The floorboards groan. You feel it in your teeth.

The air is thick with dust. It hangs in the shafts of light. You are in the high tower. The stone is cold. It bites into your back.

You look down. Your hands are trembling. They are red. Not with paint. With blood. The blood is yours. Or perhaps it is not. It is hard to tell. The light is dim here. The shadows are long. They stretch across the room like grasping fingers.

You are the Captain. You know this. The iron on your shoulder is cold. It is heavy. It pulls you down. You have worn it for ten years. It is part of your skin now. Or so you think.

The door opens. A knock. Three sharp raps.

You do not move. You cannot move. Your legs are locked. The stone floor is slick. You slip. Your knee hits the edge of the table. Pain. Sharp. Bright. It blooms in your chest.

Who is it?

It is the King.

He does not enter. He stands in the doorway. He is tall. He is thin. His face is a mask of indifference. He holds a glass of wine. The liquid is dark. It looks like old blood.

"Captain," he says. His voice is soft. It does not echo. It stays close to him.

You try to speak. Your throat is dry. A croak escapes. You clear it. You stand. Your joints crack. The pain is a dull throb now. It settles in your bones.

"Your Majesty," you say. You bow. The iron on your shoulder scrapes against the wood of the table. A scratch. A mark.

The King nods. He steps inside. He does not look at you. He looks at the wall. There is a crack in the plaster. It runs from the floor to the ceiling. Like a vein. Like a river.

"Did you sleep?" he asks.

"No, sire."

"Good. Fear is a good guard. It does not tire. It does not dream."

You look at his hands. They are clean. Nails trimmed. No dirt. No blood. You look at your hands again. The red is drying. It is turning brown. It is cracking. It is flaking off.

You rub your hands together. The skin peels. It falls onto the floor. Little flakes. Like snow. But red.

The King turns. He looks at you. His eyes are grey. Flat. Like stones in a dry riverbed.

"Bring me the mirror," he says.

You nod. You turn. You walk to the cabinet. Your legs feel weak. The iron on your shoulder feels heavier. It presses into your flesh. You feel the weight of it in your spine.

The cabinet is locked. You reach for the key. It is on a chain around your neck. It is cold. It bites into your skin. You open the cabinet. Inside is a box. It is made of wood. It is dark.

You open the box. Inside is the mirror.

It is small. It is framed in silver. The glass is cracked. A web of fissures covers the surface. You lift it out. Your fingers shake.

You hold it up.

The King is standing behind you. He is watching.

You look into the glass.

You see your face. But it is not your face. It is a stranger. It is older. It is tired. The eyes are sunken. The skin is pale. There is a cut on the cheek. It is fresh. It is bleeding.

You touch the cut. You feel the blood. It is warm.

The face in the mirror does not touch its cheek. It stares. It watches you. It smiles. The smile is small. It is cruel.

You feel a lurch in your stomach. The room spins. The dust motes swirl. They dance. They mock you.

"This is you," the King says. His voice is flat.

"No," you say. "I am the Captain. I am the shield. I am the sword."

The King steps closer. He smells of wine. And iron.

"You are the mirror," he says. "You reflect what I want. Nothing else. You have no face. You have no name. You have only the glass."

You look at the mirror again. The crack is spreading. It is moving. It is like a snake. It is eating the glass.

You want to drop it. You want to break it. You want to smash it against the floor. You want to shatter it into a thousand pieces. You want to be free.

But you do not. You hold it. You hold it tight. Your knuckles are white. The iron on your shoulder burns.

"Why?" you ask. Your voice is a whisper.

"Because I am lonely," the King says. "And a mirror is a good companion. It does not judge. It does not leave. It only shows."

You look at your reflection. The stranger looks back. The stranger is bleeding. The stranger is tired. The stranger is you.

You realize the truth. The blood on your hands is not yours. It is the blood of the reflection. It is the blood of the self you have hidden. You have hidden it for so long. It has leaked out.

You feel a surge of anger. It is hot. It is bright. It burns in your chest. You want to strike him. You want to punch him. You want to tear the crown from his head. You want to make him bleed. You want to make him feel pain.

Your fist tightens. The mirror trembles in your hand.

The King does not move. He does not flinch. He watches you. He watches your fist. He watches your face.

"Go ahead," he says. "Break it."

You hesitate. The air is still. The dust hangs.

You look at the crack. It is wider now. It is a dark line. It is a wound.

You think of your sister. Her name is Elise. She is dead. She died in the winter. She died of a fever. You held her hand. You felt her body grow cold. You held her hand until it would not close.

You loved her. You loved her with a fire that consumed you. You wanted to save her. You wanted to break the world to save her. But you could not. You were the soldier. You were the shield. You could not save her.

You look at the mirror. The stranger’s eyes are sad.

You let go.

You drop the mirror.

It hits the floor.

It does not break.

It shatters.

The sound is loud. It is sharp. It is like a scream. The glass flies. It cuts your hands. It cuts your face. It cuts your eyes.

You fall to your knees. The pain is immediate. It is total. It is everywhere.

The King steps over the shards. He does not look down. He walks to the door. He pauses.

"Clean it up," he says. "I am thirsty."

He leaves.

The door closes.

The room is silent.

You are on the floor. Your hands are bleeding. Your face is bleeding. The blood is in your eyes. The world is red.

You look at the floor. The pieces of glass are everywhere. They are small. They are sharp. They are glittering.

You look for the reflection. You look for your face. You look for the stranger.

There is nothing.

Only glass.

Only dust.

Only blood.

You try to stand. Your legs are weak. You fall. You hit the floor. Your head hits a piece of glass. It is sharp. It is cold.

You do not feel the pain. You feel something else. You feel light. You feel empty.

You lie there. You look at the ceiling. The stone is grey. The crack in the plaster is still there. It is long. It is dark.

You think of Elise. You think of her hand. You think of her cold fingers.

You want to hold her hand again. You want to feel her warmth. But she is gone. And you are gone. And the King is gone.

There is only the room. There is only the glass. There is only the blood.

You close your eyes. The darkness is red. It is warm. It is soft.

You do not open them again.

You are the mirror. You are the glass. You are the crack.

You are broken.

And you are free.

The dust settles. It covers the blood. It covers the glass. It covers you.

The room is silent.

The King is waiting.

He is thirsty.

He knocks.

No one answers.

He opens the door.

He walks in.

He looks at the floor.

He looks at the body.

He looks at the glass.

He picks up a piece of glass. It is small. It is sharp. It is clean.

He puts it in his pocket.

He leaves.

The door closes.

The dust remains.

The blood remains.

The silence remains.

And you remain.

In the glass.

In the crack.

In the dark.

Waiting.

To reflect.

Nothing.