The silk is black.

You hold it tight. The fabric is cold against your palm. It whispers. It knows what you did.

The court is vast. The air smells of wax and old blood. You stand before the High Magistrate. He is a tall man. His face is a mask of stone.

"Speak," he says.

Your voice is low. It shakes.

"I am the Weaver," you say. "I made the shroud."

He tilts his head. His eyes are small. They are hard as flint.

"Who is the Weaver?" he asks. "There is no such office."

"I am the one," you say. "I serve the House."

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

"You serve the law," he says. "You serve the Crown. You do not weave shrouds. You keep the records."

"I kept the records," you say. "Until the end."

"Whose end?"

"Lord Aldous."

The room goes silent. The candles flicker. The shadows stretch long on the floor.

"Aldous is dead," the Magistrate says. "His death was natural. A fever. The physicians signed the papers. The coroner verified the body. What more do you want?"

"I want the truth," you say.

"Truth is a commodity," he says. "It is scarce. It is expensive. We do not waste it on servants."

"You killed him," you say.

The Magistrate stands up. He walks toward you. His boots click on the marble.

"You are a lowly clerk," he says. "You know nothing of the state. You know nothing of the burden we carry. Aldous was a fool. He sought power. He sought to break the chain. He was a threat. We removed him."

"You poisoned him," you say. "With nightshade. I saw the vial. I saw you pour it into his wine."

"I did what was necessary," he says. "For the stability of the realm. For the peace of the people. Would you have him burn the city? Would you have him raise the dead?"

"Yes," you say.

He stops. He looks at you. For a moment, his face softens. It is a flicker. A ghost of humanity.

"You are naive," he says. "Power is not a toy. It is a weight. It crushes those who hold it. Aldous was crushed. I merely... assisted."

"I have the proof," you say.

"Proof?" he sneers. "You have a story. You have a feeling. You have a piece of cloth. What is that worth?"

You look down at your hands. The silk is still in your grip. It is warm now. It pulses like a heart.

"It is worth his soul," you say.

The Magistrate raises his hand. Two guards step forward. They have swords. They have faces like stone.

"Take her away," he says. "Lock her in the deep cellar. She will rot there. She will forget what she saw. She will forget who she was."

The guards grab your arms. Their hands are rough. They hurt. You do not struggle. You do not scream. You look at the Magistrate.

"You will remember," you say.

"Remember what?" he asks.

"Your face," you say. "When you drank the wine."

He blinks. "I did not drink."

"You did," you say. "You always drink. You drink to forget. You drink to feel. You drink to become the monster you must be."

The guards drag you out. The doors slam shut. The sound echoes in the dark corridor.

You walk. Your feet are bare. The stone is cold. The air is damp. It smells of mildew and fear.

They throw you into the cell. The door locks. The chain rattles.

You sit on the floor. You lean against the wall. The wall is wet. The water drips. It makes a rhythmic sound. Drip. Drip. Drip.

You look at the silk. It is still in your hand. It is no longer black. It is white. It is pure. It is bright.

You touch it. It feels like skin. It feels like breath.

You remember Edward.

He is gone. He has been gone for three days. His body was in the tomb. The flowers were fresh. The wreaths were heavy. You held his hand. It was cold. It was stiff.

You did not weep. You had no tears. You had burned them away. You had used them in the weaving.

The silk is the shroud. It is the thing that wrapped him. It is the thing that held him. It is the thing that carried his spirit to the other side.

But it is more than that.

It is the evidence.

You closed your eyes. You breathed in. You breathed out. You reached into the dark. You pulled the thread. You pulled the truth.

The Magistrate had not just killed Aldous. He had killed Edward. He had killed them both. He had used them as pawns. He had used their love as fuel. He had burned their hearts to keep the fire of the state alive.

You had seen it. You had woven it.

The silk shifts in your hand. It changes shape. It becomes a letter. It becomes a name. It becomes a scream.

You whisper the name.

"Edward."

The air in the cell grows thick. The shadows move. They twist. They form shapes. They form faces.

You see him. He is standing in the corner. He is young. He is smiling. He is reaching for you.

"I am here," he says. His voice is soft. It is like wind.

"I know," you say. "I have you."

"You have the silk," he says. "You have the weight."

"It is too heavy," you say. "I cannot carry it. I cannot carry the truth. It will kill me."

"Then let it kill you," he says. "Let it take you. Let it take us both. Let it take the world."

The silk burns. It is hot. It is fierce. It is alive.

You stand up. You walk to the door. You knock.

"Let me out," you say.

The guards are outside. They are talking. They are laughing.

"Who is there?" one asks.

"It is the Weaver," you say. "Let me out. I have a gift for the Magistrate."

The door opens. The light is blinding. The guards step back. They are afraid. They can see the fire in your eyes. They can see the power in your hand.

You walk into the corridor. You walk into the throne room. The Magistrate is sitting on his throne. He is drinking wine. The guards are standing at attention.

You walk to the center of the room. You stop. You hold up the silk.

It is no longer a shroud. It is a mask. It is a face. It is his face.

He looks up. He sees the mask. He sees the truth.

"What is this?" he asks. His voice is small.

"It is your sin," you say.

"It is nothing," he says. "It is a trick. A parlor game."

"It is the end," you say.

The silk unravels. It flies into the air. It forms a web. It covers the room. It covers the throne. It covers the Magistrate.

He screams. He tries to tear it off. But it is not cloth. It is memory. It is guilt. It is the weight of every life he has taken.

The guards draw their swords. They hesitate. They look at the web. They look at you. They lower their weapons. They step back.

The Magistrate is trapped. He is buried under the web. He is buried under his own history.

You stand there. You are alone. The room is silent. The web is still.

You feel the silk in your hand. It is gone. You have released it. You have given it back to the dark.

You look at your hands. They are empty. They are clean.

You turn. You walk out of the throne room. You walk out of the court. You walk into the night.

The city is sleeping. The streets are empty. The moon is high. It is cold. It is clear.

You walk to the river. The water is black. It reflects the stars.

You stand on the bank. You look at your reflection. You see a stranger. You see a ghost.

You take a step. You step into the water.

It is cold. It is sharp. It is alive.

You close your eyes. You breathe in. You breathe out.

You let go.

You let go of the name. You let go of the face. You let go of the love. You let go of the hate.

You let go of the self.

The water rises. It covers your feet. It covers your legs. It covers your waist. It covers your chest. It covers your mouth.

You do not struggle. You do not fight. You float. You drift. You sink.

You are free.

You are nothing.

You are the water.

You are the air.

You are the silence.

The silk is gone. The truth is gone. The weight is gone.

There is only the dark.

There is only the deep.

There is only the peace.

You rest.

You rest in the cold.

You rest in the stillness.

You rest in the end.