The wind cuts like a knife through the wool of your cloak. You are running. The moor stretches out before you, a vast expanse of grey and black, indifferent to the blood that pools on your left hand. You do not look down. You look forward, at the jagged teeth of the stone wall, at the sky that is bruising purple with the coming night. Your hand is the problem. It is the vessel. It is the curse.

You remember the day it began. It was not a sudden strike, but a slow erosion. A chip in the porcelain of your life. You were standing in the square of Dunhallow, the town that had once been proud, now hollowed out by the fear of what you held. The market was thin. The air smelled of wet dog and old smoke. You held the mirror. It was small, framed in tarnished silver, but the glass was deep. Too deep. It did not reflect the world. It held it.

Elara stood across the way. She was buying turnips. Her hair was pinned up with a bone comb. She looked at you. She always looked at you. Not with fear. With a hunger that made your stomach turn. She wanted to know what you saw. She wanted to be seen in the dark.

You turned away. You could not let her see your hands. They were shaking. The tremor started in the fingertips, a faint vibration, like a plucked string. It was the sign. The price. Every time you looked into the glass, the tremor grew. The skin thinned. The bones beneath the flesh began to ache, a deep, tectonic pain that settled in the marrow.

The town elders had summoned you to the hall. It was a cold room, smelling of damp stone and beeswax. Thomas, the priest, sat at the head of the table. His face was a mask of concern, but his eyes were hard. Beside him sat the magistrate. He did not look at you. He looked at his own hands, which were clean.

"You know why we are here," Thomas said. His voice was low. He spoke as if you were a child, or a dog that had wandered into the parlor.

"I know," you said. Your voice was steady. You had practiced it.

"The visions," Thomas said. "They are spreading. People are talking. They see things in their sleep. Shadows in the corners. Faces that are not their own."

It was not the shadows. It was you. You had looked into the mirror that night. You had seen the death of the miller. You had seen it clearly, the way a knife cuts the air. You had tried to stop it. You had gone to the miller’s house. You had spoken to him. But he had not listened. He had laughed. He had said you were mad. Then he had gone into the mill. Then the wheel had broken.

"I am trying to help," you said.

"Help?" The magistrate spoke now. He leaned forward. "You hold power that is not yours. It is a sickness. A blight. We cannot allow this to continue."

Thomas nodded. "We must remove the source. The mirror. And the hand that holds it."

You looked at your left hand. It was resting on the table. The skin was pale. The veins were visible, dark blue lines against the white. It looked like a map of a place you did not want to go.

"I will give you the mirror," you said.

"No," Thomas said. "The power is in you. It is in the flesh. You have grown too strong in it. You have become part of the dark. We must cut it away."

Elara was not in the room. You knew this. You felt her absence like a missing tooth. She would not come. She would not stand with them. She had promised. But promises are light things. They break in the wind.

They took you to the edge of the town. The night was cold. The stars were out, sharp and cruel. They did not beat you. They did not use ropes. They simply stood there, a wall of bodies. Thomas held the knife. It was a small knife, a butcher’s knife. The blade was dull.

"Close your eyes," Thomas said.

You did not close your eyes. You looked at him. You saw the fear in his face. He was not cruel. He was afraid. He was afraid of the dark. He was afraid of what lived in the dark. And you were the door.

"I love her," you said.

Thomas flinched. "Who?"

"Elara."

"She does not care for you."

"I know."

"You are losing your mind."

"I am losing my hand," you said.

He raised the knife. You did not move. You held your left hand out. You extended it toward him. The skin was thin. You could see the bone. You could feel the cold air on the knuckles. You were waiting. You were hoping. You were hoping that when he cut, the pain would end the trembling. You were hoping that if you gave him the piece of you that held the power, the rest of you would be free.

He swung.

The blade bit into the meat. It did not sever the bone. It was not clean. It was a messy, red thing. The pain was not sharp. It was hot. It was a fire that started in the wrist and spread up the arm. You screamed. You fell to your knees in the dirt. The blood ran out of your hand, black in the moonlight.

They left you there. They took the mirror. They took the knife. They left you in the mud, bleeding.

