"Stop."

The word hung in the air. Cold. Sharp.

I did not stop.

My boots struck the wet cobblestones. Splash. Splash. The rain fell heavy on the grey city. It washed the streets clean. But it could not wash out the stain.

"Lord Ashworth."

A voice behind me. Soft. Tired.

I turned.

Master Silas stood in the doorway. His cloak was dark. His face was pale. He held a lantern. The flame shook in the wind.

"Go back, Thomas."

I looked at the gate. The Great Hall loomed above us. Its stones were old. They wept with the rain. This was my home. My prison. My grave.

"I must enter," I said.

"You will die."

"Perhaps."

I walked past him. He did not follow. He only watched. His eyes were wet. He knew what I sought. We all knew. The Golden Ritual. The legend of the Hall.

The gates were iron. They were bound with chains. Rust ate the metal. I pulled. The hinges groaned. They opened.

The light inside was faint. It came from the windows high up. Dust motes danced in the beams. The air smelled of damp stone and old blood.

I drew my sword. The steel sang. A high, clear note.

I walked into the hall.

The floor was cracked. The ceiling was high. Paintings hung on the walls. They showed my ancestors. They stared at me. Their eyes were dead. They judged me.

I sought the center. The altar. It stood in the middle of the room. It was made of marble. White. Pure.

On top of it lay the object.

It was not gold.

It was a mirror.

A small, circular mirror. Its frame was tarnished. It looked like a coin. I reached for it.

My hand trembled.

I remembered my brother.

Thomas. No. My name is Thomas. My brother was Edward.

Edward died in the war.

He fell in the mud. The enemy’s spear found his throat. He looked at me. His eyes were wide. He wanted to speak. He could not.

He died for the King. He died for the Hall.

I took his place. I became the shield. I became the sword.

I picked up the mirror.

It was cold.

It weighed nothing. And yet it felt heavy. It felt like a stone. It felt like a heart.

I held it out.

"Who am I?" I whispered.

The mirror did not answer. Mirrors do not speak. They only show.

I looked into it.

I saw my face.

My face was young. But my eyes were old. They were hollow. They were empty.

I saw the blood on my hands. I saw the mud. I saw the spear.

I saw Edward.

He stood behind me in the reflection. He was whole. He was alive. He smiled.

"Drop it, Thomas."

His voice came from the air. It came from the mirror.

I spun around.

The hall was empty.

No one was there.

Only the rain. Only the stone.

"Who are you?" I asked the dark.

"I am you," the voice said.

"I am the one who stays."

I looked back at the mirror.

Edward was gone.

Only I remained.

I realized then.

The Golden Ritual was not a reward.

It was a test.

The Hall wanted a guardian. Not a warrior. A guardian.

To be a warrior, you must fight. To be a guardian, you must hold.

Holding is harder.

Holding is pain.

I had spent ten years fighting. I had killed. I had bled. I had won.

And I was still alone.

The mirror showed me the truth.

The truth was simple.

The truth was cruel.

I was not the hero.

I was the sacrifice.

I closed my hand around the glass.

It cut me.

A thin line of red opened on my palm.

The blood dripped onto the marble.

Drop. Drop. Drop.

The sound was loud.

It echoed in the silent hall.

I looked at the blood.

It looked like gold.

In the dim light, it shone.

It was beautiful.

It was terrible.

I thought of Master Silas.

He had told me the legend.

*The Hall chooses the one who can give up the sword,* he said. *The Hall chooses the one who can break the mirror.*

I had thought he meant break it with a hammer.

He meant break it with a choice.

I held the mirror high.

My arm shook.

The stone floor was cold beneath my feet.

The shadows lengthened.

The rain hammered on the roof.

I could leave.

I could walk out.

I could take the mirror to the King.

The King would give me a title. He would give me land. He would give me a name.

And I would still be Thomas.

I would still be the man who killed Edward.

I would still be the man who could not sleep.

I would still be the man who dreamed of mud.

I raised the mirror above my head.

The glass caught the light.

It flared.

It blinded me.

For a second, I saw everything.

I saw the Hall as it was.

It was not a palace.

It was a cage.

The stones were bones.

The beams were ribs.

The roof was skin.

The Hall was alive.

It was hungry.

It wanted my fear.

It wanted my rage.

It wanted my self.

I screamed.

The sound tore from my throat.

It was not a word.

It was a cry.

It was the cry of a child.

It was the cry of a brother.

I brought the mirror down.

I smashed it on the altar.

CRACK.

The sound was sharp.

It cut the air.

The glass shattered.

A thousand pieces.

A thousand shards.

They scattered across the white marble.

They glittered like stars.

They glittered like teeth.

I fell to my knees.

My palm bled on the stone.

The blood mixed with the water.

It ran in thin red rivers.

It pooled around the shards.

I looked at my hand.

The cut was deep.

It stung.

It burned.

But it was clean.

It was clear.

I looked at the pieces.

I saw my face in the largest shard.

It was broken.

My face was broken.

My jaw was twisted.

My eye was closed.

I was not whole.

I had never been whole.

I had built myself from lies.

I had built myself from duty.

I had built myself from hate.

And now it was gone.

I was nothing.

I was air.

I was dust.

The rain kept falling.

The hall kept standing.

The silence returned.

It was heavy.

It was thick.

It pressed against my chest.

I tried to breathe.

It was hard.

My lungs burned.

My head spun.

I felt weak.

I felt light.

I felt free.

No.

I was not free.

I was empty.

Freedom is not a gift.

Freedom is a wound.

It never heals.

It only opens.

I looked at the door.

It was far away.

It looked small.

I could not stand.

My legs would not move.

I stayed on my knees.

I bled.

The blood made a dark pool.

It grew.

It spread.

It covered the shards.

It covered the marble.

It covered my hand.

I closed my eyes.

I saw Edward.

He was not smiling.

He was looking at me.

His eyes were sad.

He shook his head.

No.

He was not sad.

He was tired.

He wanted to rest.

I wanted to rest.

I let my head fall.

It hit the stone.

It made a dull sound.

Thud.

The pain faded.

The cold crept in.

It touched my fingers.

It touched my face.

It touched my heart.

I thought of the sun.

I remembered the sun.

It was warm.

It was yellow.

It was far away.

I thought of the field.

The wheat was gold.

The wind blew through it.

It made a sound like a song.

It was a sad song.

It was a beautiful song.

I wanted to hear it again.

I wanted to feel the heat.

I wanted to feel the life.

But the life was gone.

The gold was gone.

Only the grey remained.

Only the rain.

Only the stone.

I opened my eyes.

The mirror was gone.

The blood was still.

The shards were still.

I was still.

I was part of the Hall.

I was part of the stone.

I was part of the silence.

I had chosen.

I had broken.

I had let go.

The Golden Ritual was done.

The gold was in my blood.

The ritual was in my break.

I was the mirror.

I was the shard.

I was the light.

I was the dark.

I was the end.

The rain fell.

The rain fell.

The rain fell.