The owl sat on the roof. It was a barn owl. Its face was white as a skull. It did not move. It watched the hall. The hall was cold. Stone walls. Dust in the light.

Sir Alistair walked. His boots clicked. Clack. Clack. He was the King’s Eye. He found what was hidden. He was good at it. Too good. His eyes were dry. He had no tears left. They burned out years ago.

He carried a lantern. The flame shook. Shadows jumped on the walls. They looked like fingers. They looked like claws.

He stopped. He listened. The wind howled outside. It sounded like a woman screaming. Or a child. It was hard to tell. The wind never stopped. It was always there. It was the breath of the world.

Alistair was alone. He had been alone for a long time. He did not like it. But he needed it. To think, one must be silent. To know, one must be quiet.

He knew something was wrong. He could feel it. A itch in his skin. A hum in his teeth. The air tasted of iron. Blood.

He went to the King’s chamber. The door was heavy. Oak. Iron bands. He pushed it open. It groaned. The sound was like a sigh.

The King was there. He sat on the throne. He looked old. His face was a map of wrinkles. His eyes were closed.

“Wake up,” Alistair said.

The King did not move.

Alistair stepped forward. He put his hand on the King’s shoulder. The flesh was cold.

The King opened his eyes. They were black. No whites. Just dark pits.

“Who are you?” the King asked. His voice was raspy. Like sand on glass.

“I am Alistair,” he said. “Your servant.”

The King tilted his head. “I do not know you.”

Alistair felt a chill. “You are the King,” he said. “I serve you.”

The King smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes. “You are not my servant. You are my son.”

Alistair froze. The lantern dropped. It hit the floor. The flame went out. Darkness swallowed the room.

“Impossible,” Alistair whispered.

But the voice was right. It was the voice he heard in his dreams. It was the voice that called him to the window. It was the voice that told him to look.

He remembered. The fever. The night his mother died. The King holding him. The King’s hand on his forehead. “You are mine,” the King had said. “You are the seed of my line.”

Alistair had been told a lie. He had been told he was a foundling. A stray. He had believed it. He had built his life on that lie. He had hunted for the King. He had killed for the King. He had been the King’s weapon.

But he was not a weapon. He was a son.

The King stood up. He moved slowly. He looked at Alistair. There was pity in his eyes. Or maybe it was something else. Something cold.

“I am dying,” the King said. “The poison is in my blood. It is fast. I have little time.”

“Who did this?” Alistair asked. His voice was steady. He forced it to be steady.

“Me,” the King said.

Alistair shook his head. “No.”

“I did it. To test you. To see if you were worthy. To see if you would kill me. To see if you would save me.” The King coughed. A spray of blood hit the floor. It was dark. It was wet.

“I wanted to see if you loved me,” the King said. “Or if you only served me.”

“I loved you,” Alistair said. The words felt strange in his mouth. They tasted of ash. “I have always loved you.”

“Love is a curse,” the King said. “It blinds you. It makes you weak. It makes you see what is not there.”

The King fell to his knees. He held his chest. His face was twisted in pain.

“Run,” the King gasped. “Leave. Go. Do not look back. Do not try to save me. It is too late.”

Alistair did not move. He looked at the King. He saw the fear in his eyes. He saw the loneliness. He saw the same hunger he felt in his own heart.

He walked to the King. He knelt. He put his arms around him. He held him tight. He held him like a father holds a child. Like a child holds a father.

The King shuddered. His body convulsed. Then he went still.

Alistair held him. He held him until the heat left his body. He held him until the life left his eyes.

He was alone again.

He stood up. He looked around the room. The darkness was total. He could not see. But he could feel. He could feel the weight of the body on the floor. He could feel the cold of the stone.

He knew what to do.

He went to the window. It was high up. He had to climb. He found a beam. He pulled himself up. The wind hit his face. It was cold. It was sharp.

He opened the window. He jumped.

He fell.

He landed on the grass. It was soft. It was wet. He rolled. He got up. He was alive.

He looked up. The moon was full. It was bright. It was white. Like the owl’s face.

He looked at the castle. The lights were out. The castle was silent.

He walked away. He walked into the forest. The trees were tall. They blocked the sky. The ground was hard. His feet hurt.

He walked for hours. He did not stop. He could not stop.

He thought of the King. He thought of the lie. He thought of the truth.

The truth was heavy. It sat on his chest. It made it hard to breathe.

He had been a hunter. Now he was a ghost.

He reached a clearing. There was a stream. He knelt. He drank. The water was cold. It went down his throat. It felt like life.

He looked at his hands. They were dirty. They were stained with blood. Not just the King’s blood. His own blood. The blood of the men he had killed. The blood of the women he had spied on. The blood of the children he had watched.

He washed his hands. He washed them again. And again. The water turned red. Then it turned clear.

But the stain remained. It was inside him. It was in his soul.

He looked up at the sky. The stars were out. They were far away. They were small. They did not care about him. They did not know his name.

He was free.

Or was he?

He felt a presence. He turned around.

No one was there.

But he knew. He knew it was watching him.

The owl.

It was everywhere. It was in the trees. It was in the shadows. It was in his mind.

It knew. It knew everything.

Alistair closed his eyes. He let the darkness in. He let the pain in. He let the love in.

He was the King’s son. He was the King’s killer. He was the King’s memory.

He would carry it. He would carry it forever.

It was his burden. It was his gift.

He walked on. The forest was deep. The night was long.

He did not look back.

He could not.

The threshold was behind him. He had crossed it. There was no returning.

The world was vast. It was empty. It was full of silence.

He was small. He was alone.

But he was whole.

The owl cried. It was a high, thin sound. It cut through the air. It sounded like a warning. Or a welcome.

Alistair did not flinch. He kept walking.

His steps were steady. His breath was even.

He was the eye. He was the witness.

He had seen the truth. And the truth had broken him. And the breaking had made him strong.

It was a simple exchange. Pain for power. Love for knowledge.

He understood now. The King had not been testing him. The King had been freeing him.

To love is to suffer. To know is to die.

But to live? To live is to carry the weight. To walk the road. To face the dark.

Alistair smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a real smile.

He was alive.

The wind blew. The leaves rustled. The stream flowed.

The world turned.

He was part of it.

He was no one.

He was everyone.

He walked into the night.

The night swallowed him.

The owl watched.

The owl waited.

The owl knew.

The end.