The rain did not fall so much as it drifted, a grey mist clinging to the highland moors like a shroud. Sir Thomas Ashworth walked. His boots, once polished to a mirror sheen for the court, were now caked in the red clay of the valley floor. He carried no sword. He carried no shield. He carried only the weight of the oak he had dragged for three days.

It was a great tree. A sentinel of the forest, stripped of its bark, stripped of its branches, stripped of everything but its heartwood. It had been alive when he was a boy. It had watched him grow tall, watched him take his vows, watched him learn the art of the blade. Now, it was dead. And he was its hearse.

The manor loomed ahead. It was a beast of stone and shadow, perched on the cliff edge, defying the sky. The windows were dark, save for one high up in the tower. A candle. A small, defiant flame against the encroaching night.

Thomas paused. His breath hitched in his chest. The air tasted of iron and wet earth. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Not from cold. From anticipation. From the terrible, sweet pull of the thing that waited within.

He knew what they would say. They would say he was mad. They would say the forest had eaten his mind. The trees whispered to him. They had always whispered, but he had ignored them. Now, he listened. They spoke of roots. Of deep, dark water. Of the soil that cradles the dead and feeds the living. They spoke of freedom.

The gate groaned. It was not locked. It had never been locked. The gate was a suggestion, not a barrier. Thomas pushed it open. The sound echoed across the courtyard, a dry crack that sounded like a bone breaking.

He walked to the door. The wood was heavy, oak, like the tree on his back. He pushed. It swung inward.

The hall was cold. The torches on the walls had burned low, their flames sputtering in the draft. Shadows danced on the floor, long and thin, reaching for him.

"Sir Thomas," a voice said.

It came from the darkness. From the table at the far end of the hall.

Lord Edward Bradshaw sat alone. He was old now. His hair was white as the lichen on the stones. His face was a map of wrinkles, etched by wind and time. He did not look up. He held a cup of wine. The liquid was dark, almost black.

"Put it down," Edward said.

Thomas did not move. The tree was too heavy. Or perhaps he was too tired. Or perhaps he wanted Edward to see it. To see what he had brought.

"Put it down," Edward repeated. His voice was quiet. It carried the weight of a command that had not been broken in forty years.

Thomas knelt. The wood scraped against the stone floor. The sound was loud in the silence. He let go. The tree lay across the floor, a great, pale limb in the dark.

Edward looked up. His eyes were sharp. They were the eyes of a hawk. They scanned the room, scanning Thomas, scanning the tree.

"What is this?" Edward asked.

"A gift," Thomas said.

Edward smiled. It was a cold smile. "For me?"

"For the house," Thomas said. "For the family."

Edward stood. He walked to the tree. He ran his hand along the rough bark. He touched the wood as if it were a lover.

"You have done well," Edward said. "You have brought me the heart of the forest."

Thomas felt a surge of relief. It was a physical thing, a wave that washed over him. He had succeeded. He had brought the impossible. He had answered the call of the trees.

"Sit," Edward said.

Thomas sat. He was too tired to argue. He was too tired to do anything but sit and breathe.

Edward poured the wine. He handed a cup to Thomas. The cup was warm. The wine smelled of berries and age.

"To the bond," Edward said.

Thomas drank. The wine was sweet. It burned down his throat. It felt like fire.

"Tell me," Edward said. "What did the trees ask of you?"

"They asked for a witness," Thomas said.

Edward nodded. "And you gave it to them?"

"I gave them everything."

Edward looked at the tree. "Yes. You did."

The silence stretched. It was not empty. It was full. Full of the sound of the rain against the windows. Full of the sound of the fire dying. Full of the sound of their breathing.

"Thomas," Edward said. "Do you remember the day we planted this tree?"

Thomas blinked. "Yes."

"We were boys. Ten, perhaps. We dug the hole. We put the sapling in. We poured the water. We watched it grow."

"I remember."

"Do you remember what I told you?"

Thomas shook his head.

"I told you that a tree is never free," Edward said. "It is bound to the earth. It is bound to the sun. It is bound to the roots. It is bound to the soil. It is bound to the decay. It is bound to the cycle. It is never free."

Thomas looked at the tree on the floor. It lay there, still and pale. It looked dead. It looked free.

"You are free now," Edward said.

Thomas looked at him. "I am?"

"Yes. You are free from the service. You are free from the duty. You are free from the bond."

Thomas felt a chill. "Is that what you wanted?"

Edward smiled. "I wanted to see if you would come."

Thomas stared at him. "Why?"

"Because I am dying, Thomas."

The words hung in the air. They did not land. They floated.

"My heart is weak," Edward said. "The doctor says I have a month. Perhaps two. I do not care. I have lived a good life. I have served the crown. I have kept the peace. I have held the land."

He looked at Thomas. "But I am tired, Thomas. I am so tired."

Thomas felt the floor tilt. "Lord..."

"Call me Edward."

"Edward," Thomas whispered.

"Did you think I sent for you to fight?" Edward asked. "Did you think I sent for you to kill me?"

Thomas shook his head. He had thought of a hundred things. He had not thought of this.

"I sent for you because you are the only one who listens to the trees," Edward said. "And the trees know the way out."

Thomas looked at the tree. "The way out?"

"The way to the other side," Edward said. "The way to the rest."

Thomas understood. He understood the truth. It was not a gift. It was a key. The tree was not a witness. It was a door.

"You want me to open it," Thomas said.

"I want you to walk through it," Edward said.

Thomas looked at his hands. They were still. The trembling had stopped. He felt calm. He felt light.

"I will do it," Thomas said.

Edward nodded. He raised his cup. "To freedom."

Thomas raised his cup. "To freedom."

They drank. The wine was sweet. It tasted of berries and age.

After the wine was gone, Edward stood. He walked to the window. He looked out at the rain.

"Go," he said.

Thomas stood. He walked to the door. He paused.

"Edward," he said.

"What?"

"Thank you."

Edward turned. He looked at Thomas. His eyes were soft. They were no longer sharp. They were the eyes of a man who has laid down his armor.

"Go, Thomas," he said. "Be free."

Thomas walked out. He did not look back. He walked into the rain. The mist clung to him. The cold bit at his skin.

He walked to the tree. It lay in the courtyard, where the light of the moon fell upon it. It was beautiful. It was terrible.

He placed his hand on the wood. It was warm. It was alive.

He closed his eyes. He listened.

The trees spoke. They spoke of roots. Of deep, dark water. Of the soil that cradles the dead and feeds the living.

They spoke of freedom.

Thomas opened his eyes. He picked up the tree. It was light. It was lighter than air. He lifted it over his head. He walked toward the gate.

The gate was open.

He walked out.

The rain fell. The mist drifted. The moors stretched out before him, dark and endless.

He did not look back.

He walked.

He walked until the manor was a speck in the distance. He walked until the trees were all around him. He walked until the rain was in his blood.

He walked.

He was free.

He was alone.

He was free.