The road was red. It was not blood, but clay. It was the color of dried skin. We walked. My feet bled. The mud sucked at my heels. It was a cold day. The wind bit. It smelled of iron and rot. I was alone. Or so I thought. The village was behind me. It was gone. I had left it at dawn. I had not looked back. I could not.

I carried a lantern. It was brass. It was tarnished. The glass was cracked. Inside, the flame did not flicker. It was steady. It was blue. It did not burn oil. It burned something else. I did not know what. I did not ask. I was a servant of the light. That was my job. I was to keep it alive. I was to keep it bright. I was to keep it pure.

The forest began. The trees were tall. They were black. They had no leaves. They stood like sentinels. They watched me. I felt their eyes. I felt their judgment. I kept my head down. I kept my eyes on the path. The path was narrow. It was steep. It was hard.

I saw a figure. It was a woman. She wore gray. Her face was hidden. She stood by a tree. She did not move. She did not speak. She just watched. I walked past. I did not stop. I knew the rule. Do not stop. Do not speak. Do not look. The lantern was heavy. It pulled at my shoulder. It burned cold.

The air grew thick. It was like wet wool. I breathed in. It tasted of dust. I breathed out. It tasted of fear. My heart beat fast. It was a drum. It was a warning. I ignored it. I had trained for this. I had prepared for this. I was ready. I was strong. I was the vessel. I was the keeper.

I reached a clearing. It was round. It was empty. In the center, there was a stone. It was black. It was smooth. It was cold. I stopped. I set down the lantern. The blue light illuminated the stone. The light made the stone glow. It was a deep, dark blue. It was beautiful. It was terrible.

I knelt. I placed my hands on the stone. I felt the cold. It seeped into my bones. It seeped into my blood. I felt the presence. It was there. It was waiting. It was hungry. I opened my mouth. I spoke the words. They were old words. They were hard words. They tasted of ash.

The stone pulsed. The light flared. It was blinding. It was white. It was silence. I felt the power. It was immense. It was absolute. It was mine. I was the source. I was the fire. I was the truth. I felt a surge of joy. It was a sharp, bright joy. It was the joy of purpose. It was the joy of being needed.

Then, the joy faded. The light dimmed. The stone was cold again. The air was still. I stood up. My legs shook. I felt empty. I felt hollow. I looked at the lantern. The glass was broken. The flame was gone. It was just a wick. It was just brass. It was just a object.

I felt a pain. It was in my chest. It was a sharp, stabbing pain. I touched my heart. It was beating. It was slow. It was weak. I looked at my hands. They were shaking. They were pale. They were not my hands. They were the hands of a tool. They were the hands of a servant.

I remembered the village. I remembered the people. They had looked at me with fear. They had looked at me with respect. They had given me the lantern. They had given me the task. They had made me a saint. They had made me a monster. I had accepted. I had wanted it. I had craved it. I had needed to be the light. I had needed to be the fire.

But the fire was not me. The light was not me. I was the wick. I was the fuel. I was the ash.

I looked at the stone. It was dark. It was empty. It was nothing. I had fed it. I had given it my self. I had given it my soul. And it had taken it. It had eaten it. It had left me with nothing.

I felt a rage. It was cold. It was quiet. It was a rage that did not shout. It was a rage that did not scream. It was a rage that simply was. I wanted to break the stone. I wanted to break the lantern. I wanted to break myself.

But I could not. I was bound. I was tied. I was bound by duty. I was bound by love. I loved the light. I loved the purpose. I loved the role. I was obsessed. I was mad. I was a devotee. I was a fool.

I picked up the lantern. It was cold. It was dead. I held it in my hands. I held it tight. I squeezed it. The brass was sharp. It cut my fingers. Blood ran. It was red. It was bright. It was the only color left.

I looked at the blood. I looked at the stone. I looked at the trees. I looked at the sky. The sky was gray. It was blank. It was indifferent.

I understood. I had been looking for the light. I had been chasing the flame. I had been seeking the truth. But the truth was not in the stone. The truth was not in the light. The truth was in the dark. The truth was in the silence. The truth was in the absence.

I had tried to be the light. I had tried to be the fire. I had tried to be the sun. But I was just a person. I was just a woman. I was just a vessel. And vessels break.

I let go of the lantern. It fell. It made a small sound. It was a dull thud. It was the sound of ending. It was the sound of failure. It was the sound of truth.

I stood there. I was alone. I was cold. I was afraid. But I was real. I was present. I was here.

I walked away. I did not look back. I did not need to. The stone was behind me. The village was behind me. The past was behind me.

I walked into the forest. The trees were still. The wind was still. The world was still.

I walked. My feet bled. The mud sucked at my heels. It was a cold day. The wind bit. It smelled of iron and rot.

I was alone. I was truly alone.

And it was enough.

It was not the golden ritual. It was not the holy fire. It was not the divine light. It was just a walk. It was just a life. It was just a self.

I did not miss the light. I did not miss the power. I did not miss the purpose. I was tired of being the light. I was tired of being the fire. I was tired of being the truth.

I wanted to be the dark. I wanted to be the shadow. I wanted to be the silence.

I walked. I breathed. I lived.

The road was red. It was not blood. It was clay. It was the color of dried skin.

I was there. I was here. I was now.

And that was all.