. The light changed. The shadows lengthened. The shadows swallowed the room. The shadows swallowed him.

He was gone.

He was not there.

The staff was in the King’s hand. The King held the power. The King held the order. The King held the silence.

The land was safe. The land was quiet. The land was dead.

And Garrick sat in the dark. He held nothing. He was nothing. He was free.

He was free.

The rain came again. It fell on the moor. It fell on the stone. It fell on the dead.

It did not wash away. It did not clean. It did not heal.

It just fell.

It just fell.

It just fell.