The feast is a lie you tell yourself to keep the hunger at bay. You sit at the head of the long oak table in the great hall, the air thick with the scent of roasted boar and beeswax, while the servants move around you like ghosts in grey wool. You are the King, or you are the man who thinks he is the King. The distinction is a fine line, easily blurred by the heat of the hearth and the weight of the gold ring on your finger. You laugh too loud at a joke about a duck, your voice echoing off the stone walls, feeling the vibrations in your chest. You are alive. You are solid. You are here.

But the ring is cold.

It has been cold since the night you found it in the mud outside the village of Ashford, half-buried in the slurry of a field that no longer exists. You remember the mud. You remember the rain. You remember the feeling of your fingers closing around something hard and smooth, something that did not belong to the earth. You pulled it out, wiping the silt from its surface, and saw the inscription. It was not in your language. It was in a script that looked like scratches made by a frightened bird. You did not read it then. You only put it on.

Now, years later, or perhaps minutes, the chronicle of your life is a faded stain on your memory. You cannot recall your mother’s face. You cannot recall the name of the woman you married. You know only the ring, and the feeling that it is watching you.

The hall is full of people. They are your courtiers, your friends, your family. They look at you with eyes that are too bright, too knowing. You see the relief in their faces when you smile. They are waiting for you to break. They are waiting for the moment when the mask slips, when the king becomes the man, when the man becomes the thing.

You look at the table. The food is perfect. The bread is fresh. The wine is dark and rich. You pick up a piece of chicken, the meat tender and pink. You eat it. It tastes like nothing. It tastes like ash.

There is a woman standing in the corner of the room. She is wearing a dress the color of the sea, deep and turbulent. She is not eating. She is not drinking. She is just looking at you. Her eyes are dark, and they do not blink. You have seen her before. You know you have seen her before. You feel a pull in your gut, a physical sensation, like a hook in your flesh.

You try to ignore her. You raise your cup to the room. "To us," you say. Your voice is steady. Strong. The room erupts in cheers. The sound is deafening, a roar of approval that fills your ears. You feel powerful. You feel safe.

But the woman is still there. She is closer now. She has moved from the corner to the edge of the light. She is holding something in her hand. A small object. A piece of clay.

You want to look at it. You want to know what it is. But you are afraid. If you look at it, you might see the truth. And the truth is a monster that eats kings.

You put down your cup. The sound of it hitting the wood is sharp. The room goes quiet. Everyone is looking at you. You can feel their eyes on your face, on your hands, on the ring.

The woman takes a step forward. Then another. She is walking toward you. Her movements are slow, deliberate. She is not running. She is not rushing. She is walking with the confidence of someone who knows where she is going.

You stand up. Your chair scrapes against the stone floor. The sound is loud, harsh. The room falls silent again.

"What is it?" you ask. Your voice is thin. It does not sound like yours.

The woman stops. She holds up the piece of clay. It is cracked. Broken. It looks like a fragment of a larger object. A pot, perhaps. Or a bowl.

"You know," she says. Her voice is soft. It is the voice of the rain. It is the voice of the mud.

You look at the clay. You look at the ring on your hand. You look at the people in the room. They are all looking at you. They are all smiling. They are all waiting.

You remember the field. You remember the mud. You remember the rain. You remember the feeling of the ring in your hand. You remember the inscription.

You read it now.

It says: *Return to the source.*

You feel a wave of nausea. The room is spinning. The faces of your courtiers are blurring. The woman is still standing there, holding the broken clay.

You drop the ring.

It falls to the floor. It hits the stone with a clang that is louder than any thunder. It rolls to a stop at the feet of the woman.

She picks it up. She looks at it. She looks at you.

"You are not the King," she says.

You feel a crack in your chest. It is not a physical crack. It is a spiritual one. A fissure in the foundation of your being. You are not the King. You are the mud. You are the rain. You are the field.

You look at your hands. They are shaking. You look at the table. The food is rotting. The wine is turning into vinegar. The bread is molding. The hall is crumbling. The stone walls are peeling away. The roof is opening to the sky.

The people are gone. The hall is gone. You are alone in the field. The rain is falling. The mud is thick and cold.

You are kneeling in the mud. You are holding the ring. You are wiping the silt from its surface. You are putting it on.

The cycle begins again.

You stand up. You brush the mud from your knees. You look at the sky. It is clear. It is bright. The sun is shining.

You walk toward the village of Ashford. You are hungry. You are thirsty. You are alone.

You do not remember who you are. You do not remember where you are going. You only know that you have a ring. And the ring is cold.

The feast is a lie you tell yourself to keep the hunger at bay. You sit at the head of the long oak table in the great hall, the air thick with the scent of roasted boar and beeswax, while the servants move around you like ghosts in grey wool. You are the King, or you are the man who thinks he is the King. The distinction is a fine line, easily blurred by the heat of the hearth and the weight of the gold ring on your finger. You laugh too loud at a joke about a duck, your voice echoing off the stone walls, feeling the vibrations in your chest. You are alive. You are solid. You are here.

But the ring is cold.

You look at the woman in the corner. She is not there. There is no woman. There is only the empty space where she used to be. You feel a pang of loss, a sharp ache in your heart. Who was she? Why do you feel so empty?

You pick up your cup. You drink the wine. It tastes sweet. It tastes warm. It tastes like life.

You are the King. You are the master of this hall. You are the center of this world.

You laugh. You laugh until your eyes water. You laugh until your ribs hurt. You laugh until you forget the cold. You laugh until you forget the mud. You laugh until you forget the name of the woman who held the broken clay.

The feast continues. The laughter continues. The night continues.

And the ring watches.

It watches with the patience of stone. It watches with the hunger of the earth. It knows that the crack is coming. It knows that the break is inevitable. It knows that you are not the King. It knows that you are only the clay.

And the clay is fragile.

You feel the vibration in your hand. It is a subtle tremor, almost imperceptible. You flex your fingers. The ring tightens. It feels like it is shrinking. It feels like it is biting into your skin.

You try to take it off. You twist it. You pull it. It will not move. It is fused to your flesh. It is part of you.

The room is growing darker. The candles are flickering. The shadows are lengthening. The faces of your courtiers are becoming obscured. They are becoming blurs. They are becoming ghosts.

You are alone.

You are always alone.

The ring is cold.

You look at the table. The food is gone. The table is empty. The hall is empty.

You are standing in the dark.

You reach for the ring. You cannot feel it. You cannot feel your hand. You cannot feel your body.

You are the ring.

You are the cold.

You are the crack.

You are the break.

You shatter.

You are scattered.

You are dust.

You are mud.

You are rain.

You are the field.

You are the King.

You are the man.

You are the thing.

The feast is over.

The hunger remains.

You open your eyes.

You are sitting at the table.

The room is bright.

The people are smiling.

The ring is on your hand.

It is warm.

You smile back.

You are happy.

You are free.

You are trapped.

The cycle is complete.

The cycle begins.

The ring is cold.