The feast was loud. It was a roar of silver and bone. The hall was vast. The air was thick. It smelled of wine. It smelled of sweat. It smelled of fear.

Margaret sat at the edge. She was small. She was quiet. Her hands were still. They rested on her lap. They were clean. They were pale.

The King spoke. He raised a cup. He raised a sword. The sword was gold. It was bright. It was cruel. He spoke of order. He spoke of law. He spoke of the stain. The stain was on the city. The stain was on the soul. He named the source. He named a name. It was not her name. But it was close. It was close enough.

Margaret watched. She did not blink. She did not breathe. She was a stone. She was a mirror. The light hit her. The light broke.

She was the Seeker. She was the Detective. She looked for the truth. The truth was hidden. The truth was deep. The truth was cold.

The hall was closed. The doors were shut. The windows were barred. Iron bars. Black iron. No one left. No one entered. It was a box. It was a tomb. We were inside. We were all inside.

The King’s men moved. They were tall. They were strong. They wore black. They carried torches. The fire danced. The fire lied. The shadows stretched. The shadows grew.

Margaret stood up. Her chair scraped. The sound was sharp. The sound was loud. The room went quiet. The silence was heavy. The silence was thick.

She walked to the center. The floor was cold. The stone was cold. She walked slowly. She walked with purpose. She walked with pain.

The King looked at her. His eyes were dark. His eyes were hard. He did not smile. He did not frown. He was still. He was stone.

Margaret stopped. She looked at him. She looked at the sword. The sword was still. The sword was waiting.

She thought of the old days. She thought of the fire. She thought of the ash. She thought of the smell. The smell of smoke. The smell of loss. The smell of change.

The King spoke. His voice was low. His voice was soft. He asked a question. He asked her name. He asked her role. He asked her guilt.

Margaret did not answer. She did not need to. Her silence was an answer. Her silence was a wall. Her silence was a door.

The King’s men stepped forward. They surrounded her. They blocked her path. They blocked her eyes. They were a wall. They were a cage.

Margaret looked at them. She saw their faces. She saw their fear. She saw their doubt. They were afraid. They were lost. They were blind.

She saw the truth. The truth was there. The truth was plain. The truth was simple.

The King was not the King. The King was a puppet. The King was a mask. The King was a lie. The real power was elsewhere. The real power was below. The real power was in the dark. The real power was in the cellar.

Margaret knew this. She had always known. She had seen it. She had heard it. She had felt it.

The King laughed. It was a dry sound. It was a hollow sound. It was a cruel sound.

He raised the sword. He pointed it at her. The tip was sharp. The tip was red. The tip was hungry.

Margaret did not flinch. She did not move. She did not look away. She looked into his eyes. She looked into his soul. She saw the void. She saw the emptiness. She saw the nothing.

The sword fell. It was fast. It was quick. It was final.

But it missed. It missed her neck. It missed her throat. It hit the air. It hit the dust. It hit the nothing.

The King was confused. The King was angry. The King was afraid.

Margaret smiled. It was a small smile. It was a sad smile. It was a true smile.

She spoke. Her voice was soft. Her voice was clear. Her voice was strong.

She told the truth. She told the whole truth. She told the ugly truth. She told the golden truth.

The truth was this. The King was dead. The King had been dead for years. The King was a ghost. The King was a memory. The King was a scar.

The real King was her. The real power was hers. The real law was hers. The real order was hers.

The hall shook. The walls shook. The floor shook. The air shook.

The King fell. He fell to his knees. He fell to the ground. He fell into the dark.

Margaret walked over. She walked to him. She knelt down. She knelt beside him.

She took his hand. His hand was cold. His hand was dry. His hand was dead.

She held his hand. She held it tight. She held it firm.

She looked at the others. She looked at the guards. She looked at the lords. They were silent. They were still. They were afraid.

Margaret stood up. She held the dead King’s hand. She held the golden sword. She held the truth.

She walked to the door. The door was open. The door was wide. The door was dark.

She walked out. She walked into the night. She walked into the cold. She walked into the rain.

The rain fell. The rain was cold. The rain was wet. The rain was clean.

She walked fast. She walked hard. She walked far.

She did not look back. She did not stop. She did not rest.

She was alone. She was free. She was lost.

The city slept. The city dreamed. The city forgot.

Margaret remembered. Margaret carried. Margaret held.

She walked through the streets. The streets were empty. The streets were dark. The streets were wet.

She walked to the river. The river was wide. The river was deep. The river was black.

She stopped at the edge. She looked down. The water moved. The water flowed. The water sang.

She looked at her hand. The hand was still. The hand was clean. The hand was pale.

She looked at the sword. The sword was still. The sword was bright. The sword was cold.

She threw the sword. It fell. It hit the water. It made a sound. It made a splash. It made a wave.

The wave spread. The wave grew. The wave faded.

The sword sank. It sank deep. It sank dark. It sank gone.

Margaret looked at the water. The water was still. The water was calm. The water was clear.

She saw her reflection. The face was pale. The eyes were dark. The mouth was tight.

She saw the scar. The scar was gold. The scar was bright. The scar was true.

The scar was on her face. The scar was on her soul. The scar was on the world.

She touched her face. She touched the scar. She felt the pain. She felt the heat. She felt the life.

The scar was not a mark. The scar was a door. The scar was a key. The scar was a gift.

She closed her eyes. She opened her eyes. The world was different. The world was new. The world was old.

She turned away. She turned from the river. She turned from the past.

She walked home. The house was small. The house was dark. The house was quiet.

She entered. She closed the door. She locked the door.

She sat down. She sat in the chair. She sat in the dark.

She waited. She waited for the end. She waited for the dawn.

The night was long. The night was dark. The night was cold.

She did not sleep. She did not eat. She did not speak.

She watched. She listened. She felt.

The dawn came. The light came. The sun came.

The light hit the window. The light hit the floor. The light hit her face.

Margaret opened her eyes. She saw the light. She saw the gold. She saw the truth.

The truth was simple. The truth was clear. The truth was free.

She stood up. She walked to the window. She opened the window.

The air came in. The air was fresh. The air was sweet. The air was new.

She breathed in. She breathed out. She breathed life.

She looked at the city. The city woke. The city moved. The city lived.

She saw the people. They walked. They worked. They lived. They did not know. They did not care. They did not see.

Margaret saw. Margaret knew. Margaret held.

She closed the window. She locked the window.

She walked to the mirror. She looked at herself. She looked at the scar.

The scar was still there. The scar was still gold. The scar was still true.

She smiled. It was a small smile. It was a sad smile. It was a true smile.

She was the Queen. She was the King. She was the Law. She was the Order.

She was the Scar. She was the Gold. She was the Truth.

The story ends. The light fades. The sound stops. The silence returns.

The silence is full. The silence is deep. The silence is true.

Margaret is still. Margaret is here. Margaret is gone.

The gold remains. The gold shines. The gold burns.

The scar is gold. The scar is life. The scar is death.

The end is the beginning. The beginning is the end. The circle is closed. The circle is open. The circle is free.

She sat. She waited. She was.

The light died. The dark came. The night was long. The night was deep. The night was true.

She was alone. She was free. She was home.

The story is done. The words are gone. The sound is gone. The light is gone.

Only the silence remains. Only the truth remains. Only the gold remains.

The scar is gold. The gold is scar. The scar is free.