The mud sucked at his boots. It was thick, cold, and tasted of iron. Silas Vane dragged his leg forward. The ground offered no purchase. He slipped. He caught himself on the hilt of his sword. The steel was cold against his palm. His breath came in short, sharp bursts. The air smelled of ozone and wet stone.

He stood alone in the center of the courtyard. The walls were high. They were made of black glass. They reflected nothing. Above, the sky was a bruised purple. No stars. No moon. Just a faint, humming light that seemed to come from the ground itself.

Silas checked his gauntlet. The leather was cracked. The metal rings were loose. He flexed his fingers. They still worked. He checked his blade. The edge was chipped. It was enough. It had to be enough.

He remembered the briefing. The map had been wrong. The coordinates had led him here. Into the Veil. The intelligence had been clear. The target was a warlord. A man who controlled the flow of mana in the sector. Silas was a hunter. He was a tool. He was not meant to think. He was meant to act.

But the target was not there.

Instead, there was a figure sitting on a stone bench. The figure wore armor. The armor was silver. It was polished to a mirror shine. It did not reflect the sky. It absorbed the light. The figure held a staff. The staff was carved from white bone.

Silas raised his sword. His arm trembled. Not from fear. From exhaustion.

"Who are you?" Silas asked. His voice was rough. It sounded like gravel grinding together.

The figure did not look up. The figure was reading a scroll. The scroll was made of skin. It was covered in text. The text moved. The letters crawled across the surface like insects.

"Silas Vane," the figure said. The voice was soft. It was calm. It was the voice of a teacher. "You are late."

"I am on time," Silas said. "I am exactly where the orders said I would be."

"The orders were written by men who do not know this place," the figure said. "They think in lines. In grids. In cause and effect. This place is not a line. It is a circle."

Silas lowered his sword an inch. He did not let go of the hilt. "I am not here for philosophy. I am here to kill a man."

"Which man?" the figure asked.

"The one who is holding the key. The one who is keeping the gate closed."

The figure stopped reading. The letters on the scroll froze. The figure turned its head. The face was hidden behind a mask. The mask was blank. It was white porcelain. It had no eyes. No mouth. Only a smooth, featureless surface.

"You think there is a gate?" the figure asked.

"Yes."

"You think there is a key?"

"Yes."

The figure stood up. The movement was slow. It was graceful. The silver armor made a soft clicking sound. It was like ice cracking in a lake.

"Look at your hand," the figure said.

Silas looked down. His right hand was gripping the sword. His left hand was at his side. He looked at his left hand. The gauntlet was gone. The leather had rotted away. The metal rings had fallen off. Beneath the ruin was not skin. It was stone. His hand was made of the same black glass as the walls.

Silas pulled his hand back. He shook it. The stone fingers crumbled slightly. Dust fell to the ground. The dust was black.

"What is this?" Silas whispered.

"This is the cost," the figure said. "Every step you take in the Veil, you lose a piece of the world you came from. You trade flesh for power. You trade memory for clarity. You trade humanity for survival."

Silas looked at the figure. The figure was closer now. The blank mask stared at him. Or seemed to.

"I have done this before," Silas said. "In other missions. I have lost things. But not my hand. Not yet."

"Yet is a long word," the figure said. "In the Veil, time is not a river. It is a pool. You are already old, Silas. You have been here for a thousand years. You have killed a thousand men. You have saved a thousand people. You have forgotten their faces. You have forgotten your own name."

"My name is Silas Vane," Silas said. "I am a hunter for the Dominion."

"Is it?" the figure asked. "Or are you a ghost? A rumor? A story told to frighten children?"

Silas felt a sting in his chest. It was not pain. It was doubt. The doubt was sharp. It was a blade in his gut.

"I have a mission," Silas said. "I have a purpose."

"Purpose is a lie we tell to justify the violence," the figure said. "Look at the wall."

Silas looked at the black glass wall. He saw his reflection. It was not his face. It was a mask. It was the same blank white mask the figure wore.

He looked away. His heart was beating fast. It was a frantic, bird-like flutter.

"I am not a monster," Silas said. "I am a soldier. I follow orders."

"Orders from whom?" the figure asked. "From men who sit in warm rooms and draw lines on maps? Men who do not bleed? Men who do not feel the cold?"

