The hall smelled of beeswax and old blood.

Mistress Aldous stood at the head of the long oak table. Her hands were steady. They were always steady. She held a silver cup. The liquid inside was dark. It did not reflect the candlelight. It swallowed it.

“Eat,” she said. Her voice was a dry leaf skittering on stone.

The scholars sat in rows. They were thin. Their robes were grey. The fabric had been washed so many times it was translucent. You could see the veins in their forearms. They looked like roots exposed to the sun.

Mistress Aldous was not a scholar. She was the Keeper.

She wore the mantle.

The mantle was red. It was not a bright red. It was the color of a bruise three days old. It was heavy. It pooled on the floor behind her. It moved when she moved. It breathed when she breathed.

“Today,” Aldous said, “we test the binding.”

The scholars flinched. They looked at each other. They did not speak. Speaking was a risk. Words were weight. Weight attracted the mantle.

Arthur sat in the third row. He was young. He had ink on his fingers. He had a book in his lap. The book was closed. He stared at the spine.

He knew the rule.

Do not look at the mantle.

Do not speak of the mantle.

Do not touch the mantle.

But he wanted to.

He wanted it the way a drowning man wants air.

Aldous raised the cup.

“Thomas,” she said.

Thomas rose. He was old. His knees popped. He walked to the head of the table. He bowed. His spine curved like a question mark.

Aldous poured the liquid into a small bowl. It hissed.

“Drink,” she said.

Thomas drank. He grimaced. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Did you see it?” Aldous asked.

“I saw nothing,” Thomas said.

“Did you feel it?”

“I felt heat.”

Aldous nodded. She poured more.

The scholars watched. Their eyes were wide. Their pupils were small. They were afraid.

Arthur looked down at his book.

The book was heavy. It was bound in leather. The leather was cracked. He had written in the margins. He had written his name.

*Arthur Pendelton.*

He had written it in blue ink.

The ink was fading.

He had written it five years ago. Now it was barely visible.

He rubbed his thumb over the letters.

They were gone.

He looked up.

Aldous was watching him.

Her eyes were black. They were deep. They were holes in the world.

“Arthur,” she said.

Arthur stood up.

His legs shook.

He walked to the head of the table.

He did not bow.

He looked at the mantle.

It pulsed.

It was alive.

It was hungry.

“I want to know,” Arthur said.

The hall went silent.

The candles flickered.

The shadows lengthened.

Aldous smiled.

It was a thin smile. It did not reach her eyes.

“You do not know what you ask,” she said.

“I ask for the truth.”

“Truth is a wound.”

“I am ready to bleed.”

Aldous looked at the mantle.

The mantle looked at Arthur.

It moved.

It crawled over the table.

It slid toward Arthur.

The other scholars screamed.

Thomas fell to the floor. He clawed at his face. His eyes were bleeding.

“Stop!” Aldous shouted. Her voice cracked. “Stop it!”

The mantle ignored her.

It reached Arthur.

It touched his hand.

It was cold.

It was wet.

It was soft.

It wrapped around his fingers.

It climbed up his arm.

It covered his shoulder.

Arthur felt a surge of power.

It was not pain.

It was clarity.

He saw the room.

He saw the scholars.

He saw their minds.

He saw their fears.

He saw their desires.

He saw their lies.

He saw his own lie.

He had not wanted the truth.

He had wanted the power.

He had wanted to be the Keeper.

He had wanted to wear the mantle.

He had wanted to be immortal.

The mantle tightened.

Arthur gasped.

The color drained from his face.

He fell to his knees.

The mantle covered him.

It swallowed him.

The hall was empty.

Only Aldous remained.

She stood alone.

She held the silver cup.

The cup was empty.

She looked at the spot where Arthur had been.

There was a stain on the floor.

It was blue.

It was ink.

It was fading.

She picked up a rag.

She wiped the stain.

The stain disappeared.

She wiped the table.

The table was clean.

She wiped the air.

The air was clear.

She turned to the door.

