The iron bit was cold. It pressed against his lower lip, a sharp, metallic taste that bloomed in his mouth like old blood. He did not pull. He did not snort. He stood in the center of the stone floor, the torches hissing on the damp walls, and he waited.

The door opened. A draft slipped in. It carried the scent of wet wool and stale bread.

Thomas looked up.

The man standing in the archway was tall. He wore grey. His face was a mask of smooth, pale skin. He held a staff. The staff was black. It was carved.

"Is it ready?" the man asked.

His voice was soft. It was low. It scraped against the silence.

Thomas said nothing. He watched the man step into the room. The shadows stretched. They reached for Thomas’s boots.

"You have been quiet," the man said. He stopped ten paces away. "Too quiet."

Thomas’s eyes did not move. They were fixed on the staff. The wood was dark. It was wet. It gleamed.

"I have been thinking," Thomas said.

His voice was rough. It was dry. Like sand on stone.

The man smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes.

"Thinking," the man repeated. "A dangerous habit for a prisoner. What is it you think, Thomas?"

"I think of my mother," Thomas said.

The man tilted his head. "Your mother. She is dead. She has been dead for twenty years."

"I know," Thomas said. "I think of the way she braided my hair. I think of the sound of her hands. They were soft. They were gentle."

The man stepped closer. The torchlight flickered. The shadows danced. They writhed.

"She was a saint," the man said. "Or so they said. I knew her, Thomas. I knew her well. Before you were born. Before you were a man. Before you were a monster."

Thomas’s jaw tightened. The muscles in his neck bunched.

"Do not lie to me," Thomas said.

The man stopped. He raised the staff. The tip pointed at Thomas’s chest.

"Lies are for the weak," the man said. "I speak only truth. I am your judge. I am your mirror. Look at me, Thomas. Look at my face. Do you see yourself?"

Thomas looked.

The man’s face was smooth. It was young. It was unmarked. There was no scar. There was no line. There was no age.

"I do not see myself," Thomas said.

"Then you are blind," the man said. "Or you are a coward. You have spent ten years in this cell. Ten years of darkness. Ten years of silence. And yet, you have not seen the truth. You have not seen what you have done."

The man circled him. His steps were silent. He moved like smoke.

"Speak," the man commanded. "Tell me. What did you do?"

Thomas closed his eyes. He breathed in. The air was cold. It bit his lungs.

"I killed a man," Thomas said.

The man stopped. He stood behind Thomas now. Thomas could feel his breath. It was warm. It was close.

"Which man?" the man asked.

"The one who took my sister," Thomas said.

The man laughed. It was a dry sound. It was like a twig snapping.

"Your sister," the man said. "She did not go to be taken. She went willingly. She left you. She left this house. She left your mother. She left you, Thomas. And you could not let her go. So you killed the man who loved her. You killed him in the dark. You cut his throat. You bled on the floor. You cried. And you have cried ever since."

Thomas opened his eyes. His vision was blurred.

"She was my sister," Thomas said. His voice was low. It was steady. "She was my blood. My bone. My life. I could not let her be taken. I could not let him touch her. I could not let him hurt her. I was her protector. I was her shield. I was her love."

The man stepped in front of him. He was very close now. Thomas could see the pores in his skin. He could see the flecks of dust in his hair.

"Love?" the man said. "You call it love. You call it duty. You call it protection. But it was not love, Thomas. It was hunger. It was greed. You did not want to protect her. You wanted to possess her. You wanted to keep her close. You wanted to bind her to you. And when she tried to fly, you cut her wings. And when she ran, you killed the ground beneath her feet."

Thomas felt a tremor in his hands. He gripped the iron bit. The metal cut his skin. A drop of blood fell. It landed on the stone. It spread. It was red. It was bright.

"I loved her," Thomas whispered.

"You consumed her," the man said. "You ate her. You drank her life. You left only the bones. And you sit in this cell, and you call it sorrow. You call it penance. But it is not penance, Thomas. It is pride. You are proud of your love. You are proud of your sacrifice. You are proud of your pain. You wear it like a crown. You wear it like a shroud. You are proud that you suffer. You are proud that you are damned."

Thomas stared at him. The man’s face was still. It was calm. It was empty.

"You are lying," Thomas said.

"I am the truth," the man said. "I am the shadow you cast. I am the part of you you hide. I am the part of you you hate. And I am here, Thomas. I am here to show you. I am here to break you. I am here to free you."

The man raised the staff. He swung it.

The blow landed on Thomas’s shoulder. It was heavy. It was hard. Thomas stumbled. He fell to one knee. The torchlight flared. The shadows lunged.

Thomas looked up. The man stood over him. The staff was raised again.

"Look at me," the man said. "Look at me, and see. See your face. See your hands. See the blood. See the death. See the void. You are not a hero, Thomas. You are a thief. You stole her life. You stole her choice. You stole her soul. And you have nothing left. You have no love. You have no guilt. You have only the echo. You have only the memory. You have only the stone."

The staff came down again. It struck Thomas’s ribs. He gasped. The pain was sharp. It was white. It was hot.

Thomas did not scream. He did not cry. He looked at the man. He looked into his eyes.

And he saw it.

He saw the face.

It was not the man’s face.

It was his own.

The skin was the same. The eyes were the same. The scar on the cheek was the same. The staff in his hand was the same. The grey robes were the same.

Thomas looked down. He looked at his hands. They were holding the staff. He was holding the staff.

He looked up.

The man was gone.

There was no one there.

There was only the stone. There was only the dark. There was only the silence.

Thomas sat on the floor. He held the staff. It was heavy. It was cold.

He looked at his reflection in the polished stone. He saw his face. It was old. It was tired. It was broken.

He saw his sister.

She was standing behind him.

She was young. She was beautiful. She was smiling.

Thomas turned.

She was there.

She was in the cell.

She was sitting on the floor. She was braiding her hair. She was humming.

Thomas reached for her. His hand closed on air.

There was no one there.

There was only the stone.

He looked at the staff. He looked at the blood on his shoulder. He looked at the torches.

He understood.

He had not been a prisoner.

He had been the jailer.

He had locked himself in. He had locked his sister in. He had locked his love in. He had built the walls. He had built the dark. He had built the silence.

And he had been the one who watched.

He had been the one who judged.

He had been the one who struck.

He raised the staff. He looked at it. It was black. It was wet. It was his.

He swung it.

He struck the stone floor.

The stone cracked.

A shard flew. It hit his face.

It cut his cheek.

Blood ran.

He swung it again.

The stone cracked again.

He swung it again.

And again.

And again.

The cell shook. The dust fell. The torches flickered.

He swung it until his arm was numb. He swung it until the staff broke.

He dropped the pieces.

He fell to his knees.

He looked at the cracks in the floor. They were wide. They were deep.

Light shone through.

It was pale. It was cold. It was bright.

Thomas looked up.

He saw the sky.

He saw the stars.

He saw the moon.

He stood up.

He walked to the door.

The door was open.

The night was cold.

The air was clean.

He stepped out.

He did not look back.

He walked into the dark.

He walked into the light.

He walked into the world.

And he was alone.

And he was free.

And he was empty.

And he was whole.