The rain does not fall. It presses.

It is a cold, gray sheet of water that blurs the world into a smear of mud and stone. You stand in the square. Your boots are heavy. They are soaked through. You do not feel the cold. You only feel the weight.

Look at your hands. They are red. Not with blood. With dye. The crimson stains have eaten into the skin. They are part of you now. You try to scrub them. You fail. The fabric of your tunic is tight. It clings to your ribs like a second skin. It is soaked. The wool is heavy. It drags at your shoulders.

You are the Warden. You are the Law. The Law is the gray stone tower behind you. The Law is the silence.

The crowd is gone. They ran when the bell rang. They always run. They do not look. To look is to be complicit. To look is to share the stain. You do not look at the square. You look at the gate. The iron gate is rusted. It creaks.

A boy is there.

He is small. He is wet. He holds a sword. The blade is dull. It is not sharp enough to cut. It is not sharp enough to save. He stands in the center of the square. He is alone.

You know him. You know his mother. She bakes the bread for the garrison. She has flour on her apron. She smiles at you. She smiles at the wall. She does not smile at the boy. Not anymore.

The boy raises the sword. It is a child’s toy. It is made of wood. He points it at you.

You do not move. You cannot move. Your legs are lead. Your heart is stone. You are the system. The system does not tremble. The system does not break. But you are not the system. You are the man in the wet tunic. You are the man with the red hands.

The boy shouts. His voice is thin. It cuts the air. He shouts your name. He shouts the name of the father you buried. The name of the son you never had.

You step forward. One step. The mud sucks at your boot.

He steps back. He is afraid. You can see it. The fear is in his eyes. It is the same fear you feel. It is the fear of being seen.

The tower watches. The windows are dark. The eyes of the Law are blind. They see only order. They do not see pain.

You reach for your sword. It is at your hip. It is heavy. It is cold. You draw it. The steel sings. It is a high, clear note. It is the only beautiful sound in this gray world.

The boy raises his wooden stick. He swings. It hits your chest. It hurts. Not much. It is a thud. A dull, dead sound.

You do not drop. You do not fall. You stand.

He swings again. And again. The wood cracks against your armor. Your armor is not metal. It is belief. It is duty. It is the lie that keeps the walls standing.

You see the crack. It is in your chest. It is in the tunic. The red dye spreads. It runs down your neck. It runs into your mouth. You taste iron. You taste salt.

You are bleeding.

The boy is crying. His face is wet. You cannot tell if it is rain or tears. It does not matter.

You look at him. You look deep into his eyes. You see yourself. You see the man you were before the dye. You see the man who loved his mother. You see the man who could have been free.

The stick hits you again. It hits your face. Your eye swells. The world goes black on one side. The other side is gray.

You are the Warden. You must hold the line. If you fall, the wall falls. If the wall falls, the monsters come. The monsters are not outside. The monsters are inside. The monsters are in the silence. The monsters are in the order.

You raise your sword. You do not swing. You hold it. You let the rain wash over it. The water runs off the blade. It runs onto the ground. It pools around your feet.

The boy stops. He is panting. He looks at you. He expects you to strike. He expects death. He expects justice.

You lower your sword.

You sheathe it.

The click of the scabbard is loud. It echoes in the square. The rain stops. For a moment, the air is still.

The boy stares. His mouth is open. He does not understand. The Law does not yield. The Law does not forgive. The Law is absolute.

But you are not the Law. You are the man.

You take off your tunic. It is stiff with dried blood and rain. You hold it out. You offer it to him.

He steps back. He thinks you are mad. He thinks it is a trick. The Warden always has a trick. The Warden always has a cage.

You do not speak. You cannot speak. Your throat is tight. Your voice is gone. You have used it up. You have used it on the walls. You have used it on the dead.

You hold the tunic up. The red stain is bright. It is like a wound. It is like a heart.

He looks at the fabric. He looks at you. He sees the fear. He sees the defeat. He sees the end.

He steps forward. He takes the tunic. It is heavy. It is warm. It smells of iron and wool and you.

He wraps it around his shoulders. It is too big. It drags on the ground.

You are naked. The air is cold. You shiver. It is the first time you have felt cold in years. It is a shock. It is a relief.

You look up. The tower is still there. It is gray. It is silent. It is watching. But you are no longer part of it. You are separate. You are alone.

The boy runs. He runs into the dark. He does not look back. He is gone.

You stand in the square. You are naked. You are wet. You are free.

The rain starts again. It is gentle now. It is soft. It washes the mud from your feet. It washes the gray from the stones.

You look at your hands. The red is gone. The skin is pale. It is clean.

You look at the tower. You see the door. The heavy oak door is open. It has been open for a long time. No one has entered. No one has left. It is a mouth. It is a throat.

You walk toward it. Your feet are bare. The stones are cold. You feel every crack. You feel every edge.

You enter the tower. The dark is thick. It presses against your skin. You climb the stairs. They are steep. They are spiral. They go up and up.

You climb until your lungs burn. You climb until your legs give out. You drag yourself to the top.

There is a room. It is empty. There is a window. It looks out over the city. The city is gray. The city is dead.

There is a table. On the table is a sword. It is the same sword you carried. It is the same sword that was yours. It is the same sword that was the Law.

You look at it. You reach for it. Your hand shakes. You touch the hilt. It is cold. It is smooth. It is perfect.

You pick it up. It is heavy. It is familiar. It is you.

You hold it up. You look at the blade. You see your reflection. You see the red stain. It is back. It is on your face. It is in your eyes.

You cannot put it down. You cannot leave it. You are the Warden. You are the Law. You are the stain.

You sit on the floor. You hold the sword. You close your eyes.

The rain hammers the roof. It is a drum. It is a heartbeat. It is the end.

You are not the man who killed the boy. You are the man who saved him. You are not the man who built the wall. You are the man who broke it.

But the wall is still there. The stain is still there.

You are the dust. You are the faded dust. You are the thing that remains when the fire is out. You are the ash.

You do not move. You do not breathe. You are still.

The light comes through the window. It is gray. It is soft. It touches your face.

You are gone.