The fire crackled. It spat sparks into the dark. The mead was warm. It tasted of honey and iron. Wren sat on the rough-hewn bench. Her hands trembled. The tremor was new. It lived in her fingers. It lived in her bones. She held the wooden cup. The wood was cold. Her skin was hot.

Around her, the hall roared. The long table stretched out. It disappeared into the shadows. Men laughed. They threw bones to the dogs. The dogs yelped. The dogs snarled. The smell was thick. Sweat. Smoke. Stale beer. Wren breathed it in. She did not taste the food. She only tasted the fear.

"Drink, Wren," said Kael. His voice was low. He sat across from her. His eyes were bright. He held a cup of ale. It sloshed over the rim. "The night is young. The night is deep."

Wren looked at him. She looked at the table. The table was black. The wood was old. It had seen many feasts. It had seen many deaths.

"I am tired, Kael," she said. Her voice was small. It was barely a whisper. The noise of the hall swallowed it.

Kael leaned forward. The firelight caught his face. His face was sharp. His face was kind. "You have walked far. You have walked hard. Rest now. The path is over."

The path was not over. Wren knew this. She knew it in her gut. She knew it in the ache of her feet. The path was a line. It started here. It ended there. In the dark. In the woods.

She raised the cup. The liquid shimmered. It looked like oil. She drank. It burned her throat. It settled in her stomach. It was heavy. It was hot.

The bard began to play. The strings sang. The song was old. It was a song of loss. It was a song of winter. Wren closed her eyes. She listened. The melody wound around her. It tightened. It squeezed.

She thought of the road. The road was gray. The stones were wet. The mist was thick. She had walked alone. For three days. For three nights. The cold had been a beast. It had bitten her. It had frozen her toes. She had bled from her heels. The blood had mixed with the mud. It had dried black.

She thought of the gate. The gate was tall. The iron was rusted. It stood at the edge of the woods. Beyond the gate, the trees stood silent. They were black. They were still. They watched her.

She had knocked on the gate. The wood had creaked. No one answered. The mist had swallowed the sound. She had waited. The hours had passed. The dark had come. She had not moved. She had not slept.

The bard’s song changed. The tempo quickened. The strings snapped. The hall erupted in cheers. The men stood. They raised their cups. They drank to the war. They drank to the blood.

Wren stayed seated. She felt the floor vibrate. She felt the heat of the fire. It was too hot. It was too bright. She wanted to leave. She wanted to run. She wanted to go back to the gate.

"Stand up, Wren," Kael said. His voice was firm. It was a command. "We must drink to the Queen."

The Queen. The word hung in the air. It was heavy. It was cold. The Queen sat on the throne. She was far away. She was in the castle. The castle was stone. The castle was high.

Wren stood. Her legs shook. The hall was loud. The noise was a wall. It pressed against her ears. It pressed against her mind.

They drank. The ale was strong. It clouded her thoughts. It blurred her vision. The faces of the men swam. They were masks. They were demons. They grinned at her. They showed their teeth.

Kael spoke. He spoke of honor. He spoke of duty. He spoke of the old ways. The words were hollow. They were empty shells. They bounced off the walls.

Wren looked at the door. The door was wide. It was open. The night air rushed in. It was cold. It was clean. It smelled of pine. It smelled of rain.

She could leave. She could run. She could go back to the road. She could go back to the gate. She could wait. She would wait.

But her feet would not move. The ale held them. The warmth held them. The fire held them.

"Who are you?" a voice asked.

It was a young man. He sat at the end of the table. His face was pale. His eyes were wide. He held a dagger. The dagger was short. The dagger was bloody.

Wren looked at him. She did not see a man. She saw a shadow. She saw a ghost.

"I am Wren," she said. "I am the keeper of the gate."

The young man laughed. It was a dry sound. It was a broken sound. "The keeper? The gate is closed. The gate is dead. No one comes. No one leaves."

Wren felt a chill. It ran down her spine. It settled in her heart. The gate was closed. The gate was dead.

She looked at Kael. Kael was smiling. His smile was wide. It was too wide. His eyes were dark. His eyes were empty.

"You are not real," Wren whispered. "You are not here."

Kael stopped smiling. His face hardened. It became stone. "We are real. We are the past. We are the memory. You cannot escape the memory, Wren. You are part of it."

The hall was silent. The bard had stopped playing. The fire had gone out. The darkness was total. It was absolute.