Silas did not answer. The silence was heavy. It pressed against his eardrums.

The figure raised its bone staff. The end of the staff glowed. It was a soft, blue light. It was the light of the sky.

"This is the truth," the figure said. "The gate is not locked. There is no key. The wall is not a barrier. It is a mirror. You are the wall. You are the barrier. You are the thing that keeps the world apart."

Silas shook his head. "No. That is not true. I have seen the other side. I have seen the people. They are afraid. They need protection."

"From what?" the figure asked. "From each other? From their own fears?"

"From you," Silas said. "From the chaos."

"Chaos is life," the figure said. "Order is death. You are building a tomb, Silas. A tomb of black glass. And you are the only one who can see it."

The figure stepped forward. The light from the staff grew brighter. It washed over Silas. It felt warm. It felt like sunlight on his face. He had forgotten what sunlight felt like.

"I do not want to be free," Silas said. "I want to be strong. I want to be necessary."

"You are neither," the figure said. "You are a mirror. You reflect the ugliness of the world so that the world can pretend it is clean. You are the sin that is never named. You are the shadow that is never cast."

Silas felt tears in his eyes. They were hot. They burned his cheeks. He wiped them away with his stone hand. The stone crumbled. More dust fell.

"I cannot stop," Silas said. "If I stop, the world will fall."

"The world is already fallen," the figure said. "It is lying in the mud. And you are standing on it. Crushing it."

Silas looked at his sword. The blade was dull. It was chipped. It was no longer sharp. He realized it had not been sharp for a long time. He had been fighting with a blunted tool. He had been hurting himself.

He looked at the figure. The figure was still holding the staff. The light was fading. The purple sky was darkening. The hum in the ground was getting louder.

"What do I do?" Silas asked.

"You let go," the figure said.

"Of what?"

"Of the story. Of the mission. Of the need to be the hunter. You are not the hunter. You are the prey. You have always been the prey. The world has been hunting you for a thousand years. And you have been running."

Silas lowered his sword. His hand was shaking. He could not hold it anymore. The stone in his hand was crumbling. It turned to powder. It blew away in the wind.

He was bare-handed. He was naked in his soul.

The figure smiled. Or the mask seemed to smile. The lines on the porcelain curved.

"It is heavy, isn't it?" the figure asked.

"Yes," Silas said. "It is so heavy."

"Drop it," the figure said.

Silas looked at the sword. He looked at the mud. He looked at the black glass wall. He saw his reflection. The mask was gone. He saw his own face. It was old. It was tired. It was full of grief.

He dropped the sword.

The sword hit the ground. It made a dull thud. It sank into the mud. It did not clang. It did not ring. It just disappeared.

Silas felt a lightness in his chest. It was terrifying. It was like falling. He was falling into a void. But the void was not empty. It was full of air. Full of light.

The figure raised its staff. The light flared. It was blinding. It was white. It was pure.

Silas closed his eyes. He waited for the pain. He waited for the end.

But there was no pain. There was only peace.

The figure spoke one last time. The voice was not a voice. It was a feeling. It was a memory.

"Welcome home, Silas."

The light swallowed him.

The courtyard was empty. The black glass walls were gone. The purple sky was gone. The mud was gone.

There was only grass. Green, soft, damp grass.

The sun was rising. It was yellow. It was warm.

A bird sang. It was a small bird. It was brown. It had a red throat.

Silas opened his eyes. He was lying in the grass. His body was light. His hand was flesh. It was warm. It was soft.

He sat up. He looked around. He was in a field. There was a fence. There was a road. There were trees.

He stood up. His legs were weak. He swayed. He caught his balance.

He walked to the edge of the field. He looked down the road. There was a town in the distance. There were smoke from chimneys. There were lights in windows.

People were waking up. The world was waking up.

Silas looked at his hands. They were clean. They were human.

He did not know who he was. He did not know where he was. He did not know what he had done.

But he knew he was free.

He took a step forward. The ground was solid. The air was sweet.

He walked toward the town. He walked toward the people.

He did not run. He did not fight. He did not hunt.

He just walked.

The sun rose higher. The shadows shortened.

Silas Vane was gone.

There was only a man.