The bell tolled. It was a sound like breaking glass.

The tower stood. White stone. Old.

Silas walked. The mud sucked at his boots. He was wet. Cold. The rain fell. Thin needles.

He climbed. The stairs were spiral. Narrow. His breath came. Short. Sharp. The air smelled of dust. And stone. And rot.

At the top. The door.

He pushed.

It opened.

The room was empty.

Except for the table.

Wood. Dark. Scarred.

And the book.

Silas sat. He did not look at the door. He knew who was coming. He felt the weight of the gaze. The heavy air. The judgment.

He opened the book.

The pages were yellow. Thin.

He read.

The words were old. The law was clear.

Theft. A crime.

Punishment. Death.

Silas closed his eyes.

He thought of the cellar.

The bread.

Stolen.

By a child.

A boy.

Thin as a reed.

Silas had seen him.

The boy looked up.

Eyes wide.

Fear.

Silas had not moved.

He had let the guard take the boy.

The guard was new. Young. Eager.

He wanted to please.

He wanted to prove.

Silas had nodded.

A small nod.

The boy was taken.

The boy screamed.

Silas did not move.

He had done his duty.

The law is the law.

The door opened.

King Aldric entered.

He was tall.

His armor was black.

His face was pale.

He carried a sword.

The blade was wet.

Not with rain.

With blood.

Aldric looked at Silas.

His eyes were cold.

They were the eyes of a winter.

The eyes of a stone.

Silas looked up.

He did not speak.

He did not beg.

He was a judge.

He was a man of law.

He had served the crown for thirty years.

He had never been wrong.

Or so he thought.

Aldric sat.

Across from him.

The chair creaked.

The room was silent.

The wind howled outside.

It sounded like a scream.

Aldric spoke.

His voice was low.

Rough.

Like gravel.

You knew.

Silas did not answer.

He looked at the book.

The book was the law.

The law was the truth.

The truth was the foundation.

The foundation was solid.

The boy stole bread.

The boy was guilty.

The boy must die.

It was simple.

It was clear.

It was just.

Aldric leaned forward.

The sword clinked against the table.

You knew the boy.

Silas felt a flicker.

A spark.

In the dark.

He remembered the boy.

The boy had a name.

Thomas.

Thomas was quiet.

Thomas was kind.

Thomas had helped Silas once.

Years ago.

Silas had been ill.

Fever.

Delirium.

Thomas had brought water.

Thomas had brought bread.

Good bread.

Not stolen.

Bought with his own coin.

Silas remembered.

The memory was sharp.

It cut.

It bled.

Silas looked at Aldric.

He saw the pain.

In the King’s eyes.

The pain was deep.

It was an abyss.

Aldric was not angry.

He was sad.

The sadness was heavy.

It pressed on the air.

It pressed on Silas.

Aldric spoke again.

The boy was my son.

Silas froze.

The blood in his veins stopped.

The heart in his chest stopped.

The world stopped.

The boy.

Thomas.

The King’s son.

Silas had judged him.

Silas had condemned him.

For bread.

For hunger.

For survival.

Silas felt the floor tilt.

The room spun.

The white walls bled red.

The black armor became a shroud.

The sword became a blade of ice.

It pierced his soul.

He looked at his hands.

They were shaking.

They were dirty.

They were stained.

With blood.

Not the boy’s.

His own.

The blood of his soul.

He had been a judge.

He had been a god.

He had been a monster.

The law.

The law was a lie.

The law was a cage.

The law was a chain.

It bound the just.

It freed the unjust.

It served the strong.

It crushed the weak.

It was not justice.

It was tyranny.

Silas looked at Aldric.

Aldric’s face was soft.

The hardness was gone.

The anger was gone.

Only the grief remained.

The grief was vast.

It was the ocean.

It swallowed the shore.

It swallowed the sky.

It swallowed Silas.

Silas opened his mouth.

He wanted to speak.

He wanted to apologize.

He wanted to beg for mercy.

He wanted to deny.

He wanted to lie.

The words came out.

They were small.

They were weak.

They were dust.

I am sorry.

The words hung in the air.

They did not float.

They fell.

They hit the floor.

They broke.

Aldric stood.

He picked up the sword.

The blade gleamed.

It was beautiful.

It was terrible.

It was the truth.

The truth was naked.

The truth was raw.

The truth was blood.

Aldric held the sword.

The tip pointed at Silas.

Silas did not move.

He did not run.

He did not fight.

He was still.

He was empty.

He was a shell.

The shell was cracked.

The light leaked out.

The light was pale.

The light was fading.

Aldric spoke.

One last word.

Justice.

Silas closed his eyes.

He saw the tower.

The white stone.

The spiral stairs.

The cold wind.

The broken glass.

The echo.

The pale echo.

It rang.

It rang.

It rang.

Then.

Silence.

The blade fell.

Silas fell.

The body hit the floor.

A dull thud.

The sound of a stone dropping into a well.

The sound of a heart stopping.

The sound of a life ending.

Aldric stood.

He looked down.

He saw the blood.

It spread.

It pooled.

It darkened the wood.

It darkened the book.

It darkened the law.

The law was dead.

The judge was dead.

The King was alone.

The room was cold.

The wind howled.

The tower shook.

The white stone cracked.

A fissure.

Small.

Tiny.

But it was there.

The crack ran up the wall.

It ran up the ceiling.

It ran up the sky.

The tower was breaking.

The foundation was failing.

The structure was collapsing.

Piece by piece.

Stone by stone.

Dust by dust.

Aldric walked to the door.

He opened it.

The stairs were dark.

The stairs were empty.

The stairs were endless.

He stepped down.

The first step.

The second step.

The third step.

The sound of his boots.

Echoing.

Fading.

Dying.

He did not look back.

He did not look down.

He did not look at the body.

He looked forward.

Into the dark.

Into the night.

Into the unknown.

The tower stood.

But it was hollow.

It was empty.

It was a ghost.

The wind blew through it.

The wind sang.

A low note.

A sad note.

A final note.

The song was over.

The echo faded.

The silence returned.

The silence was heavy.

The silence was thick.

The silence was final.

The story was done.

The truth was known.

The truth was accepted.

The truth was carried.

Carried down the stairs.

Carried into the world.

Carried into the dark.

The pale echo remained.

In the mind.

In the memory.

In the soul.

It would never fade.

It would never stop.

It would ring on.

And on.

And on.

Until the end.

Until the death.

Until the silence.

The silence won.

The tower fell.

The stone broke.

The dust settled.

The world turned.

The wheel spun.

The light changed.

The day ended.

The night began.

The stars came out.

They were cold.

They were distant.

They were indifferent.

They watched.

They saw.

They knew.

They said nothing.

They were silent.

Like the tower.

Like the judge.

Like the king.

Like the boy.

Like the dead.

The silence was the only law.

The silence was the only truth.

The silence was the only justice.

It was cold.

It was hard.

It was real.

It was all.

The end.