The bowl sits on the table. It is full. You do not touch it. You watch the steam rise. It curls like a ghost. Then it vanishes.

Lord Ashworth stands by the window. His back is to you. He is a large man. He looks heavy. The light from the chandelier hits his shoulders. It makes them glow.

"You hesitate, Sir."

His voice is low. It is smooth. It has no edges.

"I am not hesitant," you say.

You keep your eyes on the bowl. The meat is red. The broth is clear. It smells of iron. It smells of earth.

"Then why do you not eat?"

He turns slowly. His face is calm. There is no anger. There is only a question.

"I am not hungry."

"Everyone is hungry here."

He walks toward you. His boots do not make a sound. The floor is thick with dust. Or perhaps it is ash.

"This is the King’s table," he says. "You sit at the King’s table. You eat the King’s food. Or you leave."

You do not move. Your hands are in your lap. They are still.

"Leave?" you ask.

"Go. Walk out the door. The guards will not stop you. They are my men. I have told them not to stop you."

He stops three feet from you. He smells of lavender. It is a sharp scent. It cuts through the smell of the food.

"I will not leave."

"Good."

He smiles. It is a small smile. It does not reach his eyes.

"Eat."

You look at the bowl again. The meat is still raw. It pulses slightly. It is not meat. It is something else. It is life.

"I know what this is," you say.

The room goes quiet. The chandelier sways. It makes a faint sound. Like a bell.

"I know," you say. "I know what you feed them."

Ashworth’s face changes. It is subtle. The muscles in his jaw tighten.

"You are a brave man," he says. "Or a fool. It is hard to tell the difference in this castle."

"I am a soldier," you say. "I protect the King."

"You protect the crown," he says. "The crown is gold. The King is bone."

He leans in. His voice drops. It is a whisper.

"You think you are strong because you can hold a sword. You think strength is in the arm. It is not. Strength is in the knowledge. And you have the knowledge."

You feel a chill. It starts in your stomach. It moves to your chest.

"You know what I do?" he asks.

"I know you are a monster."

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

"Monster," he repeats. "A word for those who do not understand. I am a doctor. I treat the illness. The King is sick. The people are sick. The sickness is in the blood. I cure it."

"By feeding the King the blood of others?"

"By keeping him alive. Do you know what happens if the King dies? Chaos. War. Plague. I prevent all of it. I am the shield. You are just the sword. The sword cuts. The shield holds."

You look at the bowl. The steam has stopped rising. The surface is still. It looks like a mirror.

"I will not eat," you say.

"You will eat."

"Or I will die."

"You will not die. You will live. But you will be alone."

He turns away. He walks back to the window. He looks out at the dark.

"Go to your quarters," he says. "Rest. Tomorrow, we ride to the border. The rebels are there. You will need your strength."

He leaves. The door closes. The sound is soft. But it is final.

You are alone. The bowl is still there. The meat is still there.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. You walk to the door. You open it. The hallway is long. It is dark.

You walk down the hall. Your footsteps echo. They sound like a drum.

You reach your room. You close the door. You lock it.

You sit on the bed. The sheets are cold. You pull them up.

You think about the bowl. You think about the meat. You think about the King.

The King is in the tower. He is sick. He eats the flesh of the condemned. He drinks their blood. He lives forever. He rules forever.

You know this. You have always known this.

You have seen the bodies. You have buried them. You have wiped the blood from your sword. You have looked into the eyes of the dying. You have seen the fear. You have seen the hope.

And you have said nothing.

You have served. You have obeyed. You have kept the secret.

You thought the secret was a burden. You thought it was a weight.

But it is not a weight. It is a key.

Ashworth knows you know. He has always known.

Why did he not kill you?

Because you are useful.

You are the sword. The sword does not think. The sword only cuts.

But you are not just a sword. You are a man. And men remember.

You look at the wall. The stone is cold. The torches are low. The shadows dance.

You think of the rebels. They are in the woods. They want to burn the castle. They want to kill the King. They do not know the truth. They think the King is just a tyrant.

They do not know he is a monster.

They do not know that killing him will not save the people. It will only stop the feeding. The sickness will remain. The blood will still be bad.

