The fog clings to the stone like a wet shroud. You stand alone in the hall. The air is thick. It tastes of salt and old iron. Your boots are heavy. They sink into the moss that grows between the flagstones. The floor is cold. It bites through your leather. You do not move. You wait. The shadows stretch. They reach for your ankles. You are the sentinel. You are the wall. Nothing passes you.

The command is clear. Hold the line. The King is above. He is silent. He is distant. You hear his footsteps. They are light. They are quick. They echo in the vaulted ceiling. You lift your gaze. You see the dust motes dancing in the pale light. They are like tiny ghosts. They drift without purpose. You focus on them. They anchor you.

A figure approaches. It is not a ghost. It is a man. He wears the livery of the court. His face is pale. His eyes are wide. He is breathing hard. The sound is sharp. It cuts the silence. You do not lower your spear. You hold it tight. The wood creaks in your grip.

"Who goes?" you ask. Your voice is low. It is rough. It is like gravel.

The man stops. He looks at you. He looks at your spear. He looks at your face. His lips tremble. He tries to speak. The words fail him. He swallows. His throat works. He tries again.

"I am... I am a friend," he says. His voice is thin. It is weak. It does not carry.

You do not believe him. You know the court. You know the lies. They weave them like tapestry. They are fine. They are beautiful. They are false.

"State your name," you say. The words are sharp. They are steel.

The man blinks. His eyes fill. He looks away. He looks at the floor. He looks at the moss. He looks at his own hands. They are shaking. They are white.

"Forgive me," he whispers.

You step forward. Your boot crushes a stone. The sound is loud. It is sudden. The man flinches. He backs away. He hits the wall. He slides down. He sits on the ground. He looks small. He looks broken.

You do not help him. You hold your ground. You are the law. You are the order. You are the stone. The man looks up. Tears run down his cheeks. They dry quickly. The air is dry.

"I was sent to kill you," he says.

The words hang in the air. They do not move. They do not fade. You do not move. You do not blink. You wait for the strike. You wait for the blade. You wait for the end.

The man laughs. It is a dry sound. It is like a cough. It is not happy. It is not sad. It is empty.

"But I did not," he says.

You look at him. You see the fear in his eyes. You see the guilt. It is heavy. It is dark. It sits on his shoulders. It bends him.

"Who sent you?" you ask. Your voice is calm. It is cold.

The man shakes his head. He does not answer. He knows the answer. You know the answer. The King. The power above. The will that is not yours. The will that is not his.

You look at the ceiling. The shadows move. They dance. They whisper. You hear the voices. They are many. They are one. They say your name. They say his name. They say the name of the King.

You turn to the man. You see the sword at his belt. It is drawn. It is short. It is sharp. He holds it. He does not raise it. He holds it against his chest. He holds it against his heart.

"I cannot do it," he says. His voice is soft. It is almost gone.

You do not reach for your spear. You do not strike. You watch. You see the moment pass. You see the choice made. It is not yours. It is not his. It is the fate of the world. It is the wheel turning.

The man closes his eyes. He lowers the sword. It clatters on the stone. The sound is final. It is absolute.

You step over him. You do not kick him. You do not hurt him. You walk past. You walk toward the stairs. You walk toward the light. The light is white. It is blinding. It is pure.

You climb the steps. They are high. They are steep. Your legs burn. Your lungs burn. You do not stop. You do not breathe. You ascend. The air grows thin. The air grows cold. The shadows thin. The light grows strong.

You reach the top. You stand in the room. It is empty. It is vast. The walls are white. The floor is white. The sky is white. There is no color. There is no shape. There is only the light.

You see the throne. It is high. It is empty. The King is not there. The King is nowhere. The King is everywhere. The King is the light. The King is the dark. The King is the space between.

You do not bow. You do not kneel. You stand. You are the soldier. You are the guard. You are the witness.

You look at your hands. They are clean. They are strong. They are yours. You look at the door. It is open. It is wide. It leads out. It leads home.

You walk to the door. You step through. The light fades. The dark returns. The fog returns. The stone returns.

You are in the hall. You are alone. The man is gone. The sword is gone. The fear is gone. You are here. You are now.

You pick up your spear. The wood is warm. It is alive. You feel the pulse in it. It is your pulse. It is the pulse of the earth. It is the pulse of the stars.

You look at the fog. It is thick. It is wet. It is cold. You do not hate it. You do not fear it. You accept it. You hold it. You are the holder. You are the one who stays.

The years pass. They are quick. They are slow. They are the same. You stay. You watch. You guard. The court changes. The faces change. The names change. The King changes. The throne changes. The room changes. The hall remains. The stone remains. The fog remains.

