The feast was loud. Too loud. The noise pressed against my eardrums like wet clay. I sat in the corner. I watched. The candlelight flickered. It danced on the walls. It danced on the faces of the men. They laughed. They drank. They did not see me. Or perhaps they did not care. I was the shadow in the room. The one who mended the nets of the soul. I was Thomas. I was the weaver.

My hands rested on the table. My right hand. It was different now. It was not flesh. It was gold. Solid. Heavy. Cold. I flexed the fingers. They clinked. A small, metallic sound. Sharp. Clean. The others heard it. They looked. They frowned.

"Strange trickery, Thomas," said Lord Ashworth. He was large. His face was red. He poured wine into a cup. The wine spilled. It ran like blood. "You are losing your touch. Or gaining something else."

I did not answer. I could not. The gold was growing. It crept up the wrist. It bit into the skin. It ate the vein. I felt a hunger. Not for food. For power. The gold whispered to me. It promised things. It promised the end of pain. It promised the end of fear.

I looked at my reflection in the polished surface of the silver platter. The face was mine. But the hand was not. It was a mirror of what I wanted to be. Strong. Eternal. Untouchable. I had sought this. I had begged the spirits for it. I had sacrificed my years. My youth. My love for the world. Now it was here. And it was terrible.

The feast continued. The songs began. The fiddle squealed. The drum beat. I watched the shadows move. I saw the darkness in the eyes of the servants. I saw the fear in the eyes of the lords. I was the master of the unseen. I was the bridge. But the bridge was burning.

Eleanor came to me. She was quiet. She wore grey. Her eyes were dark. She held a cup of water. She did not speak. She just looked at my hand. The gold hand. She knew. She had always known. She was the only one who did not fear me. She was the only one who loved me. But her love was heavy. It weighed on me.

"Thomas," she whispered. Her voice was low. Barely a breath. "It is time."

"I am not ready," I said. My voice was rough. It sounded like gravel. "I am not done."

"You are done," she said. She touched my arm. Her fingers were cold. "The mirror is breaking."

I looked at the window. The night was dark. The moon was full. It shone on the snow. The snow was white. The night was black. The contrast was sharp. I felt a pull. A drawing. Like a hook in my gut. I had to go. I had to leave.

I stood up. The chair scraped against the stone floor. A sharp sound. Everyone looked. The music stopped. The silence was sudden. It was violent.

"I must walk," I said. I did not look at them. I looked at the door. "I must find the edge."

Lord Ashworth stood up. His face was dark. "You do not leave. You are bound. You are our servant. Our tool."

"I am no one's tool," I said. My voice was steady. "I am no one's thing."

"You are a monster," he said. "You have let the dark in. You have let the gold in. You are lost."

I looked at him. I saw the fear. I saw the hate. I saw the self. He was me. I was him. We were both trapped. We were both hungry. But he was blind. He did not see the trap. I did.

"I am going," I said.

I walked out. The air was cold. It bit my face. It bit my neck. I felt the cold in my bones. I felt the cold in the gold. The gold was warm. It burned. It wanted to expand. It wanted to consume.

I walked into the forest. The trees were tall. They were black. They watched me. The snow was deep. It crunched under my feet. I left a trail. A golden trail. The leaves turned to metal where I stepped. The grass turned to wire.

I walked fast. I ran. The gold spread. It reached my elbow. It reached my shoulder. It ate the muscle. It ate the bone. I screamed. But no sound came out. The gold swallowed the scream.

I reached the river. The water was black. It moved slowly. It was still. I looked at the water. I saw my reflection. The gold was all of me now. My face. My body. I was a statue. A statue of gold. Beautiful. Dead.

I stood on the bank. I looked at the water. I looked at the sky. The stars were bright. They were cold. I felt a peace. A strange peace. The hunger was gone. The fear was gone. I was empty. I was full.

I thought of Eleanor. I thought of her face. I thought of her love. It was a cause. A purpose. But it was not enough. It could not stop the gold. It could not stop the change.

I stepped into the water. The cold was instant. It shocked me. It shocked the gold. The metal cracked. It broke. Pieces of gold floated away. They sparkled in the moonlight. They drifted downstream.

I sank. The water filled my mouth. It filled my lungs. I did not breathe. I did not need to breathe. I was becoming part of the river. Part of the dark. Part of the silence.

The last thing I saw was the moon. It was a coin. A golden coin. It sank into the water. It was gone.

I woke up. I was on the bank. The sun was rising. The light was soft. It was pink. It was gold. But it was not my gold. It was the light. It was the world.

My hands were flesh again. They were pale. They were weak. They were human. I looked at them. I flexed the fingers. They moved. They did not clink. They did not burn.

I stood up. My legs were shaky. My head was light. I felt a pain. A deep pain. In my chest. In my soul. It was the pain of loss. It was the pain of survival.

I walked back. The forest was quiet. The birds were singing. The snow was melting. The water was running. I walked to the castle. The doors were closed. I knocked.

No one answered.

I knocked again.

A servant opened the door. He was young. He looked at me. He saw my face. He saw my eyes. He stepped back.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Thomas," I said.

He shook his head. "There is no Thomas here. There was no Thomas here. You are a ghost. You are a dream."

I looked at him. I looked at the castle. It was strange. It was familiar. It was not.

I turned away. I walked into the town. The people looked at me. They did not know me. They did not see me. I was a stranger. I was a shadow.

I found a tavern. It was small. It was dark. I sat in the corner. I ordered a drink. The man brought it. He looked at me.

"Are you well?" he asked.

"I am well," I said.

"You look tired," he said.

"I am tired," I said.

I drank. The ale was bitter. It was cold. It tasted like life.

I thought about the gold. I thought about the mirror. I thought about the betrayal. I had betrayed myself. I had betrayed the world. I had tried to become something else. Something perfect. Something eternal.

But perfection is death. Eternity is a cage.

I looked at my hands. They were human. They were flawed. They were weak. They were alive.

I left the tavern. I walked out into the street. The sun was high. It was warm. It touched my face. I felt the heat. I felt the life.

I did not go back to the castle. I did not go back to the feast. I walked out of the town. I walked into the wild. I walked into the unknown.

I was alone. I was free.

The wind blew. It carried the scent of rain. It carried the scent of earth. It carried the scent of change.

I walked. I did not look back. The past was a mirror. It was broken. I did not need it. I did not need the gold. I did not need the power.

I needed the truth. The truth was simple. The truth was pain. The truth was loss. The truth was love.

I walked on. The road was long. The road was hard. The road was mine.

I was Thomas. I was the weaver. I was the man.

I was alive.