The feast was a thing of teeth and bone.

It sat in the center of the stone hall, a mountain of roasted boar, glistening with rendered fat. The smell was thick. It clogged the throat. It clogged the mind. The air was heavy with the sweat of men. With the smoke of tallow candles. With the stench of unwashed wool.

Silas sat at the head of the table. He did not eat. He watched.

The meat was a prize. It was a symbol. It was a promise of power. To the men who carved it, it was just food. To Silas, it was a curse. He had served the King for twenty years. He had bled for the throne. Now he sat in a castle that was rotting from the inside out.

Beside him sat Julian.

Julian was young. He was bright. He had the smile of a boy who had not yet seen the mud in which men died. He looked at the boar. He looked at Silas. He laughed.

"Eat, Silas," Julian said. "The King sent it. The King remembers."

The King did not remember. The King was a child. The King was a puppet. And the strings were held by men who wore silk and spoke softly.

Silas picked up his knife. It was a good knife. Steel. Cold. He cut a slice of meat. It was thin. It was pale. He put it in his mouth.

It tasted of ash.

It tasted of fear.

The hall was a box. The walls were thick. The windows were narrow. Light did not enter easily. Shadows pooled in the corners. Shadows pooled in the eyes of the men.

There were thirty men at the table. They were the King’s Guard. They were the King’s jaw. They were the King’s fist. And they were hungry. Not for the meat. For something else. For order. For a lie that held together.

Julian leaned in. His breath smelled of wine.

"The southern border is quiet," Julian said. "No raids. No blood. It is a time for rest."

Silas chewed. He swallowed. The meat stuck in his throat.

"Quiet is a lie," Silas said. "Quiet is the pause before the scream."

Julian frowned. He did not understand. He was a soldier of the peace. He had never seen a head roll from a neck. He had never held a dying man. He did not know that peace was just a different kind of war.

The food was a ritual. They ate. They spoke. They laughed. But the laughter was hollow. It bounced off the stone. It did not settle.

Silas looked at his hands. They were rough. They were stained. There was a mark on his palm. A scar. It was old. It was from a blade. A blade that had tried to end him.

He looked at Julian. Julian was clean. Julian was soft. Julian was the future. And the future was a trap.

The feast continued. The meat was gone. The bones remained. The cups were empty. The silence returned.

It was a heavy silence.

It was a silence that could break a man.

Silas stood up. The chair scraped against the stone. The sound was sharp. It cut the air.

All eyes turned to him.

"Silas?" Julian asked.

"I must walk," Silas said.

"Outside?"

"Inside," Silas said. "The corridors. The dark."

He walked away. The men watched him. They did not follow. They could not. They were bound by their oaths. By their fear. By the meat in their bellies.

The corridors were cold. The stone was damp. The air was still.

Silas walked. His boots echoed. The sound was his own heartbeat.

He walked to the armory. It was a small room. It was deep in the castle. It was forgotten.

The door was locked. The key was in his pocket. He opened it.

Inside, there were swords. There were shields. There were spears. They stood in rows. They were silent. They were waiting.

Silas walked to the center. He stood among the weapons.

He closed his eyes.

He remembered the day he joined the Guard. He was young. He was strong. He believed in the King. He believed in the law. He believed that justice was a straight line.

He was wrong.

Justice was a curve. It bent. It twisted. It broke.

The King’s court was a web. It was made of whispers. It was made of lies. It was made of blood.

And Silas was a spider.

He was the one who caught the flies. He was the one who held the web together.

But the web was tearing.

The men in the silk suits. The ministers. They were pulling at the threads. They were pulling at the King. They were pulling at Silas.

They wanted him gone.

They wanted him dead.

Or worse. They wanted him to die slowly. They wanted him to rot in his own skin.

Silas opened his eyes.

He saw a sword. It was long. It was sharp. It was beautiful.

He picked it up.

It felt light. It felt wrong.

He dropped it.

He did not need a sword. He did not need a weapon.

He needed the truth.

The truth was a poison. It was in the food. It was in the air. It was in the smile of the men.

The truth was that the King was not safe.

The truth was that the castle was a tomb.

The truth was that he was the only one who knew.

And he was alone.

He turned and left the armory.

He walked back to the hall.

The feast was over. The men were leaving. The servants were cleaning up. The bones were piled on a table. The cups were stacked.

Julian was still there. He sat at the table. He looked tired. He looked lost.

Silas sat down. He was opposite Julian.

