The feast was loud. It was wet. It smelled of roasted pork and stale wine.

Thomas sat at the edge of the long oak table. His hands were still. They rested on the wood. He did not eat. He watched the liquid. It moved in circles. It was a mirror.

"Drink, Thomas," said Lord Ashworth.

The Lord’s voice was thick. It was like mud. He held a goblet of red wine. He smiled. The smile was wide. It showed yellow teeth.

Thomas did not move.

"I will drink," Thomas said.

His voice was low. It was flat. He reached for the cup. His fingers were pale. They trembled. Just once.

He lifted the glass. The wine sloshed. It hit his knuckles. It was cold.

"Good," Ashworth said. "You are a man of the old ways. You understand duty."

Thomas looked at the wine. He saw his face in it. It was distorted. It was ugly. His eyes were wide. His mouth was a thin line.

"I understand silence," Thomas said.

The table erupted in laughter.

It was a sharp sound. It was like breaking glass. The other knights laughed. Sir Edward leaned back. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. The napkin was already dirty.

"Silence," Edward mocked. "Is that your weapon, Thomas? Is that your sword?"

Thomas set the cup down. He did not drink.

He looked at his own reflection. It stared back. It did not blink.

The room was a dream. It was a trap. The air was thick. It pressed against his skin. He could not breathe. He could not think. The words of the men around him were a wall. They were bricks. They were heavy. They crushed him.

He knew the truth. He had always known it.

He was not a warrior. He was a vessel. He was a bowl. And the bowl was cracked.

The crack was small. It was near the rim. He saw it in the wine. It was a white line. It was a scar.

"Thomas," Ashworth said. The laughter stopped. "You are afraid."

"I am full," Thomas said.

"You are empty," Ashworth corrected. "You have no honor. You have no fire. You are a ghost in a suit of armor."

The words hit him. They were needles. They went into his heart. He felt a pain. It was sharp. It was bright.

He looked at the table. The wood was dark. It was wet with spills. There was a stain. It was shaped like a hand. It was his hand.

He stood up.

The chair scraped against the stone floor. It was a long, harsh sound. It cut through the silence.

Everyone looked at him.

Ashworth did not smile. His eyes were hard. They were black stones.

"Where do you go?" Ashworth asked.

"Away," Thomas said.

"You cannot leave. You are bound. You are part of this house. You are part of this blood."

Thomas walked to the door. The door was heavy. It was iron. It was cold.

He pushed it open. The night air hit him. It was cold. It was clean. It smelled of rain. It smelled of dirt.

He stepped out.

The courtyard was empty. The moon was full. It was a white disc. It was a coin. It was a mirror.

He looked up. The moon looked down. It saw everything. It saw the crack.

He walked to the edge of the courtyard. There was a well. It was deep. It was dark.

He knelt. He looked into the water. The water was still. It was black.

He saw his face again. It was clearer now. The crack was visible. It ran from his temple to his jaw. It was white. It was bright.

He touched his face. His fingers were cold.

The crack was not in his face. It was in the world. It was in the air. It was in the words.

He remembered the old stories. The stories of the broken sword. The stories of the silent king. They said that when the vessel breaks, the spirit escapes. They said that knowledge is a poison. It rots the mind. It rots the soul.

He had known the truth. He had seen the crack. And now he could not look away. He could not look at the people. He could not look at the food. He could only look at the break.

He stood up.

He walked to the stables. The horses were there. They were breathing. Their breath was steam. It was white. It was ghostly.

He chose a horse. It was a black stallion. It was strong. It was quiet.

He mounted. The saddle was leather. It was worn. It smelled of sweat.

He rode out of the gate. The gate closed behind him. The sound was a thud. It was final.

He rode into the forest. The trees were tall. They were dark. They were like walls. The moonlight filtered through the leaves. It was silver. It was liquid.

He rode fast. The horse’s hooves beat the ground. It was a drum. It was a heart.

He did not know where he was going. He did not know where he was. He was lost. He was free.

He rode for an hour. The trees thinned. The ground was flat.

He saw a light. It was in the distance. It was small. It was orange.

He rode toward it.

It was a house. It was small. It was made of stone. It was round.

He stopped the horse. He dismounted. His legs were stiff. They shook.

He walked to the door. He knocked.

No one answered.

He pushed the door open. It was not locked.

He stepped inside. The room was empty. There was a table. There was a chair. There was a fire. The fire was dying. It was red. It was weak.

On the table was a bowl.

It was white. It was clay. It was perfect.

Thomas walked to the table. He looked at the bowl. It was empty.

He picked it up. It was light. It was warm.

He looked at the rim. There was no crack. It was whole. It was perfect.

He felt a surge of relief. It was warm. It was sweet.

He raised the bowl to his lips. He was thirsty. He was dry.

He tilted the bowl.

No water came out.

He shook it. No water came out.

He looked into the bowl. He saw his reflection.

It was distorted. It was ugly.

The bowl was empty. It had always been empty.

He dropped the bowl.

It hit the floor. It shattered.

The sound was sharp. It was loud. It was like a scream.

Pieces of white clay flew into the air. They hung there. They were frozen.

Thomas stared at the shards. They were on the floor. They were in the firelight. They were bright.

He looked at his hand. It was stained with red. It was blood.

He had cut himself. He had cut his palm.

He did not feel pain. He felt nothing. He was empty.

He sat down on the chair. The wood was cold.

He looked at the broken bowl. He looked at the pieces.

He understood.

The bowl was not a container. It was a lie. It was a promise. It was a hope. And hope was a curse.

He had sought the whole thing. He had sought the unbroken thing. And in seeking it, he had broken himself.

He was the crack. He was the break.

He closed his eyes.

The fire crackled. It popped. It died.

The room was dark. The room was cold.

He opened his eyes.

The pieces of the bowl were glowing. They were bright. They were blue.

They were not clay. They were stars. They were pieces of the sky.

He had broken the bowl. He had broken the world.

He laughed. It was a dry sound. It was a rattle.

He was free.

He was alone.

He was whole.

He was broken.

The door opened. A cold wind blew in. It was the wind of the outside. It was the wind of the truth.

Thomas stood up. He picked up the pieces. He held them in his hands. They were sharp. They cut him. He did not care.

He walked to the door. He stepped out.

The forest was gone. The moon was gone. The sky was gone.

There was only the void. It was black. It was infinite.

He walked into the void.

His feet did not touch the ground. He floated. He drifted.

He saw the faces of the men at the feast. They were there. They were in the dark. They were watching. They were smiling.

They were eating. They were drinking. They were alive.

He was not alive. He was a shadow. He was a memory.

He was the curse.

He closed his eyes.

He let go.

The pieces of the bowl scattered. They faded. They became dust. They became nothing.

He was nothing.

He was free.

The silence was loud. It was eternal. It was sweet.

He slept.

He did not wake.

The bowl was gone. The feast was gone. The men were gone.

There was only the dark. And the quiet. And the end.

It was good.

It was enough.

It was the truth.

And the truth was a knife. It cut clean. It cut deep. It cut everything.

Thomas was gone.

The world turned. The world forgot.

The crack remained.

It was in the air. It was in the earth. It was in the sky.

It was in you.

It is in me.

We are all broken.

We are all whole.

We are all empty.

We are all full.

The end.