Wren stood alone. The tables were gone. The men were gone. The ale was gone. She stood in the empty room. The room was cold. The room was still.

She looked at the door. The door was gone. There was only a wall. The wall was stone. The wall was thick. The wall was endless.

She turned. She faced the center of the room. The floor was bare. The wood was gray. It was worn. It was smooth.

In the center of the floor, there was a mark. It was a circle. The circle was black. The circle was deep. It was a hole.

Wren walked toward it. Her feet did not make a sound. The air was thick. It was heavy. It resisted her.

She stopped at the edge of the circle. She looked down. The darkness below was infinite. It swallowed her gaze. It swallowed her fear.

She remembered the gate. The gate was iron. The iron was cold. She had touched it. Her hand had bled. The blood had seeped into the metal. The metal had accepted it. The metal had taken her.

She had not died. She had not slept. She had become the gate. She had become the boundary. She was the line between the inside and the outside. She was the wall between the living and the dead.

The young man was still there. He stood at the edge of the circle. His face was calm. His eyes were kind.

"You are tired," he said. His voice was soft. It was like the wind. It was like the rain.

"I am not tired," Wren said. "I am the gate."

"No," he said. "You are the keeper. You have kept the gate for too long. You have held the line for too long. It is time to let go."

Wren looked at her hands. Her hands were pale. Her hands were thin. They were not her hands. They were the hands of the dead. They were the hands of the old.

"I cannot let go," she said. "If I let go, they will come in. The dark will come in. The cold will come in."

"They are already here," the young man said. "They are in the hall. They are in the fire. They are in the ale. You are holding them back. But you are fading. The line is blurring. You are becoming them."

Wren looked around. The shadows were moving. They were reaching for her. They were touching her. They were cold. They were hungry.

She felt the pull. It was strong. It was deep. It wanted her. It wanted her to join them. It wanted her to lie down. It wanted her to sleep.

She thought of the road. The road was gray. The stones were wet. She had walked so far. She had walked so hard. She had bled. She had frozen. She had suffered.

Why?

The question burned. It was hot. It was bright.

She had not walked for the men. She had not walked for the Queen. She had walked for the gate. She had walked to hold the line. She had walked to keep the dark out.

But the dark was inside. The dark was in her. The dark was in the hall. The dark was in the memory.

Sacrifice.

The word came to her. It was clear. It was sharp. It cut through the noise. It cut through the fog.

Sacrifice was not a burden. Sacrifice was a release. Sacrifice was a door.

She looked at the young man. He nodded. His nod was slow. His nod was sad.

"I will let go," Wren said. Her voice was steady. It was calm. It was clear.

She stepped back. She stepped away from the circle. She stepped away from the dark.

The circle vanished. The floor was gone. The room was gone.

She was standing on the road. The road was gray. The stones were wet. The mist was thin. The sun was rising. The light was gold. The light was warm.

The gate was in front of her. The iron was rusted. The iron was cold. It was silent. It was still.

Wren reached out. She touched the gate. The metal was cold. The metal was hard.

She pushed. The gate did not move. It was heavy. It was locked.

She pulled. The gate did not move. It was stuck.

She pushed again. She used all her strength. Her muscles burned. Her lungs ached.

The gate creaked. It opened. It swung inward. It opened wide.

Beyond the gate, there was nothing. There was no forest. There was no dark. There was only light. The light was white. The light was pure. It was blinding.

Wren stepped through.

The gate closed behind her. The sound was final. The sound was deep.

She stood in the light. The light was warm. The light was soft. It wrapped around her. It held her. It hugged her.

She looked at her hands. They were her hands. They were young. They were strong. They were alive.

She looked at her feet. They were bare. They were clean. They were steady.

She took a step. The ground was solid. The air was sweet. It smelled of flowers. It smelled of rain.

She took another step. The light was brighter. The light was deeper.

She walked. She did not look back. The gate was behind her. The past was behind her. The memory was behind her.

The road stretched out. It was long. It was straight. It was clear.

Wren walked. Her steps were light. Her heart was light. Her mind was clear.

She was free.

The light swallowed her. The light took her. The light was all.

The gate stood alone. The iron was rusted. The iron was cold. It waited. It waited for the next keeper. It waited for the next sacrifice.

The mist rolled in. The mist covered the gate. The mist covered the road. The world was still. The world was silent.

The gate held. The line held.

Wren was gone.