The iron collar bites.

It is heavy. Cold. It smells of rust and old blood. You tighten it. Your fingers are numb. The frost has settled deep into the stone floor of the antechamber. You are a Warden. You serve the Crown. The Crown is a faceless thing. A shadow in the throne room. It does not blink. It does not breathe. It only commands.

You look at the prisoner.

He is not a man. Not anymore.

His skin is gray. Like ash. Like the walls of the dungeon below. He does not scream. He does not beg. He sits on the bench, bound by chains that chime softly when he shifts. His eyes are open. They are white. No pupils. Just milk. Just void.

He looks at you.

You look back.

You feel a pull. A hook in your chest. It yanks. Hard. It is not fear. It is something older. Something that lives in the marrow. You remember your mother. You remember the way she used to hum while she mended the shirts. Low. Soft. A tune with no end. You remember the warmth of her hand on your forehead. You remember the smell of lavender and woodsmoke.

Then the memory is gone.

The hook yanks again.

You look at the collar.

It is not iron.

It is a necklace.

It was yours.

You do not remember giving it to him. You do not remember meeting him. But the clasp is familiar. You touched it a thousand times. You polished it with your thumb. You kept it in a box lined with red velvet. The velvet is gone now. The box is gone. There is only the chain. And the lock.

You are the Warden. You are the guard. You are the one who holds the key.

But you are also the one who lost it.

The door behind you creaks.

You do not turn. You cannot. Your legs are locked. The floor is ice. The air is thick. You hear footsteps. Heavy. Slow. They stop behind you.

A shadow falls over you.

"You know what this is," the voice says.

It is a man. He wears a robe of black silk. It is too heavy for the cold. It drags on the floor. His face is hidden. A mask. White porcelain. No mouth. No eyes. Just a smooth, blank surface.

"I do not," you lie.

The voice laughs. It is a dry sound. Like leaves scraping on stone.

"The King is angry," the man says. "The King says you are weak. He says you let the corruption in. He says you are complicit."

You shake your head.

"I am loyal," you say.

"Loyalty," the man says. "A funny word. It means nothing to the King. It means nothing to the cold. It means nothing to the thing in the cell."

You look at the prisoner again.

The white eyes are still.

You feel the hook again.

It is stronger now. It is tearing. You see a flash. A garden. Green leaves. Sunlight. A woman in a white dress. She is holding a child. The child is laughing. The woman looks at you. She smiles.

It is your daughter.

She is dead.

You know this. You have known it for years. The doctors said the fever took her. The priest said God took her. You said nothing. You buried her in the churchyard. You planted a rose above the grave. The rose never bloomed.

The flash fades.

The cold returns.

"Open the door," the man says.

"Whose door?" you ask.

"His. The prisoner. The King wants him gone. He wants the head on a pike. He wants the body fed to the dogs."

You look at the collar.

The clasp is tight. It is digging into your neck. It is not on you. It is on him. But you can feel it. You can feel the bite. You can feel the weight.

"I cannot," you say.

"You can."

The man steps closer.

The shadow deepens.

You feel a hand on your shoulder. It is ice. It burns.

"Look at him," the man says.

You look.

The prisoner is standing.

The chains are broken.

They hang from the ceiling like dead vines.

He is tall. Taller than you. He is wearing your uniform. The red coat. The gold buttons. The epaulets.

It is your face.

Not his. Yours.

He is wearing your face.

He smiles.

The smile is yours.

The eyes are still white.

"I have worn this for a long time," he says.

His voice is yours.

It is deep. It is rough. It is the voice you use to shout orders. The voice you use to speak to the King.

"I am the Warden," he says.

"No," you say.

"Yes," he says.

He reaches out.

He takes the collar.

He pulls it off.

He holds it in his hand.

He looks at you.

He offers it.

You take it.

It is warm.

It is alive.

You put it on.

The cold stops.

The ice on the floor melts.

The air is warm. It smells of lavender. It smells of woodsmoke.

The man in the black robe is gone.

The door is open.

Sunlight streams in.

It is bright. Blinding.

You walk out.

The corridor is long. It is empty.

You walk to the throne room.

The doors are open.

The King is there.

He is not a shadow.

He is a boy.

He is small. He sits on a throne that is too big for him. He is crying. His face is wet. He is holding a doll. The doll is broken. One eye is missing.

The King looks at you.

He does not speak.

He looks at the collar.

He looks at your face.

He does not know you.

He is afraid.

You kneel.

You are the Warden.

You are the guard.

You are the one who holds the key.

You reach into your pocket.

You take out the key.

It is iron. It is cold.

You place it on the floor.

You pick it up.

You throw it into the fire.

It does not burn.

It melts.

It becomes ash.

The King stops crying.

He looks at the ash.

He looks at you.

He nods.

He gets off the throne.

He walks to you.

He is still small.

He is still a child.

He takes your hand.

His hand is warm.

He leads you out.

The palace is empty.

The servants are gone.

The guards are gone.

The walls are bare.

You walk through the halls.

You walk through the gardens.

The roses are blooming.

Red. Bright. Alive.

You stop.

You look at the rose.

You touch the petal.

It is soft.

It is real.

You remember the garden.

You remember the woman.

You remember the child.

She is here.

She is not in the grave.

She is in the rose.

She is in the wind.

She is in the sun.

She is in you.

You close your eyes.

You feel the hook.

It is gone.

There is only the pull.

It is gentle.

It is steady.

It is love.

You open your eyes.

The world is gray.

The palace is gone.

You are in a field.

The grass is green.

The sky is blue.

There is no one else.

You are alone.

You look at your hands.

They are empty.

You look at your neck.

The collar is gone.

You touch the spot where it was.

There is a mark.

A red line.

It is a scar.

It is a root.

It is fading.

You sit down.

The grass is cool.

You breathe.

The air is sweet.

You wait.

Nothing happens.

The sun moves.

The shadows lengthen.

You do not move.

You do not speak.

You do not cry.

You are still.

You are empty.

You are full.

You are here.

You are gone.

The wind blows.

The grass bends.

The sky turns dark.

The stars come out.

They are bright.

They are cold.

You look up.

You see the moon.

It is full.

It is white.

It is like the eyes.

It is like the mask.

It is like the void.

You look away.

You look at the ground.

The root is there.

It is small.

It is weak.

It is fading.

You reach down.

You touch it.

It is cold.

You pull it up.

It breaks.

It is dust.

It is ash.

It is nothing.

You let go.

You lie down.

The grass is soft.

The earth is hard.

You close your eyes.

You dream.

You dream of the garden.

You dream of the woman.

You dream of the child.

They are smiling.

They are laughing.

They are running.

They are free.

You are with them.

You are not the Warden.

You are not the guard.

You are not the King.

You are not the prisoner.

You are the root.

You are the seed.

You are the soil.

You are the rain.

You are the sun.

You are the wind.

You are the dust.

You are the ash.

You are the nothing.

You are the everything.

You are the fade.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the story.

You are the silence.

You are the breath.

You are the heart.

You are the blood.

You are the bone.

You are the skin.

You are the eye.

You are the tear.

You are the joy.

You are the pain.

You are the love.

You are the loss.

You are the truth.

You are the lie.

You are the dream.

You are the wake.

You are the light.

You are the dark.

You are the life.

You are the death.

You are the fade.

You are the end.

You are the start.

You are the now.

You are the here.

You are the me.

You are the you.

You are the we.

You are the all.

You are the none.

You are the fade.

You are the root.

You are the story.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the fade.

You are the root.

You are the story.

You are the end.