The hall smelled of roasted boar and wet wool. It was the Feast of St. Crispin, and the castle of Ashworth was a beast of stone and fire. Candles guttered in the iron sconces, throwing long, trembling shadows against the vaulted ceiling.

Thomas sat at the foot of the long table. He was a clerk. He was a man of ink and ledgers, of quiet rooms and silent prayers. He did not belong here. He belonged in the archive. He belonged in the dust.

"Drink, Thomas," said Lord Ashworth. The lord’s voice was a low rumble, like a cart wheel on gravel. He held a goblet of ale, dark as night. "You look pale. You look like a ghost in a suit of armor."

Thomas smiled. It was a thin smile. "I am well, my lord. I am merely observing."

"Observing?" The lord laughed. It was a sharp sound. "We are a feast of flesh. Observe the meat. Observe the blood."

Thomas looked at the table. There were twenty men there. They were soldiers. They were killers. They were laughing. They were drinking. They were alive.

Thomas looked at his hands. They were clean. They were soft. They were the hands of a man who wrote words. Words that bound. Words that defined. Words that trapped.

He looked at the ceiling. The vaults were high. They were made of stone. They were ancient. They were heavy.

He felt a pull. It was a sensation in his chest. It was like a hook. It was like a chain.

"Thomas," said a voice. It was soft. It was warm. It was close.

He turned.

It was Elias.

Elias was a squire. He was young. He was bright. He had eyes like polished steel. He looked at Thomas with a hunger that was not for food.

"Come with me," Elias said. "Away from the table. Away from the noise."

Thomas stood up. His legs felt weak. "Where?"

"Up," Elias said. "To the gallery. To the glass."

Thomas followed. He moved through the crowd. The soldiers pushed him aside. They smelled of sweat and iron. They were loud. They were rough. They were free.

They climbed the stairs. The stairs were stone. They were cold. They spiraled up into the dark.

They reached the top. The gallery was a narrow strip of air. It overlooked the hall below. The firelight flickered against the floor. The shadows danced.

In the center of the gallery was a window.

It was a single pane of glass. It was set in the stone. It was old. It was cracked.

Thomas stopped.

He looked at the glass.

The glass looked at him.

It was a mirror.

But it was not just a mirror.

It was a door.

He saw himself in the glass. But it was not his reflection. It was not the clerk in the black robes. It was a man in armor. He was tall. He was strong. He was holding a sword. He was standing in a field. The field was red. The sky was gray.

Thomas felt the pull again. It was stronger now. It was a tug in his bones.

"Elias," Thomas said. His voice was a whisper. "What is this?"

Elias stepped beside him. He looked at the glass. His face was pale. "It is the Eye of the Founder," he said. "It is the heart of the castle."

"It is a lie," Thomas said. "It is a trick of the light."

"No," Elias said. "It is a choice. The castle is a prison. The stone is a cage. The glass is the key."

Thomas looked at the image in the glass. The man in the armor was looking at him. The man in the armor was smiling.

"I am free," the man in the glass said. His voice was Thomas’s voice. But it was harder. It was louder. "I am no longer bound by the ink. I am no longer bound by the silence. I am the storm."

Thomas felt a tear in his cheek. He did not know if it was water or blood.

"Take it," Elias said. "Take the freedom. Break the glass. Let the air in."

Thomas looked at the crack in the glass. It was small. It was thin. It was a line of white light.

He raised his hand.

His hand was shaking.

"I am a clerk," he said. "I am a servant. I am a coward."

"You are a hero," Elias said. "You are the only one who can see it. The others are blind. They are drunk on the illusion. You are sober. You are ready."

Thomas looked at the hall below. The lords were laughing. The soldiers were singing. They were happy. They were safe. They were dead.

Thomas looked at the glass.

He was free.

But what was freedom?

Freedom was a knife. Freedom was a wound. Freedom was a drop in the ocean.

He thought of his office. He thought of the ledgers. He thought of the quiet. He thought of the peace.

He thought of the pain.

The pain of being bound. The pain of being known. The pain of being small.

He wanted to be big. He wanted to be loud. He wanted to be the storm.

He struck the glass.

His knuckles hit the surface.

