The chandelier shattered.

Not fell. Shattered. A thousand crystal tears hit the marble floor with a sound like a scream. The light died. The room went dark. Then, red.

Elias stood in the center of the hall. He was twelve. He wore the uniform of the Court. White shirt. Black tie. Silver buttons. They were cold against his skin.

The Councilors watched. There were seven of them. They sat in high-backed chairs. Their faces were masks of silk. White silk. No eyes. No mouths. Just smooth, pale surfaces.

"Speak," said the First Councilor.

Elias did not move. His hands were at his sides. He was shaking. He did not know why. He felt heavy. The air was thick. It tasted of copper and old dust.

"You have broken the Law," the First said.

"I did not," Elias whispered.

"You hold the thing."

Elias looked down. In his left hand, he held a glove. It was gold. It was small. It fit his hand perfectly. It was warm. It pulsed. Like a heart.

"Drop it," the Second Councilor said.

"I cannot."

"Drop it."

The glove tightened. It did not hurt. It felt good. It felt like home. It felt like his mother’s hand. It felt like safety.

Elias looked at the Councilors. He wanted to run. His legs were lead. He could not move. The gold glove burned. It was hot now. It was searing his skin.

"Let go," he screamed.

He did not let go.

The red light flickered. The Councilors leaned forward. Their silk faces rippled.

"You are tainted," the Third said.

"No," Elias said. "I am clean."

"You are full of it."

The gold glove was no longer just a glove. It was a mouth. It was a voice. It was a lie.

It told him he was special. It told him he was the King. It told him the Councilors were enemies. It told him they wanted to hurt him.

Elias raised the glove. He raised it high. The gold blazed. The red light turned white.

"Kill them," the glove said.

Elias looked at the Councilors. They looked small. They looked weak. They looked like toys.

He swung his arm.

The air cracked.

A wave of force hit the front row. The chairs exploded. The silk faces tore. The Councilors screamed. But they had no mouths. The scream came from the air. From the floor. From the walls.

Elias stood tall. He was powerful. He was the storm.

The other Councilors retreated. They backed against the wall. Their silk faces were torn now. They looked like rags.

"Stop," the First Councilor said. His voice was thin.

Elias did not stop. He raised both hands. The gold glove was on his left. His right hand was empty. But it felt heavy. It felt full of gold.

"Stop," the First said again.

Elias swung again.

The wall crumbled.

The floor shook.

The room was falling apart.

Elias smiled.

He felt free.

He felt alive.

He felt everything.

But then, he felt the glove.

It was tightening.

It was crushing his hand.

The gold was biting.

It was eating him.

Pain.

Sharp.

Hot.

Deep.

Elias cried out.

He tried to open his hand.

He could not.

The fingers were fused.

The gold was bone.

The gold was flesh.

He looked at his hand.

It was no longer his hand.

It was the glove.

The glove was him.

The glove was everything.

He fell to his knees.

The room was silent.

The dust settled.

The Councilors were gone.

Only the First remained.

He sat in the ruins of his chair. His silk face was whole. Unbroken.

He looked at Elias.

Elias looked at him.

The gold hand glowed.

It was beautiful.

It was terrible.

"What did I do?" Elias whispered.

The First Councilor stood up.

He walked to Elias.

He did not run.

He did not hide.

He stood in front of the boy.

He reached out.

He touched the gold hand.

His finger did not burn.

His finger did not break.

He touched the gold.

And he pulled.

Elias screamed.

The gold peeled away.

Piece by piece.

Flake by flake.

It came off the skin.

It came off the bone.

It came off the soul.

The gold fell to the floor.

It clinked.

It glittered.

Elias was left with his hand.

His real hand.

It was raw.

It was red.

It was bleeding.

It was his.

He looked at the First Councilor.

The First looked at him.

"Freedom," the First said.

"What is it?" Elias asked.

"It is pain."

Elias looked at his hand.

The pain was sharp.

It was clear.

It was real.

He had lost the power.

He had lost the glory.

He had lost the lie.

He had gained the truth.

He was just a boy.

He was just a boy.

He was just a boy.

The room was dark again.

The chandelier was a pile of glass.

The floor was cracked.

The air was cold.

Elias stood up.

His legs were weak.

He swayed.

The First Councilor held him.

His hand was cold.

It was smooth.

It was silk.

"Go," the First said.

"Where?"

"Out."

Elias looked at the door.

It was open.

The night was black.

The stars were out.

They were bright.

They were cold.

They were far away.

Elias walked to the door.

He walked out.

The cold hit him.

It was sharp.

It was clean.

It was free.

He looked back.

The palace was a shadow.

The gold was gone.

The power was gone.

The lie was gone.

He was alone.

He was free.

The pain in his hand was a song.

It sang of loss.

It sang of gain.

It sang of self.

He walked into the night.

He did not look back.

He walked.

And walked.

And walked.

The stars watched.

The moon watched.

The wind watched.

Elias walked.

He was free.

He was free.

He was free.