The shield shatters.

It does not break with a bang. It breaks with a sigh. The oak splinters, the painted crest peels away like dead skin, and the iron boss falls to the muddy ground with a dull thud. You hold the broken pieces. Your hands are shaking. You are standing in the middle of the field, the rain mixing with the blood on your face. The enemy is gone. The fight is over. But you are still here.

You look at the shards. One piece is large. It is the size of your forearm. You press it against your chest. It is cold. It cuts you. You do not care.

"Pick it up," says the voice.

It is not a human voice. It is the voice of the rain. It is the voice of the wind in the trees. It is the voice of the world that you have been fighting against.

You pick up the piece. You walk away from the field. You walk toward the keep. The keep is made of stone. It is old. It is gray. It stands on the hill like a tooth in a black mouth. You climb the stairs. Your legs are weak. Your breath is short. You enter the hall.

The hall is empty. The fire is low. The shadows are long. You sit on the floor. You hold the shield piece in your lap. You look at it. You remember when it was whole. You remember the paint. You remember the name of the house. You remember the promise.

You were the Smith.

You were the one who made the shields. You were the one who forged the metal. You were the one who painted the crests. You were the one who kept the promise.

But the promise was a lie.

You close your eyes. You remember the day the King came to your forge. He wore a crown of gold. He wore a cloak of blue. He looked at you with cold eyes.

"Make me a shield," he said. "A shield that cannot be broken."

You looked at him. You saw the hunger in his eyes. You saw the fear.

"I can make a strong shield," you said. "But I cannot make an unbreakable shield."

He smiled. It was a thin smile. It was a cruel smile.

"Then make one that looks unbreakable," he said. "Make one that makes men believe they are safe. That is all I need. Fear is a weapon. Hope is a fuel. Give me both."

You worked for a month. You hammered the metal. You painted the crest. You made it beautiful. You made it perfect. You gave it to him.

He wore it into battle. He lost the battle. The shield broke. It broke just like yours.

Now you are old. Your hands are rough. Your back is bent. You are still the Smith. But you are no longer the man who made the promise. You are the man who broke it.

You open your eyes. You are still in the hall. You are still holding the piece.

There is a sound. A footstep.

You look up.

A young man stands in the doorway. He is wearing armor. He is holding a sword. He is bleeding from a cut on his forehead.

"Who are you?" he asks.

His voice is high. It is afraid.

"I am no one," you say.

"Who are you?" he asks again.

"You are safe here," you say. "The keep is ours. The enemy is gone."

He looks at you. He looks at the shield piece in your lap.

"That shield," he says. "It is broken."

"Yes," you say.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because it is wood and iron," you say. "It is not magic."

He steps into the hall. He kneels before you. He looks at your hands. He looks at your face.

"You are the Smith," he says. It is not a question.

"Yes," you say.

"I heard they killed you," he says.

"They tried," you say.

He looks at the shield piece. He reaches out his hand. He takes it from your lap. He holds it. He looks at the edge. He looks at the paint.

"It is beautiful," he says.

"It is dead," you say.

He looks at you. His eyes are wide. His eyes are full of tears.

"Can you fix it?" he asks.

"No," you say.

"Can you make a new one?" he asks.

"No," you say.

"Why not?" he asks.

"Because the world has changed," you say. "The shield is no longer enough. The promise is no longer enough."

He stands up. He holds the shield piece in his hand. He looks at you.

"Then what is enough?" he asks.

You do not answer. You look at the fire. The fire is dying. The embers are glowing. They are like eyes. They are like stars.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. Your joints ache. You walk to the corner of the hall. There is a anvil there. It is old. It is black. It is covered in rust.

You pick up a hammer. It is heavy. It is cold. You swing it. You strike the anvil.

The sound is loud. It is sharp. It is clear.

The young man flinches.

You strike again.

You strike again.

You strike again.

You are not making a shield. You are not making a sword. You are making a sound. You are making a warning. You are making a memory.

The young man watches you. He does not move. He does not speak. He stands still. He listens.

You strike the anvil until your arm is numb. You strike it until your heart is empty. You strike it until the fire is out.

The hall is dark.

The young man is still there.

"You are crazy," he says.

"Perhaps," you say.

"You are an old man," he says.

"Perhaps," you say.

"You are alone," he says.

"Yes," you say.

He looks at you. He looks at the anvil. He looks at the hammer.

"Give me the hammer," he says.

"No," you say.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because it is not yours," you say.

"It is a tool," he says. "Tools are for using."

"This is a curse," you say.

He laughs. It is a short laugh. It is a bitter laugh.

"Curse?" he says. "I thought it was a duty."

"Duty is a lie," you say. "Curse is a truth."

He looks at you. He sees your eyes. He sees the pain in your eyes. He sees the truth in your eyes.

He drops the shield piece. It falls to the floor. It makes a small sound.

He walks to the door. He opens it. The rain is still falling. The wind is still blowing.

"I will go," he says.

"Go," you say.

"Will you come?" he asks.

"No," you say.

"Will you stay?" he asks.

"Yes," you say.

He steps into the night. He does not look back.

You are alone.

You pick up the shield piece. You look at it. It is dark. It is wet. It is broken.

You put it in your pocket. You walk to the fire. You light it. You sit down. You wait.

You are the Smith. You are the one who made the promise. You are the one who broke it. You are the one who knows the truth.

The truth is that the shield is a lie. The truth is that the promise is a lie. The truth is that you are alone.

The rain falls. The wind blows. The fire burns.

You are here. You are alive. You are broken.

You are free.