The feast hall smelled of roasting goose and old wood. It smelled of smoke and the iron tang of blood. Thomas sat at the high table, his hands wrapped around a cup of mead. The liquid was warm. It burned his throat. He watched the crowd. Men in furs. Women with hair like wet straw. They ate. They drank. They did not look at him.

This was the end of the world, or so it seemed. The Great Hall of the King stood in the deep of winter. Snow pressed against the high windows. It was a white, blinding silence outside. Inside, the fire crackled. It was a hungry sound.

Thomas was an exile. He had walked for three years. He had walked through the ash fields and the frozen marshes. He had lost his name to the wind. Now he was just Thomas. He was just a man with a sword that did not work.

His brother, Julian, sat across from him. Julian was young. His face was smooth. He had the look of a boy who had not yet seen the face of God. Or the face of Hell. Julian picked at a bone. He chewed slowly.

"Did you hear the rumors?" Julian asked. His voice was soft. It was the voice of a mouse in a wall.

Thomas did not answer. He drank. The mead was bitter. It tasted of pine and resin.

"They say the Crown is moving," Julian said. "They say it is coming for us."

"The Crown is a thing of stone," Thomas said. "Stone does not move."

"Stone cracks," Julian said. "Look at your hand, Thomas."

Thomas looked at his hand. It was red. It was stained with the blood of the feast. The blood of the goose. It was a dark, wet thing. It looked like a wound. It looked like a bruise.

"I am tired, Julian," Thomas said.

"You are not tired," Julian said. "You are afraid."

Thomas looked at his brother. He saw the fear in Julian's eyes. It was a small, bright thing. It was a spark in the dark. Thomas wanted to put it out. He wanted to hold Julian and say, *It is all right. We are safe.* But he could not. The words were heavy in his mouth. They felt like stones.

The doors of the hall opened. The wind howled in. It was a cold, sharp sound. It cut through the warmth of the fire. The flames flickered. They danced like ghosts.

A figure stood in the doorway. It was tall. It was wrapped in black cloth. It had no face. Or rather, it had a face of shadow. It held a staff. The staff was made of bone. It was white and smooth.

The hall went quiet. The silence was thick. It was a heavy, woolen thing. It pressed against the ears.

The stranger walked forward. The snow melted on the floor. It made dark, wet spots. The men in the furs stood up. They drew their swords. The steel rang out. It was a clear, bright sound. It cut through the silence.

"Who goes there?" the King’s steward shouted. His voice was loud. It was a barking, angry sound.

The stranger did not answer. It walked to the high table. It stopped before Thomas. It tilted its head. It looked at Thomas.

"I know you," the stranger said. Its voice was like dry leaves. It was a rustling, dry sound.

Thomas felt a chill. It went down his spine. It was a cold, sharp pain.

"I do not know you," Thomas said.

"You are the thief," the stranger said. "You stole the heart of the King."

Thomas laughed. It was a dry, harsh laugh. It was a sound of pain.

"I am no thief," Thomas said. "I am a servant."

"You are a liar," the stranger said. "And liars burn."

The stranger raised the staff. It glowed. It was a pale, blue light. It was the color of ice. The light hit Thomas. It hit him in the chest. It was a blow. It was a physical force. Thomas fell back. He hit the floor. The wood groaned under his weight.

The hall erupted. Men shouted. Women screamed. Swords clashed. It was a chaos of steel and blood. It was a storm of violence.

Thomas lay on the floor. He could not move. His chest hurt. It was a deep, aching pain. It was a pain that lived in the bone.

He looked up. The stranger was gone. The blue light was gone. The fire was low. It was a dying thing.

Julian was by his side. His face was pale. His eyes were wide.

"Thomas," he whispered. "Thomas, what is it? What is this place?"

Thomas tried to speak. His mouth was dry. It was a desert.

"It is the end," Thomas said. "It is always the end."

Julian grabbed his arm. He pulled him up. His grip was tight. It was a desperate, animal thing.

"We must run," Julian said. "We must leave."

"We cannot leave," Thomas said. "The walls are high. The gates are locked. We are trapped."

"Then we die here," Julian said. "I will not be a coward."

Thomas looked at his brother. He saw the strength in him. It was a new thing. It was a hard, cold thing. It was the strength of the wolf.

"Stay with me," Thomas said. "Do not let go."

Julian held his hand. He held it tight. They sat on the floor. The battle continued around them. The sounds of death were close. They were the sounds of the world ending.

Thomas closed his eyes. He remembered the road. He remembered the snow. He remembered the hunger. He remembered the fear.

He remembered his mother. She had died in the cold. She had died with a smile on her face. She had said, *Go, Thomas. Go and find the light.*

Thomas had looked for the light. He had walked for three years. He had found only the dark.

He opened his eyes. The fire was out. The room was dark. The only light was the moon. It shone through the broken window. It was a pale, silver light. It was a beautiful, cold light.

Julian was still holding his hand. His breath was quick. It was a shallow, weak thing.

"Thomas," he said. "I am scared."

"I know," Thomas said. "I am scared too."

"Is it true?" Julian asked. "Did we steal the heart?"

Thomas looked at his brother. He saw the fear in him. He saw the confusion. He saw the love.

"Yes," Thomas said. "We stole it. We stole the heart of the world. And now the world is coming to take it back."

Julian nodded. He understood. He did not argue. He did not fight. He accepted it. It was a strange, quiet acceptance. It was a surrender.

"Then we will give it back," Julian said.

Thomas looked at him. He felt a shock. It was a hot, bright thing. It was a surge of emotion.

"How?" Thomas asked.

Julian looked at the window. He looked at the moon.

"We will go out," Julian said. "We will go into the snow. And we will wait."

Thomas stood up. His legs were weak. They were like water. He leaned on Julian. Julian did not complain. He did not wince. He held Thomas up.

They walked to the door. The door was open. The wind howled. The snow blew in. It was a white, blinding storm.

Thomas stepped out. The cold hit him. It was a physical blow. It was a sharp, painful thing. It numbed his skin. It froze his breath.

He walked into the snow. The snow was deep. It went to his knees. It was a white, silent sea.

Julian walked beside him. He did not speak. He did not look back. He walked into the dark.

Thomas followed. He walked into the dark. He walked into the silence.

He did not know where he was going. He did not know if he would live. He did not know if he would die.

He only knew that he was with his brother. He only knew that his hand was in Julian’s hand.

The snow fell. It fell softly. It covered the world. It covered the blood. It covered the bones. It covered the past.

Thomas felt a change. It was a slow, deep thing. It was a settling. It was a peace.

The pain in his chest went away. It was a fading thing. It was a ghost.

He felt light. He felt free.

The storm raged. It was a loud, violent thing. It was the voice of the world. It was the voice of God.

Thomas did not care. He was not afraid.

He held Julian’s hand. He held it tight.

They walked on. They walked into the white. They walked into the nothing.

The fire in the hall was out. The men were dead. The King was dead. The world was quiet.

Only the snow remained. Only the white remained.

And in the white, there was no one. And in the white, there was everyone.

Thomas closed his eyes. He smiled. It was a small, sad thing. It was a smile of release.

It was a smile of peace.

The snow buried them. It buried their names. It buried their sins. It buried their love.

It buried the distant crown.

It was gone.

It was finally gone.