He woke in the mud. The rain had stopped, but the air still tasted of iron and wet wool. Cael sat up. His bones ached, a deep, structural grinding that spoke of age. He was old. Or he felt old. The distinction did not matter here. In the grey expanse of the moor, time was a flat stone, slippery and cold.

He wiped his face. The skin was tight, pulling at the corners of his mouth. He looked at his hands. They were brown, stained to the wrist with the dark residue of the earth. No, not earth. Ink. Or blood. It was hard to tell. In the dim light, they were the same color.

"Is it done?" a voice asked.

Cael flinched. He had not heard anyone approach. The voice was low, raspy, like a branch dragging over gravel.

He turned. A man stood a few paces away. He wore a cloak of coarse grey wool, sodden and heavy. His face was obscured by the hood, but Cael could see the shape of the jaw, the set of the shoulders.

"Not yet," Cael said. His own voice sounded foreign to him. Thin. Reedy. "The ink is still drying."

"Then wait."

"I am not waiting. I am watching."

The man stepped closer. The mud sucked at their boots. A sound like sucking teeth.

"Who are you?" Cael asked.

"A reader."

Cael laughed. It was a dry, cracked sound. "There are no readers here. Only the ones who write. And the ones who burn."

"Then I am one who burns."

The man reached into his cloak. He pulled out a small, leather-bound book. It was old. The cover was cracked, the spine held together with twine. He held it out.

"Take it."

Cael did not move. "Why?"

"Because you wrote it."

Cael stared at the book. He did not remember writing anything. He remembered the feeling of the words, yes. The way they lived in his mind, sharp and bright as flint. But he had not put them to paper. He had never put them to paper. Writing was a curse. To write was to trap the thing in the dark. To burn it was to free it.

"I did not write this," Cael said.

"Look inside."

Cael took the book. The leather was warm. It pulsed, faintly, like a second heart. He opened it.

The pages were blank.

No. Not blank. The ink was still wet. It was blacking out the words. They were vanishing.

"What is this?" Cael whispered.

"The truth," the man said. "You tried to hide it. You buried it. But ink remembers. It seeps back up."

Cael looked at the man. "Who are you?"

"Your shadow."

Cael slammed the book shut. "I have no shadow. I am alone."

"You are never alone. You are always with the thing you fear."

The wind picked up. It whistled across the moor, a high, keen note. The rain began again, not as drops, but as a fine mist, clinging to the skin like sweat.

"We must go," the man said. "The fire is lit."

"What fire?"

"The one they built for you."

Cael stood. His legs trembled. He clutched the book to his chest. The leather was hot now. Burning hot. He could feel the weight of it, the density of the words trapped inside.

"Where?" he asked.

"Follow me."

They walked. The moor stretched out before them, endless and grey. The sky was the color of a bruise. Purple and yellow, mottled and sickly. Cael walked behind the man. He did not look back. There was nothing behind him but the path he had already taken. And the path was gone. The grass grew over it instantly, erasing his footprints.

They walked for hours. Or maybe minutes. Time did not matter.

Finally, they reached the tree.

It was an oak. Huge. Its trunk was wider than a house. Its roots were thick, gnarled, digging into the earth like claws. The leaves were black. Not green, not brown, but black. A void in the shape of a tree.

A fire burned at its base. Small. Controlled. The flames were blue.

Two figures sat on the ground nearby. They were women. They wore robes of white linen. Their faces were hidden behind veils.

Cael stopped. He felt a sudden, crushing weight in his chest. The book in his hands grew heavier.

"Go on," the man said.

"I cannot."

"You must."

The women turned their heads. They did not speak. They just looked at him. Their eyes, visible through the holes in the veils, were empty. White. Like milk.

Cael stepped forward. The blue fire flickered. The heat was intense. It did not burn his skin, but it burned his mind. He could hear the words. They were screaming.

*Look at me. See me. I am real.*

He had tried to silence them. He had tried to forget. But the words were alive. They were hungry.

"Give it to me," one of the women said. Her voice was soft, like a whisper in a library.

Cael looked at the man. "What happens now?"

"You will burn."

"No," Cael said. "I will remember."

The man smiled. It was a sad smile. Tired. "You cannot remember what you have erased."

Cael held the book out. His hands shook. The blue fire cast long shadows on the ground. The shadows moved, independent of the light. They reached for him.

The woman reached out. She took the book. Her fingers were cold. Ice cold.

She opened it. The words were clear now. Black on white. Sharp. Clear.

She read one line. Her eyes closed. A tear rolled down her cheek. It was red.

She closed the book. She held it over the fire.

"Stop," Cael said. "Don't."

"Let go," the man said.

Cael wanted to stop it. He wanted to take the book back. He wanted to run. But his feet were rooted in the mud. Or perhaps they were rooted in the earth. He could not tell.

The woman tossed the book into the fire.

The blue flames turned white.

A sound rose. Not a scream. A sigh. A long, slow exhalation of air. The smoke rose straight up, a column of white, piercing the grey sky.

The women stood. They bowed to Cael. A deep, formal bow.

Then they walked away. Into the mist. They disappeared.

Cael stood alone by the tree. The fire was out. The ashes were cold.

The man was gone.

Cael looked at his hands. The stain was gone. His skin was clean. Pale.

He looked at the tree. The leaves were green. Ordinary green.

He breathed in. The air smelled of rain and soil. And something else. Freedom.

He turned. The path was clear. The moor was open.

He began to walk.

He did not know where he was going. He did not need to. He had nothing to write. He had nothing to burn. He had nothing to hide.

He was empty.

And for the first time in a long time, he was free.

The sun broke through the clouds. A single beam of light struck the mud. It dried instantly. A small, perfect circle of dry ground.

Cael stepped on it.

He kept walking.

The world was quiet.

It was enough.