The iron of the Great Hall did not rust, though the air was thick with the wet, heavy breath of the sea that battered the cliffs of Dunmore Keep, and you stood in the center of the polished stone floor, your hands trembling not from fear, for fear had been a luxury you had abandoned years ago when the fever first took your reason, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the knowledge that had finally, irrevocably, settled into the marrow of your bones. The torches flickered in their iron sconces, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe like the souls of the damned, and around you, the court assembled, a sea of velvet and silk, of gold chains and cold, assessing eyes, all watching you, the King’s most trusted blade, the enforcer of his will, the man who had kept the realm in check through blood and silence, now standing as a broken thing, a hollow vessel filled with a poison that was not physical but metaphysical, a curse that was also a gift, and a gift that was also a curse, and you could not tell the difference anymore, not since the vision came, not since you looked upon the King and saw not a monarch but a vessel, a temporary container for something ancient and hungry, something that wore his face as a mask, something that had worn the faces of every ruler before him, and the realization hit you with the force of a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping, a rag doll in the middle of a storm.

You had come here to present the head of the rebel, a young man named Thomas, whose only crime was to speak too loudly of the people’s rights, of the land that belonged to the farmers and not to the lords, and you had brought his head in a silver bowl, the blood still warm, the eyes still open, staring up at the vaulted ceiling with a mixture of defiance and terror, and the court had laughed, a dry, brittle sound, like the cracking of old wood, because they knew that the King did not take prisoners, because they knew that the King was not a man but a god, a capricious and terrible god who demanded blood as an offering, and you had been his priest, his instrument, his hand, and you had believed in the order of things, in the hierarchy of heaven and earth, in the divine right of the crown, and you had told yourself that it was necessary, that it was for the greater good, that chaos was the only alternative, and you had killed, and killed, and killed, and the blood had become so familiar to you that it was like water, like the air you breathed, and you had become so empty, so hollow, that you did not feel anything anymore, not even the pain of the wounds you had inflicted, not even the guilt of the lives you had destroyed, until the fever came, a burning, searing heat that rose from your core, that seared your eyes, that made you see the world not as it was but as it truly was, stripped of its masks, stripped of its pretenses, stripped of its lies.

The King sat on his throne, a high-backed chair of carved oak, inlaid with ivory and gold, and he looked at you, his eyes cold and hard, like chips of flint, and you saw the truth in them, the ancient, hungry truth, the truth that he was not human, that he was something else, something that had been waiting for centuries, something that was feeding on the fear and the blood of his subjects, and you saw the other lords, the dukes and the earls, and you saw that they knew, that they had always known, that they were not his subjects but his food, that they were being consumed, slowly, piece by piece, and you saw that they were complicit, that they were willing, that they preferred the order of the monster to the chaos of the unknown, and you felt a surge of rage, a wild, untamed rage, that burned in your chest like a furnace, and you wanted to scream, to tear the mask from the King’s face, to expose him for the thing he was, to save them all from the curse, but your mouth was dry, your throat constricted, and you could not speak, could not move, could only stand there, frozen, a statue, a monument to your own failure.

"Bring it forward," the King said, his voice smooth, like oil, like silk, and you moved, your legs stiff, your arms heavy, and you placed the bowl on the table before the throne, and the court leaned in, their faces illuminated by the firelight, their eyes shining with a mixture of hunger and anticipation, and you saw the faces of the men you had killed, the men you had betrayed, the men you had loved, and you saw their eyes in the eyes of the living, the same defiance, the same terror, the same hope, and you felt a wave of nausea, a physical revulsion, that threatened to overcome you, and you looked at the King, and he smiled, a thin, cold smile, and he reached out for the head, his fingers long and pale, like the claws of a bird, and you saw the truth, the terrible, undeniable truth, that you were not a hero, that you were not a savior, that you were just another victim, another piece of the puzzle, another drop in the ocean, and you realized that the knowledge was a curse, that knowing the truth was the worst thing that could happen to you, that ignorance was bliss, that the dark was safe, that the light was deadly, and you wanted to go back, to close your eyes, to forget, to be blind, to be deaf, to be dumb, to be nothing, to be empty, to be free.

"Speak," the King said, his voice low, almost a whisper, but it carried, it filled the room, it vibrated in the stones, and you opened your mouth, and you tried to speak, to tell them, to warn them, to expose him, but the words came out wrong, they were twisted, they were broken, they were lies, and you said, "It was done, my lord, the rebel is dead, the order is restored, the realm is safe," and the court exhaled, a collective sigh of relief, and the King nodded, his eyes cold, and he said, "Good, you have served me well, and you shall be rewarded," and you felt a tear slide down your cheek, a single, hot tear, that burned like acid, and you wiped it away, and you bowed, and you backed away, and you left the Great Hall, and you walked out into the night, and the wind hit you, cold and sharp, and you looked up at the sky, and you saw the stars, distant and cold, and you thought of Thomas, and you thought of the others, and you thought of yourself, and you felt the weight of the world on your shoulders, and you knew that you could not go back, that you could not unsee what you had seen, that you could not unknow what you had known, and you walked on, into the darkness, into the storm, into the void, and you did not look back, and you did not stop, and you did not speak, and you did not pray, and you did not hope, and you did not despair, and you were alone, and you were free, and you were damned, and you were alive, and you were dead, and you were nothing, and you were everything, and the blade was distant, and the blood was cold, and the truth was a curse, and the curse was a gift, and the gift was a lie, and the lie was the truth, and the truth was the only thing that mattered, and the only thing that was real, and the only thing that was you.