"You went to the armory," Julian said.

"I did."

"Why?"

"To check the seals."

Julian nodded. He did not believe it. But he did not press. He was too tired to press.

"The King is sick," Julian said.

Silas looked at him.

"He is not sick," Silas said. "He is afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of us," Silas said. "Of what we do. Of what we are."

Julian looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

"We are the Guard," Julian said. "We are the shield."

"We are the teeth," Silas said. "And the teeth get pulled."

The words hung in the air. They were cold. They were hard.

Julian looked up. His eyes were wet.

"Is it true?" he asked. "Is the King in danger?"

Silas did not answer. He picked up a cup. It was empty. He drank from it. He drank the dust.

"The danger is here," Silas said. "It is in the walls. It is in the food. It is in the silence."

Julian stood up. He walked to the window. He looked out. The night was dark. The stars were out. They were cold. They were far away.

"What do I do?" Julian asked.

"You do nothing," Silas said. "You eat. You sleep. You wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For the end," Silas said.

The word was a stone. It dropped into Julian’s heart.

He turned back to Silas.

"I do not want to end," Julian said. "I want to live."

"Living is a luxury," Silas said. "And we have none."

The door to the hall opened.

A figure entered. It was tall. It was thin. It wore a mask.

The mask was white. It was smooth. It had no eyes. It had no mouth.

The figure walked to the center of the room. It stopped.

Silas stood up.

"Who are you?" Silas asked.

The figure did not speak.

Julian backed away. He looked at Silas. He looked at the figure.

"Silas," Julian whispered. "What is this?"

Silas looked at the figure. He saw the way it moved. He saw the way it stood.

He knew.

He had seen this mask before. In the dreams. In the memories.

It was the face of the court. It was the face of the lie.

It was the face of the betrayal.

The figure raised a hand. It held a dagger. It was small. It was sharp. It was black.

"Silas," the figure said. The voice was low. It was smooth. It was like silk. "The King has made his choice."

Silas felt a chill. It went down his spine. It went into his bones.

"What choice?" Silas asked.

"The choice of the body," the figure said. "The body must be preserved. The meat must be kept."

Julian looked at Silas. His face was pale. His lips were blue.

"Silas," he said. "Is this... is this about the food?"

Silas looked at Julian. He saw the fear. He saw the confusion. He saw the love.

It was a destructive love. It was a love that consumed. It was a love that killed.

"Yes," Silas said. "It is about the food."

The figure stepped forward. The dagger glinted in the dark.

"Eat," the figure said. "Or be eaten."

Silas looked at the dagger. He looked at the meat on the table. The bones. The grease. The stench.

He understood.

The ritual was not a feast. It was a test.

The test was to accept the corruption. To accept the rot. To accept that the King was a monster. And that he, Silas, was the monster’s mouth.

If he refused, he would die.

If he accepted, he would live. But he would no longer be himself.

He would be a thing. A hollow thing. A thing that ate and did not taste.

Silas looked at Julian.

"Run," Silas said.

"Where?" Julian asked.

"Anywhere," Silas said. "Away from here. Away from the meat. Away from the lie."

Julian hesitated.

"Silas," he said. "I cannot leave you."

"You must," Silas said. "You are the future. I am the past. The past is dead. The future is alive."

Julian looked at the figure. He looked at the dagger. He looked at Silas.

He turned.

He ran.

His feet hit the stone. He hit the door. He was gone.

Silas was alone.

The figure stood before him.

"Eat," the figure said.

Silas looked at the table. The bones. The grease.

He looked at his hands.

He looked at the mask.

He smiled.

It was a small smile. It was a sad smile.

"No," Silas said.

The figure raised the dagger.

Silas closed his eyes.

He did not flinch.

He did not move.

He let the blade come.

The pain was sharp. It was bright. It was like a star.

It went into his chest. It went into his heart.

He felt it.

He felt the life leave him.

He felt the meat in his belly.

He felt the rot in the walls.

He felt the truth.

The truth was simple.

The trust was a lie.

The misunderstanding was the end.

The system had eaten him.

And he had let it.

He fell.

The stone was cold.

The blood was warm.

The feast was over.

The hall was silent.

The mask stood over him.

It did not celebrate.

It did not gloat.

It simply waited.

For the next meal.

For the next lie.

For the next silence.

Silas died in the dark.

He died in the cold.

He died in the truth.

And the meat remained.

Untouched.

Ugly.

Waiting.