You grow old. Your hair turns gray. Your back bends. Your eyes dim. You do not leave. You do not die. You are the stone. You are the wall. You are the silence.

A new man comes. He is young. He is strong. He is afraid. He holds a sword. He looks at you. He looks at your spear. He looks at your face.

"Who goes?" you ask. Your voice is low. It is rough. It is like gravel.

The man stops. He looks at you. He looks at your spear. He looks at your face. His lips tremble. He tries to speak. The words fail him.

"I am... I am a friend," he says. His voice is thin. It is weak. It does not carry.

You do not believe him. You know the court. You know the lies.

"State your name," you say. The words are sharp. They are steel.

The man blinks. His eyes fill. He looks away. He looks at the floor. He looks at the moss. He looks at his own hands. They are shaking. They are white.

"Forgive me," he whispers.

You step forward. Your boot crushes a stone. The sound is loud. It is sudden. The man flinches. He backs away. He hits the wall. He slides down. He sits on the ground. He looks small. He looks broken.

You do not help him. You hold your ground. You are the law. You are the order. You are the stone. The man looks up. Tears run down his cheeks. They dry quickly. The air is dry.

"I was sent to kill you," he says.

The words hang in the air. They do not move. They do not fade. You do not move. You do not blink. You wait for the strike. You wait for the blade. You wait for the end.

The man laughs. It is a dry sound. It is like a cough. It is not happy. It is not sad. It is empty.

"But I did not," he says.

You look at him. You see the fear in his eyes. You see the guilt. It is heavy. It is dark. It sits on his shoulders. It bends him.

"Who sent you?" you ask. Your voice is calm. It is cold.

The man shakes his head. He does not answer. He knows the answer. You know the answer. The King. The power above. The will that is not yours. The will that is not his.

You look at the ceiling. The shadows move. They dance. They whisper. You hear the voices. They are many. They are one. They say your name. They say his name. They say the name of the King.

You turn to the man. You see the sword at his belt. It is drawn. It is short. It is sharp. He holds it. He does not raise it. He holds it against his chest. He holds it against his heart.

"I cannot do it," he says. His voice is soft. It is almost gone.

You do not reach for your spear. You do not strike. You watch. You see the moment pass. You see the choice made. It is not yours. It is not his. It is the fate of the world. It is the wheel turning.

The man closes his eyes. He lowers the sword. It clatters on the stone. The sound is final. It is absolute.

You step over him. You do not kick him. You do not hurt him. You walk past. You walk toward the stairs. You walk toward the light. The light is white. It is blinding. It is pure.

You climb the steps. They are high. They are steep. Your legs burn. Your lungs burn. You do not stop. You do not breathe. You ascend. The air grows thin. The air grows cold. The shadows thin. The light grows strong.

You reach the top. You stand in the room. It is empty. It is vast. The walls are white. The floor is white. The sky is white. There is no color. There is no shape. There is only the light.

You see the throne. It is high. It is empty. The King is not there. The King is nowhere. The King is everywhere. The King is the light. The King is the dark. The King is the space between.

You do not bow. You do not kneel. You stand. You are the soldier. You are the guard. You are the witness.

You look at your hands. They are clean. They are strong. They are yours. You look at the door. It is open. It is wide. It leads out. It leads home.

You walk to the door. You step through. The light fades. The dark returns. The fog returns. The stone returns.

You are in the hall. You are alone. The man is gone. The sword is gone. The fear is gone. You are here. You are now.

You pick up your spear. The wood is warm. It is alive. You feel the pulse in it. It is your pulse. It is the pulse of the earth. It is the pulse of the stars.

You look at the fog. It is thick. It is wet. It is cold. You do not hate it. You do not fear it. You accept it. You hold it. You are the holder. You are the one who stays.

The fog lifts. It does not vanish. It changes. It becomes mist. It becomes air. It becomes light. You breathe it in. You feel it fill you. It is cold. It is clean. It is free.

You drop the spear. It falls. It breaks. The wood splinters. The iron rusts. The stone cracks. The hall crumbles. The light floods in. It is bright. It is warm. It is kind.

You do not run. You do not hide. You stand in the light. You feel the warmth on your face. You feel the sun on your skin. You feel the wind in your hair.

You are old. You are tired. You are done. The duty is over. The watch is ended. The ghost is gone. The ghost was you. The ghost was the fear. The ghost was the wall.

You close your eyes. You smile. The smile is small. The smile is soft. The smile is real.

You open your eyes. The light is gone. The hall is gone. The fog is gone. You are in a field. The grass is green. The sky is blue. The sun is high.

You are young. You are strong. You are free. You are home.