You are the King. Or you think you are.

The throne is cold. It bites your ass. You do not care. You sit in the dark hall. The candles gutter. The wax drips like fat. You smell the rot. It is in the walls. It is in the wood. It is in you.

Your name is Alaric. It does not matter. Names are dust.

You are old. Your bones ache. The pain is a living thing. It crawls up your legs. It settles in your spine. You are a vessel. You are empty.

You are the Seer. That is your title. That is your curse.

The court watches you. They stand in the shadows. They are shadows. They are ghosts. They wait. They want words. They want power. They want to know who dies next.

You look at them. You see their futures. It is a blur. A smear of color. A scream without sound.

You see Thomas. He stands to the left. He wears a red cloak. He smiles. It is a lie. His mouth is full of lies. He will kill you. Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. The knife is in his sleeve. I see it. I see the steel. I see the blood.

You do not speak. You cannot.

The silence grows. It is heavy. It presses on your chest. The air is thick. It tastes of iron.

"Speak, Alaric," says the Chancellor. His voice is dry. Like leaves in autumn. He steps forward. His boots click on the stone. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air.

You look at him. You see his fear. It is black. It is a pit. He is afraid of you. He is afraid of himself. He is afraid of the end.

"I see nothing," you say.

Your voice is a rasp. It is weak. It barely leaves your lips.

The Chancellor laughs. It is a cold sound. "Nothing?" he asks. "The people wait. The King waits. The realm waits. Do you not see?"

"I see the dust," you say. "I see the grave."

The room shifts. The light flickers. The shadows stretch. They reach for you. They want to take you. They want to eat you.

You close your eyes. You go inside. It is the only place that is safe. It is the only place that is real.

Inside, there is a garden. The flowers are red. They are blood-red. They grow from black soil. The wind blows. It is cold. It carries the scent of rain.

You stand in the garden. You are young. You are strong. Your hair is dark. Your eyes are clear. You hold a sword. It is heavy. It is old.

A woman stands before you. Her name is Elara. You do not remember her name. But you know her. You know her bones. You know her breath.

She wears a white dress. It is stained. It is stained with dirt. It is stained with time.

"Alaric," she says. Her voice is a song. It is a memory.

"I am here," you say.

"You are not," she says. "You are gone. You are only the shadow."

You look at your hands. They are translucent. You can see the flowers through them. You are fading.

"I am the Seer," you say. "I must return."

"There is no return," she says. "There is only the wheel."

The wheel turns. It is slow. It is painful. It grinds your bones.

You open your eyes. You are back in the hall. The candles are lower. The smoke is thicker.

The Chancellor is closer. He is in your face. You can smell his breath. It smells of wine. It smells of decay.

"Answer me," he demands. "Who is the traitor?"

You look at Thomas. The red cloak. The lie.

You open your mouth. You want to say his name. You want to save them. You want to save yourself.

But you cannot.

You see it. You see the truth.

If you speak, the wheel stops. If you speak, the cycle breaks. If you speak, they die. All of them. They die in a different way. They die without purpose. They die without meaning.

The silence returns. It is louder now. It is a roar.

"I do not know," you say.

The Chancellor’s face changes. The fear is gone. The anger is here. It is red. It is hot.

"Liar," he spits.

Thomas steps forward. His hand moves. He touches his sleeve.

You see the knife. You see the gleam.

"Stop," you say.

Your voice is strong. It is not your voice. It is the voice of the land. It is the voice of the earth. It is the voice of the dead.

They freeze. They are afraid. They are small. They are children.

Thomas drops his hand. His face is pale. His eyes are wide. He looks at you. He sees the monster. He sees the god. He sees the end.

You look at him. You do not hate him. You pity him. He is a leaf on the wind. He is a drop in the rain.

"The crown is heavy," you say. "It crushes the head. It breaks the neck. You carry it. I carry it. We all carry it."

The Chancellor blinks. He does not understand. He is small. He is blind.

"We do not see," you say. "We only feel. The pain is the truth. The pain is the bond."

You stand up. Your legs shake. Your knees crack. The pain is sharp. It is white. It is blinding.

You walk to the throne. You sit. You sink into the cushions. They are soft. They are warm. They are a trap.

The hall is quiet. The shadows are still. The candles burn low.

You look at Elara in your mind. She is gone. The garden is gone. The wheel is gone.

There is only the dark.

You are alone. You have always been alone. The crown is your cage. The magic is your chain.

You are not a king. You are a servant. You serve the time. You serve the decay. You serve the end.

And that is all. That is everything.

The Chancellor speaks. He is trembling. "What will you do?"

You look at him. You see his future. He will die in his bed. He will be cold. He will be forgotten.

"I will rest," you say.

You close your eyes. The pain fades. It becomes a hum. A low hum. Like a song.

You are the King. You are the Seer. You are the end.

The dark takes you. It is soft. It is kind.

It is home.

***

The morning comes. It is gray. It is wet. The rain falls on the castle. It drums on the roof. It runs down the walls. It pools in the streets.

The court is in the great hall. They are waiting. They are afraid. They do not know what to do. The throne is empty. The cushions are cold.

The Chancellor stands by the door. He holds a letter. His hand is shaking.

Thomas stands by the window. He looks at the rain. His face is blank. He has no fear. He has no hope. He has nothing.

A servant enters. He is young. He is pale. He holds a tray. The tray is empty.

"My Lord," the servant says. His voice is thin. "The King is gone."

The room is silent. The rain drums. The candles are out. The light is gray.

"Dead?" the Chancellor asks.

"No," the servant says. "He walked out. He walked into the forest. He did not look back. He did not speak. He just walked."

The Chancellor looks at Thomas. Thomas looks at the floor.

"He is gone," the Chancellor says. "The realm is leaderless."

"No," Thomas says. His voice is quiet. It is steady. "He is not gone. He is the forest. He is the rain. He is the stone."

The Chancellor stares at him. He does not understand. He is a man of laws. He is a man of rules. He does not believe in ghosts. He does not believe in magic.

But he looks at the empty throne. He feels the cold. He feels the weight.

He sits down. He sits in the King’s seat. The cushions bite his ass. The wood is cold.

He looks at his hands. They are trembling. He sees the dust. He sees the grave.

The rain falls. It washes the world. It washes the sins. It washes the blood.

It washes the memory.

The wheel turns. It is slow. It is painful.

But it turns.

You are the King. You are the Seer. You are the end.

And the end is the beginning.

The story does not end. It only pauses. It waits for the next breath. It waits for the next pain. It waits for the next lie.

You are here. You are always here.

The crown is heavy.

You carry it.

You carry it.

You carry it.