Who will cure it then?

No one.

The land will rot. The crops will fail. The children will die.

You understand now.

Ashworth is not the villain. Ashworth is the doctor.

And you are the patient.

You have been sick for a long time. The sickness is in your soul. It is the guilt. It is the silence. It is the complicity.

You have protected the monster. You have shielded the abomination.

And now you know.

You know, and you cannot un-know.

The knowledge is a curse. It eats you from the inside. It rots your bones.

You stand up. You walk to the window. You look out.

The moon is full. It is bright. It is white.

You see the tower. The light in the top window is on.

The King is awake.

He is hungry.

You feel a pull. It is strong. It is in your chest. It is in your hands.

You reach for your sword. It is on the rack. The steel is cold.

You draw it. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air.

You walk to the door. You unlock it.

You walk out into the hall.

The guards are there. They are asleep. Their faces are peaceful. They do not know what they guard. They do not know what they serve.

You walk past them. You do not wake them.

You walk to the stairs. You climb them.

The tower is high. The wind is cold. It bites your face.

You reach the door. It is locked.

You kick it. The wood splinters. You kick it again. It breaks.

You enter the room.

It is empty.

There is a table. There is a chair. There is a bowl.

The bowl is empty.

The King is not there.

You look around. The room is dark. The shadows are deep.

You hear a sound. It is a whisper.

"Did you think he was here?"

You turn.

Ashworth is standing in the corner. He is holding a glass. He is drinking.

"I thought you would come," he says. "I thought you would break down the door. I thought you would kill him."

"Where is he?" you ask.

"He is not here. He is everywhere. He is in the walls. He is in the stones. He is in the blood of the land."

"You lie."

"I do not lie. I show you the truth. You came here to kill a man. But there is no man. There is only a system. A cycle. A hunger."

"I will find him."

"You cannot. He has no body. He has no name. He is the power itself. And power cannot be killed. It can only be replaced."

He walks toward you. He holds up the glass.

"Drink," he says.

"I will not."

"You must. If you do not drink, you will die. The poison is already in the air. You have been breathing it for hours. You have been breathing it for days."

You look at the glass. The liquid is clear. It is still.

"You are lying," you say. "You are trying to break me."

"I am trying to save you. Drink. Forget. Forget the bowl. Forget the blood. Forget the truth. Go back to being a sword. Be simple. Be blind. Be happy."

You look at him. His eyes are wet. He is crying.

Why is he crying?

He is not the monster. He is the victim.

He is trapped in the cage too.

He is the doctor who cannot cure the disease.

You look at the glass. You look at the empty bowl.

You understand.

There is no King. There is no monster.

There is only the hunger.

And the hunger is you.

You have been hungry for so long. You have been hungry for power. You have been hungry for meaning.

You have been eating the truth. You have been chewing the lies.

And now you are full.

You are sick.

You take the glass.

Your hand shakes.

You bring it to your lips.

You do not drink.

You throw the glass. It shatters on the floor. The liquid splashes. It is water.

It is just water.

Ashworth stares at you. His face is blank.

"You are free," you say.

"You are not free," he says. "You are alone. And that is worse than death."

You turn away. You walk to the window.

The wind is howling. The castle is shaking.

You jump.

The fall is long.

The air is cold.

You do not feel fear.

You feel light.

You hit the ground.

The sound is dull.

You are still moving. You are still breathing.

You stand up.

Your legs are broken. Your ribs are cracked.

But you are alive.

You look up at the tower. The light is out.

The castle is silent.

You limp away.

You walk into the dark.

You walk into the woods.

You walk until your legs give out.

You lie down in the grass.

The stars are above you.

They are far away.

They are cold.

They are bright.

You close your eyes.

You think of the bowl.

It is empty.

It has always been empty.

You open your eyes.

The sun is rising.

It is red.

It is warm.

It is new.

You do not know what to do.

You do not know where to go.

But you are not in the castle.

You are not the sword.

You are the man.

And the man is free.

The pain is sharp.

The pain is real.

You breathe.

You live.

The world turns.

The day begins.

You are here.