You are the Keeper.

The title hangs heavy on your tongue. It is a word that tastes of rust and old blood. You stand before the King. He sits on the throne of white marble, his face a mask of bored stone. The hall is cold. The air smells of incense and fear.

"Speak," he says.

Your voice is quiet. It is the voice of the one who has seen too much.

"The mirror is broken," you say.

The King’s eyes narrow. "Who broke it?"

"No one. It broke itself."

A silence falls. It is not empty. It is full of waiting. The courtiers shift in their seats. Silk rustles. It sounds like dry leaves skittering across a grave.

"Fix it," the King commands.

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because it is finished."

The King stands. He is tall. He casts a long shadow that stretches across the floor and touches your feet. He walks down the steps. He stops in front of you.

"You are a fool," he says.

"I am a witness," you reply.

"Then witness this." He raises his hand. The air shimmers. The light in the hall bends. It is not light. It is power. Raw and hungry. "I will give you a chance to fix it. Come with me. To the Deep Room. Bring your tools. Bring your silence. If you fail, you will eat the dust of the throne."

You bow. Your knees knock together. You are old. Your bones ache. The cold seeps into your marrow. You follow him.

The corridor is long. It winds through the heart of the palace. The walls are bare stone. There are no paintings. No gold. Only stone. It feels like walking through a throat.

The King does not speak. He does not look back. He walks with the certainty of a man who owns the ground beneath his feet. You know he does not. He is afraid. You can see it in the way his hand grips the hilt of his sword. The metal is cold. His palm is sweating.

You are the Sage. You have read the stars. You have tasted the winds. You know that power is a lie. It is a hunger that never stops. The King thinks he is the master. He is the slave.

The Deep Room is at the bottom of a spiral stair. The air is thick. It is hard to breathe. It tastes of iron.

The mirror stands in the center. It is large. It is framed in black iron. The glass is cracked. A web of fractures runs from the top to the bottom. It looks like ice on a frozen lake. It looks like the veins in your own hand.

"Fix it," the King says. He stands by the door. He does not enter. He watches.

You step forward. Your footsteps echo. You pick up a chisel. It is small. It is sharp. You pick up a hammer. You place the chisel against the crack.

You do not strike.

"What are you doing?" the King asks. His voice is thin. It comes from the darkness.

"I am listening," you say.

"To what?"

"To the glass."

The King laughs. It is a sharp sound. It is not happy. "There is nothing in the glass. Only your face. Only my face. Only the lie."

You strike the chisel.

The sound is clear. It is a bell tone. It rings in the room. It rings in your head.

The crack widens.

The King’s face changes. The boredom is gone. The fear is gone. In its place is rage. Pure and white.

"Stop!" he screams.

You strike again.

The glass shatters.

A piece flies out. It cuts your cheek. Blood runs down your face. It is warm. It is red. It is real.

The King runs forward. He grabs you. His hands are like iron clamps. He lifts you off the ground.

"You have destroyed it," he hisses. "You have destroyed my power."

"I have freed you," you say. Your voice is steady. You do not tremble. You look into his eyes. They are wide. They are dark. They are empty.

"You are a traitor," he says.

"I am a mirror," you say.

He throws you against the wall.

The impact takes your breath. You slide down. You hit the floor. The stone is cold. The cold is a comfort. It reminds you that you are alive.

The King stands over you. He raises his sword. The blade catches the dim light. It glows. It is a star fallen to earth.

"Die," he says.

You close your eyes.

You think of the water. The water in the valley. The water that flows without asking permission. The water that erodes the stone. You are the water. You are the silence.

You do not die.

The sword does not fall.

The King stands there. His arm is raised. He is shaking. He is crying. You can hear the sound. It is a wet, ragged sound. It is the sound of a thing breaking.

"I cannot," he says.

He lowers the sword. He drops it. It clatters on the floor.

He falls to his knees. He buries his face in his hands. His shoulders shake. He is small. He is human. He is alone.

You sit up. The pain in your cheek is sharp. You touch the blood. You smear it on your face. You look at the King. You do not pity him. You do not hate him. You see him. You see the hollow place inside him. You see the mirror he has been running from.

You stand. Your legs are weak. You lean on the wall. You look at the pile of glass on the floor. It is beautiful. It is sharp. It is broken.

It is free.

You walk to the door. The King does not stop you. He does not move. He is frozen. He is a statue. He is a ghost.

You climb the stairs. The air gets thinner. The light gets brighter. You reach the top. You step into the corridor. The courtiers are gone. The hall is empty. The throne is empty.

You walk out of the palace.

The sun is high. It is white. It is harsh. It burns your skin. You close your eyes. You feel the heat. You feel the wind. It is cold. It cuts you.

You are outside. You are alone.

You walk down the hill. The city is below you. It is a maze of stone and smoke. It is loud. It is dirty. It is alive.

You walk into the streets. People move around you. They do not see you. You are invisible. You are the air. You are the dust.

You walk to the river. The water is brown. It is fast. It carries leaves and trash and light. You stand on the bank. You look down.

You see your face in the water. It is old. It is tired. It is bloody. It is yours.

You do not fix it. You do not hide it. You do not look away.

You are the Keeper. You have kept the secret. You have broken the spell. You have chosen.

The choice was not to fix the mirror. The choice was to shatter it.

You feel a surge of strength. It is not the strength of the King. It is not the strength of the sword. It is the strength of the end. It is the strength of the beginning.

You are free.

You are lost.

You are home.

You turn away from the river. You walk back into the city. The sun is setting. The sky is red. It looks like blood. It looks like fire. It looks like life.

You are the Sage. You have answered the question. The answer is silence. The answer is action. The answer is you.

You walk. The city swallows you. The noise swallows you. The life swallows you.

You are gone.

You are everywhere.

The mirror is broken. The King is broken. You are whole.

The night comes. The stars come out. They are cold. They are far. They are watching.

You are watching too.

You are the eye.

You are the soul.

You are the end.