She walked out.

The door closed.

The lock clicked.

The hall was dark.

The candles burned.

The mantle lay on the table.

It was still.

It was quiet.

It was waiting.

Aldous walked down the corridor.

The walls were stone.

The stone was cold.

The floor was cold.

Her feet were cold.

She walked to her chamber.

She locked the door.

She sat on her bed.

She opened her chest.

Inside her chest, there was a pocket.

In the pocket, there was a letter.

The letter was yellow.

The paper was thin.

She unfolded it.

She read it.

The letter was from her brother.

His name was Elias.

He was a scholar.

He had died ten years ago.

He had died in the hall.

He had tried to take the mantle.

He had failed.

The mantle had eaten him.

She had buried him.

She had not told anyone.

She had kept his letter.

She had kept his name.

She had kept his memory.

She was the Keeper because he was dead.

She was the Keeper because she loved him.

She was the Keeper because she was his sister.

She was the Keeper because she was alone.

She folded the letter.

She put it back in the pocket.

She closed her chest.

She lay down.

She closed her eyes.

She dreamed of Elias.

He was young.

He was smiling.

He was holding a book.

The book was open.

The pages were white.

The words were black.

The words were fading.

Elias looked at her.

He mouthed a word.

She could not hear it.

She could not see it.

She could not feel it.

She woke up.

The sun was rising.

The light was pale.

The light was grey.

She sat up.

She felt the weight of the mantle.

It was on her shoulders.

It was on her back.

It was on her soul.

She stood up.

She walked to the mirror.

The mirror was cracked.

The glass was old.

She looked at her reflection.

Her face was old.

Her hair was white.

Her eyes were dark.

She touched her face.

The skin was dry.

The skin was thin.

She was dying.

The mantle was eating her.

It was slow.

It was steady.

It was inevitable.

She would die.

The mantle would remain.

The mantle would wait.

The mantle would find a new body.

It would find a new scholar.

It would find a new Arthur.

It would find a new Elias.

It would eat him.

It would eat them all.

She smiled.

It was a sad smile.

It was a tired smile.

It was a final smile.

She walked out of her chamber.

She walked down the corridor.

She walked to the hall.

The hall was empty.

The table was bare.

The chairs were empty.

The candles were out.

The silence was loud.

She sat at the head of the table.

She placed her hands on the wood.

The wood was cold.

The wood was hard.

The wood was real.

She closed her eyes.

She breathed in.

She breathed out.

She thought of Elias.

She thought of Arthur.

She thought of the others.

They were all the same.

They were all hungry.

They were all afraid.

They were all weak.

She was strong.

She was the wall.

She was the shield.

She was the lock.

She was the key.

She was the gate.

She was the keeper.

She was the end.

The mantle pulsed.

It was behind her.

It was around her.

It was inside her.

It was her.

She was it.

It was her.

There was no difference.

There was no self.

There was only the keeping.

There was only the waiting.

There was only the silence.

The sun rose higher.

The light entered the hall.

The light hit the table.

The light hit the floor.

The light hit the empty chairs.

The light faded.

The light disappeared.

The hall was dark again.

The mantle waited.

The mantle breathed.

The mantle dreamed.

It dreamed of the next one.

It dreamed of the ink.

It dreamed of the name.

It dreamed of the blood.

It dreamed of the silence.

It dreamed of the end.

The end was near.

The end was here.

The end was now.

The end was always.

The mantle was content.

The mantle was satisfied.

The mantle was full.

The mantle was empty.

The mantle was everything.

The mantle was nothing.

The mantle was the story.

The story was the mantle.

The reader is the mantle.

The reader is the keeper.

The reader is the one who waits.

The reader is the one who watches.

The reader is the one who knows.

The reader is the one who is afraid.

The reader is the one who is hungry.

The reader is the one who is alone.

The reader is the one who is dying.

The reader is the one who is fading.

The reader is the one who is gone.

The story ends.

The page turns.

The ink dries.

The name fades.

The silence remains.