You walked home. It was a long walk. Your legs were weak. Your arm hung by your side, a heavy, wet thing. You wrapped it in your cloak. You walked through the streets. The houses were dark. The windows were shuttered. No one looked at you. You were a ghost. You were a warning.

You reached your door. It was locked. You had not locked it. You picked the lock. Your right hand was steady. Your left hand was a mess. You went inside. You went to the cellar. You had a cellar. It was cool and dry. You had kept it for wine. But the wine was gone. The barrels were empty.

You sat on the floor. You looked at your hand. The blood had dried. It was brown and stiff. The tremor had stopped. The pain had stopped. You felt a lightness. You felt a clarity. You reached for the mirror. It was not there. They had taken it. But you still felt it. You felt the weight of it in your mind. You could still see.

You saw Elara.

You saw her in her room. She was sitting by the window. The moonlight was on her face. She was crying. She was holding a letter. It was your letter. You had written it to her years ago. You had never sent it. It was still in your drawer.

You saw her open the letter. You saw her read the words. You saw her weep. You saw her love. It was there. It was real. It was not a lie.

You closed your eyes. You let the vision go. You opened them. The room was empty.

You went to the window. You looked out at the moor. The wind was still blowing. The grass was bending in the waves. You looked at your hand. It was still. It was quiet. You had won. You had defeated the power. You had cut it away.

But you were wrong.

You realized it three days later. You were walking to the well. You needed water. Your arm was healed, but the skin was scarred. It was white and smooth. It looked like a mask.

You passed the house of the miller. His wife was in the yard. She was hanging laundry. She saw you. She dropped the cloth. She ran inside. She screamed.

You looked at your hand. You flexed your fingers. Nothing happened. No vision. No pain.

You looked at the sky. It was clear.

Then you saw it.

It was not in the sky. It was in the ground. A crack in the earth. A small fissure. It was growing. It was spreading. The grass around it was dying. The color was fading. The life was draining away.

You looked at your hand again. You raised it. You pointed it at the crack.

The crack widened.

You had not cut the power. You had only cut the vessel. The power was not in the hand. It was in you. It was in your blood. It was in your breath. You were the source. And now, you were open.

You ran. You ran to the moor. You ran to the edge of the world. You ran until your lungs burned. You ran until your feet bled. You ran until you could run no more.

You collapsed in the heather. The wind was cold. You lay on your back. You looked at the stars. They were turning. They were moving. They were not fixed. They were alive.

You felt the power in you. It was a hum. It was a song. It was a terrible, beautiful song. You could feel the world around you. You could feel the roots of the trees. You could feel the water in the deep places. You could feel the life in the soil.

You were not a monster. You were a bridge.

You thought of Elara. You thought of her face in the moonlight. You thought of the letter. You thought of the love.

You realized that the love was the anchor. It was the thing that kept you human. It was the thing that kept the power from consuming you. But she was gone. She had left. She had gone to the city. She had gone away from the dark.

You were alone.

You raised your hand. You looked at the stars. You whispered her name.

Elara.

The stars did not answer.

The wind blew.

You stayed there. You stayed until the dawn came. The sun rose. It was red. It was pale. It was the color of blood.

You stood up. You walked. You walked toward the village. You walked toward the people. You walked toward the fear.

You were not afraid.

You were the fear.

And you were the only one who could stop it.

You walked into the square. The people were there. They were waiting. Thomas was there. The magistrate was there. They had come to see if you were dead. They had come to see if the monster was gone.

You stopped. You looked at them. You raised your hand.

They screamed.

You did not strike. You did not curse. You simply held your hand out. You let them see it. The scar. The white skin. The quiet stillness.

You spoke. Your voice was soft.

"I am here," you said.

Thomas stepped forward. "What do you want?"

"I want to help," you said.

"You are a danger," Thomas said.

"Yes," you said. "I am."

"You must be killed."

"No," you said. "I must be used."

They did not understand. They never did. They wanted to kill the darkness. They did not understand that the darkness was the shadow of the light. And you were the shadow.

You turned away. You walked out of the square. You walked out of the town.

You walked into the wilderness.

You walked until the town was a dot in the distance.

You walked until the road ended.

You walked until you were alone.

You sat down. You looked at your hand.

It was still.

It was quiet.

It was yours.

And it was enough.