The frost bit the stone. Cold. Sharp. Old.

Miles stood by the window. Glass. Thin. White. Outside, the city slept. Dead. Or so it seemed. Smoke. Thick. Gray. Rising from the chimneys of the wealthy. The poor had no smoke. No heat. No breath.

He looked at his hands. Calloused. Red. Cracked. They were hands of gold. Or so they said. In the market, they whispered. Miles the Gilder. He did not gild. He scraped. He cleaned. He made the old bright.

"Are you awake?"

A voice. Soft. Silk.

Miles turned. Elara stood in the doorway. She wore black. Always black. Her hair. A net. Dark. Tight. She held a bowl. Porcelain. White. Cold.

"I am," he said.

His voice. Rough. Like sand on stone.

"Drink," she said.

She poured. Liquid. Gold. Shining. In the dim light. It glowed. Like fire. Like hope. Like a lie.

Miles took the cup. Warm. Against his lips. The taste. Sweet. Cloying. Thick. It stuck to his teeth.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Medicine," she said.

"From whom?"

"From the King."

The King. Old. Sick. Dying. They said. Or so the rumors went. Miles did not believe rumors. He believed in gold. In weight. In value.

"Drink it all," Elara commanded.

Miles drank. It burned. Down his throat. Warmth. Spreading. Into his chest. Into his limbs. He felt light. Floaty.

"Better?" she asked.

"Yes," he lied.

She smiled. A small thing. Sharp. Like a blade.

Outside, the bells rang. Three. The third watch. Time to work. Miles put on his coat. Thin. Patches. Cold.

"Come," Elara said.

They walked. Through the streets. Narrow. Dark. Wet. The smell. Rot. Urine. Fear. They passed a dog. Thin. Shaking. It barked. Once. Then silence.

They reached the Palace. High. Stone. Black. Gates. Iron. Spiked. Two guards. Tall. Stiff. Eyes. Empty.

"Stop," one said.

Miles stopped. Breath. Shallow.

"Who are you?"

"Miles," he said.

"And you?"

"Elara."

The guard looked at Elara. Long. Slow. Then at Miles. "The gilder," he said. Not a question.

"Yes."

"Enter."

The gates creaked. Open. Into the dark.

The courtyard. Large. Empty. Snow. Falling. Soft. Silent. Covering the blood. Or the mud. Or the truth.

Inside. The hall. Huge. Cold. Candles. Thousands. Flickering. Shadows. Dancing. On the walls.

The King sat on the throne. High. Above. Wrapped in furs. White. Like snow. Like bone. He was thin. Gaunt. His face. A mask. Gold. Leaf. Thin. Cracked.

"Ah," the King said. His voice. Weak. Air. "The gilder. And the witch."

Elara bowed. Low. Slow. Miles bowed. His knees. Ache.

"Bring it," the King said.

Miles knelt. He opened his satchel. Inside. Tools. Small. Sharp. And the gold. Sheets. Thin. Yellow. Bright.

He took out a brush. Fine. Hair. Dip. In the liquid. Gold. He applied it. To the King’s face. Over the cracks. Over the decay.

The gold stuck. Shone. The King looked young. Beautiful. Alive.

"Good," the King whispered.

Miles worked. Hour. Hours. The sweat. Cold. On his brow. His hands. Steady. Precise. He was a artist. A creator. He made the ugly, beautiful. He made the dead, alive.

Elara watched. Her eyes. Dark. Deep. She watched Miles. Not the King.

"Is it done?" the King asked.

Miles stepped back. He wiped his hands. On his coat. The gold. Smudged.

"It is done," he said.

The King smiled. A grimace. The gold cracked. Just a bit.

"Give me the cup."

Miles looked at Elara. She nodded.

He took the cup. The gold liquid. He poured it. Into the King’s mouth.

The King drank. All of it.

He coughed. A wet sound. Loud. In the silence. He slumped. Back. Into the furs. His eyes. Closed. The gold. On his face. Still. Bright.

"He sleeps," Elara said.

Miles felt a chill. Deep. In his bones. "Is he... dead?"

"No," Elara said. "He is changed."

Miles looked at the King. The gold. It was moving. Spreading. From the face. To the neck. To the hands. The furs. Soaked. Yellow.

"What have you done?" Miles asked.

"Redemption," Elara said.

"Redemption?"

"The King is a burden," she said. "His life. A weight. On us. On the city. On you."

Miles shook his head. "No. He is the King."

"He is a monster," Elara said. "He eats the poor. He drinks their blood. He wears their skins."

Miles remembered the dog. The thin one. The bark. The silence. He remembered the smoke. The lack of it. The cold.

"He asked for the cup," Miles said.

"Yes," Elara said. "He always does. He wants to be golden. He wants to be eternal. He wants to be god."

Miles looked at his hands. They were gold. The liquid. Had soaked in. Through the skin. Into the veins. He looked at the King. The gold. Spread. Over the body. The King was no longer a man. He was a statue. A thing. A mirror.

Miles saw himself. In the gold. In the cracks. In the shine.

He was the gilder. He was the tool. He was the surface.

Elara stepped forward. She took Miles’s hand. Her grip. Tight. Cold.

"You did well," she said.

Miles tried to pull away. He could not. His hand. Fused. To the throne. To the King. To the gold.

"Let go," he said.

"I cannot," Elara said. "You are part of it now."

Miles looked around. The candles. They burned. Bright. White. Blue. The shadows. Gone. There was no dark. Only light. Only gold.

He felt the weight. The King’s weight. The city’s weight. The years. The sins. The hunger. It all poured into him. Through the gold. Through his skin.

He was full. Overflowing.

He wanted to scream. But he had no mouth. He was the face. The mask. The surface.

Elara watched. Her eyes. Sad. Soft.

"I am sorry," she said.

Miles could not speak. He could not move. He was the gold. He was the ritual. He was the sacrifice.

The doors opened. Guards. Many. They entered. They bowed. To the statue. To the King. To Miles.

"Long live the King," they chanted.

Miles heard it. In his head. In the gold.

He was the King.

He was the gilder.

He was the victim.

He was the savior.

The gold cracked. A single line. Down the cheek. A tear. Liquid. Gold.

It fell. On the floor. A drop. Bright. Eternal.

Miles smiled. A grimace. A relief.

He had given everything. His warmth. His breath. His self.

And in exchange?

Nothing.

The cold. The silence. The light.

He was free.

He was gone.

The candle flickered.

The gold remained.

Bright.

Cold.

Still.