He dreamed of stone.

Not the rough granite of the quarry. Not the soft chalk of the cliff. But the cold, unyielding marble of a throne. It pressed against his back. It bit into his skin. He could not move. He could not breathe. The air was thin. The light was grey. A single beam cut through the dust. It landed on his chest. It burned.

He woke.

The room was dark. The bed was cold. His heart hammered against his ribs. A drum in a hollow chest. He lay still. He waited for the beat to slow. It did not. He sat up. The floorboards creaked. The sound was loud. Too loud.

He looked at the door. It was closed. He looked at the window. The moon was out. Pale. Thin. Like a sliver of bone.

He dressed. He did not think. His hands moved. They knew what to do. He pulled on his shirt. He buttoned it. The buttons were cold. He pulled on his trousers. He tied his belt. He took his sword. It sat on the chair. It waited. It was heavy. It was quiet.

He opened the door. The hallway was long. The shadows were deep. He walked. His boots made no sound. He moved like water. He moved like smoke.

The castle was old. The walls were thick. The air smelled of dust and iron. He had lived here for twenty years. He knew every crack. He knew every stain. He knew the way the wind moaned in the eastern tower. He knew the way the floorboards groaned in the west wing.

He walked to the great hall. The doors were ajar. He pushed them open. They swung wide. They did not creak. They did not sigh. They simply opened.

The hall was empty. The chandeliers were dark. The tapestries hung limp. They showed a battle. They showed a victory. The colors were faded. The figures were blurred. He looked at them. He looked away.

He walked to the throne. It was at the far end of the hall. It was high. It was white. It was made of marble. He stared at it. It stared back. It had eyes. It had a mouth. It was waiting.

He walked forward. The floor was cold. The air was still. He felt a pull. It was in his gut. It was in his bone. It drew him in. He could not stop. He could not turn. He walked. He walked. He walked.

He stopped before the throne. He looked up. The marble was smooth. It reflected the moonlight. It reflected his face. He saw his eyes. They were wide. They were wet. He saw his mouth. It was tight. It was hard.

He reached out. He touched the armrest. It was cold. It was hard. It was alive.

A voice came.

It was not loud. It was not sharp. It was soft. It was kind. It was his own voice.

"Stay," it said.

He did not answer. He could not. His throat was dry. His tongue was thick.

"Stay," the voice said again. "Do not go. Do not leave. You are safe here. You are strong here. You are the king."

He looked at the throne. He looked at his hands. They were trembling. They were small. They were weak.

"I am not the king," he whispered.

The voice laughed. It was a dry laugh. It was a hollow laugh.

"You are," it said. "You have always been. You were born for this. You were made for this. Look at your sword. Look at your name. Look at your blood. It is royal. It is pure. It is mine."

He looked at his sword. It lay on the floor. It was dull. It was rusted. It was broken.

"It is not mine," he said.

The voice stopped. The silence was heavy. The silence was thick. The silence was a wall.

He looked at the throne again. The marble was white. The marble was cold. The marble was dead.

He felt a pain. It was in his shoulder. It was old. It was deep. It was the scar from the battle. The battle that had saved the castle. The battle that had saved the king. He had fought. He had bled. He had won.

He had won.

But he had lost.

He had lost his wife.

Her name was Elara.

She had died in the fire. The fire that had started in the kitchen. The fire that had spread to the hall. The fire that had consumed the tapestries. The fire that had consumed the throne.

He had carried her out. He had held her in his arms. He had felt her heart stop. He had felt her breath leave. He had felt the heat on his face. He had felt the smoke in his lungs.

He had put her in the garden. He had dug the hole. He had covered her with earth. He had planted a rose. It was red. It was bright. It was alive.

He had not spoken since.

He had not spoken to the king. He had not spoken to the lords. He had not spoken to the servants. He had only fought. He had only guarded. He had only waited.

He waited for death.

He waited for the end.

He looked at the throne. He looked at the voice. He looked at himself.

"I will not stay," he said.

The voice was angry. It was sharp. It was cold.

"You will," it said. "You must. You have no choice. You are bound. You are chained. You are mine."

He looked at his sword. He picked it up. It was heavy. It was dull. It was broken.

He looked at the throne. He looked at the marble.

He raised the sword.

He swung it.

The blade hit the marble. It did not break. It did not crack. It did not chip.

The marble absorbed the blow. It drank the steel. It drank the force. It drank the anger.

He swung again.

The blade hit the marble. It did not break.

He swung again.

The blade hit the marble. It did not break.

He swung again.

The blade hit the marble. It did not break.

He stopped. His arms were shaking. His breath was ragged. His heart was pounding.

The voice laughed.

"See," it said. "You cannot break it. You cannot destroy it. You are nothing. You are dust. You are ash."

He looked at the sword. The blade was bent. The edge was dull. The handle was cracked.

He looked at the throne. The marble was untouched. The marble was perfect. The marble was pure.

He felt a tear fall. It rolled down his cheek. It hit the floor. It vanished.

He dropped the sword. It clattered on the stone. It rang out. It echoed.

He turned. He walked away.

He walked out of the hall. He walked down the stairs. He walked into the courtyard.

The air was cold. The air was fresh. The air was free.

He looked up. The stars were out. They were bright. They were distant.

He looked at the gate. The gate was open. The road was dark. The road was long.

He walked to the gate. He walked through it.

He did not look back.

He did not look back.

He walked into the night.

He walked into the dark.

He walked into the silence.

He walked into the end.

He did not know where he was going. He did not know why he was going. He did not know if he would survive.

He did not care.

He was free.

He was alone.

He was gone.

The castle stood. The throne sat. The marble waited.

The marble waited.

The marble waited.

It would wait forever.

It would wait for the next.

It would wait for the strong.

It would wait for the brave.

It would wait for the king.

It would wait.

It would wait.

It would wait.