The hall is warm. Too warm. You smell the roast pork. It hangs in the air like a thick fog. You are hungry. Your stomach twists. A hard knot. You look down. Your hands shake. Not from cold. From fear. The sword at your hip is heavy. It pulls your coat down. You adjust it. You breathe. In. Out.

The feast is loud. Laughter echoes. It bounces off the stone walls. They are high. They are old. They hold the weight of centuries. You are young. You are small. You are a guard. A junior guard. You hold the door. You watch the faces. They are fat. They are red. They are full of wine.

Old Man Harrow sits at the head. He is your mentor. He is also a monster. He smiles at you. The smile is wide. It shows teeth. They are yellow. He raises a cup. He does not look at you. He looks past you. He looks at the door. He looks at the night outside.

"Drink, boy," he says. His voice is gravel. It grinds against the noise. You do not drink. You stand straight. You are a statue. You are a wall. You are the law. Or so you think.

The hall is a trap. The stone walls close in. The air is thick. It presses on your chest. You cannot expand. You cannot breathe. The wine flows. It spills on the table. It is red. It looks like blood. Someone laughs. They spill more. They do not care. They throw bones. They throw crusts of bread. They are cruel. They are bored.

You look at your hands. They are dirty. They are stained with ink. You write reports. You file them. You send them to the High Court. You send them to the capital. You tell them the truth. You say, Harrow takes the tithe. You say, Harrow keeps the gold. You say, the people starve while he feasts.

No one writes back. The silence is loud. It is louder than the laughter. It is a roar. It is a scream. You feel it in your bones. You feel it in your teeth. You are alone. You are always alone.

Harrow sees you watching. His eyes are cold. They are ice. He stops eating. He picks up a piece of meat. He tears it with his fingers. He chews slowly. He swallows. He looks at you.

"You have a long face, Thomas," he says. His voice is soft. It is deadly. "Are you sad? Is the food bad?"

"No, sir," you say. Your voice is thin. It is a thread. It could snap. "It is very good, sir."

He smiles. He does not believe you. He never believes you. He is a mirror. He reflects your fear. He reflects your doubt. He shows you what you are. You are not a hero. You are a dog. You are a beast on a leash.

The feast continues. The music starts. Fiddles. Drums. The rhythm is fast. It beats in your head. It beats in your chest. It beats in your blood. You feel dizzy. You feel sick. You want to run. You want to scream. You want to break something.

But you do not. You stand. You watch. You endure. This is your duty. This is your life. You are a soldier. You serve. You obey. You wait.

The night deepens. The candles burn low. The shadows grow long. They dance on the walls. They look like ghosts. They look like monsters. They look like the truth.

Harrow stands up. He is large. He is heavy. He leans on his staff. He walks to the center of the hall. The music stops. The laughter stops. The silence returns. It is heavy. It is suffocating.

"Thomas," he says. His voice is clear. It cuts the air. "Come here."

You walk. Your feet are lead. Your legs are wood. You walk to him. You stop. You look up. He looks down. He is so tall. He is so big. He is a mountain.

"You have a secret," he says. It is not a question. It is a fact. It is a stone. It lands on your chest. You cannot move.

"I do not, sir," you say. Your voice is a whisper. It is a ghost.

"Everyone has a secret," he says. He leans down. His face is close. You smell his breath. It is stale. It is sweet. It is rotten. "What is yours?"

You look at him. You see the fear in his eyes. It is there. Under the ice. Under the stone. He is afraid. He is afraid of you. He is afraid of the truth. He is afraid of the end.

"I wrote," you say. The word is small. It is a seed. It is a bomb. "I wrote it all down."

He freezes. His hand moves. It goes to his sword. You move faster. Your hand goes to your hilt. The metal is cold. It is sharp. It is alive.

"Step back," you say. Your voice is hard. It is iron. It is steel. "Step back, Harrow."

He does not step back. He laughs. It is a dry laugh. It is a cackle. "You think you can kill me? You think you can end this?"

"I will try," you say.

The hall is quiet. The guests watch. They do not move. They do not breathe. They are statues. They are dead. They are waiting.

Harrow draws his sword. The metal sings. It is a high note. It is a cry. He swings. The air splits. You duck. The blade whistles past your ear. It is close. Too close. You feel the heat. You feel the wind.

You strike. Your sword cuts the air. It hits his shield. The metal clangs. It is loud. It is sharp. It hurts. You pull back. You strike again. He blocks. He pushes you. You fall back. Your heels hit the table. The cups fall. They break. The wine spills. It is red. It is thick. It looks like blood.

You are bleeding. A cut on your arm. It is small. It is bright. You do not care. You lunge. He parries. The sparks fly. They look like stars. They look like fire.

The guests are still. They are frozen. They are trapped. They are part of the trap. They are part of the cage.

Harrow is strong. He is faster. He is better. He hits you. His sword cuts your shoulder. The pain is hot. It is bright. It is blinding. You fall. You hit the floor. The stone is hard. It is cold. It burns.

You try to stand. Your legs fail. You are on your knees. You are low. You are small. He stands over you. He is a giant. He is a god. He raises his sword. The light catches the blade. It is a streak of white. It is a line. It is a death.

You close your eyes. You wait. You breathe. In. Out.

The blow does not come.

You open your eyes. He is standing. He is holding the sword. He is breathing hard. His chest heaves. His face is pale. His eyes are wide. He is not angry. He is not triumphant. He is afraid.

He looks at you. He looks at the guests. He looks at the door. He looks at the night.

"I am tired," he says. His voice is weak. It is a whisper. It is a surrender. "I am so tired, Thomas."

You look up. You see him. You see the man. Not the monster. Not the master. Just a man. Old. Worn. Broken.

You stand. Your leg shakes. Your shoulder burns. You walk to him. You take his hand. You take the sword from his grip. It is heavy. It is dull. It is dead.

You drop it. It hits the floor. It rings. It fades.

"Go," you say.

He looks at you. He does not understand. He waits. He expects a blow. He expects a curse. He expects a lie.

"Go," you say again. "Leave. Take your gold. Take your life. Leave this hall. Leave this life."

He looks at the door. He looks at you. He nods. He turns. He walks. His feet are slow. His back is bent. He walks to the door. He opens it. The night is cold. It is dark. It is empty.

He steps out. The door closes. The click is loud. It is final.

The hall is silent. The guests are still. They do not move. They do not breathe. They are waiting. They are watching. They are afraid.

You look at them. You look at their faces. They are pale. They are thin. They are hungry. They are alive.

You look at your hands. They are clean. They are empty. You feel nothing. You feel everything. You feel the weight. You feel the light. You feel the end.

The hall is empty now. The tables are bare. The wine is dry. The food is cold. The smell is gone. The air is fresh. It is clean. It is free.

You walk to the door. You open it. The night is there. It is waiting. It is cold. It is dark.

You step out. The air hits your face. It is sharp. It is clear. It is real.

You close the door. You lock it. You throw the key. It flies. It lands in the grass. It disappears.

You walk away. You do not look back. You do not know where you are going. You do not know who you are. You are free. You are alone. You are you.

The hall stands behind you. It is a shadow. It is a ghost. It is a memory. It is gone.

You walk into the night. You walk into the dark. You walk into the light.