You dream of the hand.

It is not your hand.

The skin is pale.

The fingers are long.

They hang in the air.

They do not move.

You are in the Hall of Echoes.

The floor is stone.

Cold.

Black.

Polished to a mirror sheen.

Above you, the vaulted ceiling is lost in shadow.

Torchlight flickers.

Red.

Orange.

It dances on the walls.

It makes the shadows breathe.

You stand still.

You cannot breathe.

The hand is before you.

It belongs to the King.

No.

It belongs to the law.

The law has a shape.

The shape is a hand.

You remember the oath.

You remember the blade.

You remember the blood on your tunic.

It is dry now.

It is black.

It looks like dirt.

The hand is raised.

It is not threatening.

It is waiting.

For what?

For you to take it.

For you to cut it off.

You look at your own hands.

They are clenched.

Tight.

White knuckles.

They are shaking.

The sound of your own heartbeat is loud.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

It fills the hall.

It drowns out the torches.

It drowns out the wind outside.

There is no wind.

The doors are sealed.

You are alone.

Except for the hand.

The hand is a symbol.

A symbol of power.

A symbol of control.

A symbol of the thing you serve.

You do not serve the King.

You serve the order.

The order is absolute.

The order is unbreakable.

You are a gear in the machine.

You are the teeth.

You are the grinding.

You are the heat.

You are the friction.

But the hand is separate.

The hand is detached.

It floats.

It hovers.

It is a ghost of authority.

You try to step forward.

Your legs do not move.

You are rooted.

The stone floor sucks you down.

The cold rises through your boots.

It travels up your legs.

It settles in your spine.

It is a weight.

It is a chain.

You look at the hand again.

It is perfect.

The nails are trimmed.

The skin is smooth.

There is no scar.

There is no flaw.

It is the ideal.

It is the cause you loved.

You loved it.

You loved the idea of it.

You loved the purity.

You loved the silence after the kill.

You loved the clean line.

But now the line is broken.

The line is curved.

The line is bleeding.

The hand does not bleed.

The hand is still.

You feel a pull.

It is in your chest.

It is in your throat.

It is a want.

A primal want.

You want to reach out.

You want to touch it.

You want to feel the texture.

You want to know if it is real.

But you know it is not.

It is a dream.

It is a test.

The test is simple.

Do you cut?

Do you keep?

Do you accept?

Do you reject?

The torchlight flickers again.

The shadows stretch.

They become claws.

They reach for you.

You close your eyes.

You open them.

The hand is closer.

It is right in front of your face.

You can smell it.

It smells of old iron.

It smells of wet stone.

It smells of death.

It smells of you.

The realization hits you.

Hard.

Fast.

This is your hand.

This is the hand you used.

This is the hand that held the sword.

This is the hand that pulled the trigger.

This is the hand that signed the order.

It is not the King’s hand.

It is yours.

You have separated from it.

You have cut yourself off from your own agency.

You have cut yourself off from your own guilt.

You have made it a symbol.

You have made it a thing.

You have made it external.

But it is internal.

It is the core of you.

It is the part of you that acts.

It is the part of you that kills.

It is the part of you that is free.

And it is the part of you that is damned.

You look at your other hand.

Your right hand.

It is empty.

It is trembling.

You realize you are holding nothing.

You have held everything.

You have held the sword.

You have held the power.

You have held the truth.

And you have let it go.

You have let it float away.

You have let it become a ghost.

You have let it become a symbol.

And now you are empty.

You are hollow.

You are a shell.

The hand hovers.

It waits.

It does not judge.

It does not punish.

It simply is.

It is the truth.

The truth is that you are the hand.

The truth is that you are the weapon.

The truth is that you are the violence.

You cannot separate from it.

You cannot cut it away.

You cannot leave it in the hall.

You must take it back.

You must hold it.

You must feel the weight of it.

You must feel the heat of it.

You must feel the blood in it.

You step forward.

One step.

The stone cracks.

You step again.

The stone cracks again.

You are moving.

You are alive.

You reach out.

Your fingers touch the pale skin.

It is warm.

It is soft.

It is real.

It is yours.

You close your hand around it.

You grip it tight.

You feel the bones.

You feel the muscles.

You feel the pulse.

It beats in time with yours.

It is a double beat.

Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump.

It is a rhythm of one.

You have reclaimed your agency.

You have reclaimed your guilt.

You have reclaimed your freedom.

And you have reclaimed your pain.

The pain is sharp.

It is bright.

It is white.

It burns.

It burns through your arm.

It burns through your chest.

It burns through your soul.

You do not let go.

You hold on.

You hold on tighter.

The dream begins to fade.

The hall dissolves.

The torches go out.

The darkness comes.

But the hand remains.

It is in your hand.

It is in your heart.

It is in your mind.

It is yours.

You wake up.

The room is gray.

Dawn is breaking.

Light streams through the window.

It is thin.

It is pale.

It is the color of the hand.

You are in your quarters.

You are alone.

You are in your tunic.

You are on your bed.

Your hand is clenched.

Tight.

White knuckles.

It is shaking.

You look at it.

It is your hand.

It is not a symbol.

It is not a ghost.

It is flesh.

It is bone.

It is blood.

It is yours.

You open your fingers.

Slowly.

One by one.

You feel the air on your skin.

It is cold.

It is real.

You sit up.

Your back hurts.

Your neck hurts.

Your head hurts.

You are tired.

You are exhausted.

You are alive.

You walk to the window.

You look out.

The city is waking up.

Smoke rises from the chimneys.

Horses whinny in the streets.

People are moving.

They are going to work.

They are going to live.

They are going to die.

You look at your hand.

It is still.

It is quiet.

It is waiting.

It is ready.

You do not know what you will do.

You do not know if you will kill.

You do not know if you will spare.

You do not know if you will obey.

You do not know if you will rebel.

You only know that you are holding your hand.

You only know that you are holding your truth.

You only know that you are holding your freedom.

And the cost is the pain.

The cost is the weight.

The cost is the blood.

The cost is the isolation.

You are alone with it.

You are alone with the hand.

You are alone with the self.

There is no one else.

There is no order.

There is no King.

There is only you.

And the hand.

And the choice.

The choice is yours.

The pain is yours.

The freedom is yours.

The cost is yours.

You stand by the window.

The light grows stronger.

The shadows retreat.

The day begins.

You take a breath.

It is deep.

It is full.

It is yours.

You turn away from the window.

You look at your hand.

You close it into a fist.

You feel the power.

You feel the weight.

You feel the truth.

You walk to the door.

You open it.

You step out.

You walk into the light.

You walk into the world.

You walk into the war.

You walk into the peace.

You walk into the end.

You walk into the beginning.

You walk into the life.

You are whole.

You are broken.

You are free.

You are bound.

You are the hand.

You are the path.

The path is pale.

The path is long.

The path is yours.