It was cold. It was hard. It was unyielding.

Nothing happened.

He struck it again.

His knuckles bled.

A drop of red hit the glass. It sat there, bright and wet.

"Break it," Elias said. "Break it now. Do not stop."

Thomas struck it again.

And again.

And again.

The glass did not break.

The glass did not move.

The glass did not care.

Thomas fell to his knees. His hand was broken. The bones were twisted. The flesh was torn. He held his hand in front of his face. He watched the blood drip onto the stone floor.

It was a dark pool. It was a small lake.

Elias watched him. His face was neutral. His eyes were cold.

"It does not work," Thomas said. "It is just glass."

"No," Elias said. "It is a test."

"What test?"

"The test of will. The castle does not yield to force. It yields to surrender."

"Surrender?"

"Give up the clerk. Give up the fear. Give up the self. Become the stone. Become the glass. Become the void."

Thomas looked at his hand. The pain was blinding. It was a white fire. It was a bright light.

He looked at the glass.

The man in the armor was gone.

The glass was empty.

It was just a pane of glass.

It was just a mirror.

It was just a wall.

Thomas laughed. It was a dry sound. It was a broken sound.

"You are a fool," he said. "You are a liar. You are a child playing with fire."

Elias did not answer. He turned. He walked away. He descended the stairs. He went back to the feast.

Thomas was alone.

He was alone in the dark.

He was alone with the pain.

He was alone with the silence.

He looked at the glass.

He saw his face.

It was old. It was tired. It was full of grief.

He touched the glass.

It was smooth. It was cold.

He pressed his forehead against it.

He closed his eyes.

He felt the pull.

It was gone.

The hook was gone.

The chain was gone.

He was still bound.

He was still a clerk.

He was still a servant.

He was still a man.

He opened his eyes.

The glass was cracked.

It was a spiderweb of white lines.

It was a shattering.

It was a breaking.

But it was not a door.

It was a mirror.

And the mirror was breaking.

And with the mirror, the self was breaking.

And with the self, the world was breaking.

Thomas stood up.

His leg buckled. He fell.

He crawled to the door.

He opened it.

He went down.

The hall was loud.

The hall was bright.

The hall was real.

He walked to the table.

He sat down.

The lords looked at him.

"Thomas?" said Lord Ashworth. "What is wrong? You look terrible."

Thomas looked at the lord.

He looked at the food.

He looked at the drink.

He looked at the men.

He smiled.

It was a real smile.

It was a sad smile.

It was a free smile.

"I am fine, my lord," he said. "I am just... awake."

The lord frowned.

"Awoke?"

"Yes," Thomas said. "I have seen the truth."

"Truth?"

"The glass," Thomas said. "It is breaking."

The lord looked at the window.

He saw the crack.

He saw the light.

He saw the shadow.

He did not see the truth.

He saw a flaw.

He saw a defect.

He saw a problem.

"Get it fixed," the lord said. "Call the mason. Fix the glass."

Thomas nodded.

He picked up his goblet.

He drank the ale.

It was bitter.

It was cold.

It was real.

He drank it all.

He felt the liquid burn his throat.

He felt the liquid burn his stomach.

He felt the liquid fill his body.

He was full.

He was heavy.

He was grounded.

He was here.

He was now.

He was free.

He was free from the fantasy.

He was free from the myth.

He was free from the self.

He was free from the need to be more.

He was just Thomas.

He was just a man.

He was just a clerk.

And that was enough.

And that was everything.

The feast continued.

The music played.

The lights flickered.

The shadows danced.

Thomas sat in the dark.

He sat in the light.

He sat in the middle.

He sat in the moment.

He was still.

He was present.

He was free.

The glass shattered.

It did not shatter loudly.

It did not shatter with a bang.

It shattered with a sigh.

It was a soft sound.

It was a quiet sound.

It was a sound of release.

The pieces fell.

They fell to the floor.

They fell to the stone.

They were gone.

The window was empty.

The air came in.

It was cold.

It was fresh.

It was wild.

It was free.

Thomas breathed it in.

He breathed it out.

He breathed it in.

He breathed it out.

He was alive.

He was human.

He was free.

The end.