The feast was loud. It was too loud. The hall of the White Tower smelled of roasted pork, stale wine, and the damp wool of too many bodies pressed together. The air was thick. It hung heavy over the tables. It pressed against the skin.

Maren sat at the far end. She was small. She was quiet. She held the book. The book was leather-bound. The cover was cracked. The pages were soft. They felt like skin. They felt like breath.

The King laughed. He was a big man. He had a red face. He had a thick neck. He threw a bone to the floor. The dogs ate. The men clapped. The women smiled. They smiled with their mouths. They did not smile with their eyes.

Maren did not look up. She looked at the book. The book was open. The words were old. They were ink. They were dark. They did not bleed. They stayed.

"Read to us," the King said. His voice was a low rumble. It rolled across the table. It shook the cups.

Maren closed the book. She stood up. Her legs were stiff. Her joints hurt. She was old. The pain was in her knees. The pain was in her back. The pain was in her mind.

"I cannot," she said. Her voice was thin. It was dry. It was like paper rubbing on stone.

The King stopped laughing. He leaned forward. He put his hand on the table. The wood groaned.

"You will read," he said. It was not a question. It was a command. It was a wall.

Maren looked at the court. The faces were hard. They were stone. They were waiting. They wanted the magic. They wanted the show. They did not want the truth.

She went to the dais. She climbed the steps. The steps were cold. The stone bit into her feet. She reached the top. She faced the King. She faced the court.

She opened the book.

The air changed. The noise stopped. The laughter died. The clapping ceased. The silence came. It was sudden. It was sharp. It cut the air.

Maren read.

She read the words. The words were not English. They were not French. They were older. They were deeper. They were the language of the earth. They were the language of the bones.

The light in the hall dimmed. The candles flickered. The shadows grew long. The shadows stretched out. They reached for the table. They reached for the faces.

The King’s face went pale. He sat back. He pulled his hand away from the table. He looked at Maren. His eyes were wide. His eyes were empty.

The words in the book moved. The ink swirled. The letters danced. They formed shapes. They formed faces. They formed the dead.

Maren felt them. She felt the cold. She felt the weight. She felt the hunger. The book was hungry. It wanted more. It wanted life. It wanted blood.

She kept reading.

The room was cold now. The wine in the cups froze. The meat on the plates turned gray. The people shivered. They pulled their cloaks tighter. They whispered. They whispered to each other. They asked Maren to stop.

"Stop," the King said. His voice was small. It was weak. It was a child’s voice.

Maren did not stop.

She read the name of the King. She read the name of his father. She read the name of his grandfather. She read the names of the kings who had come before.

The names were heavy. They pressed down on her. They pushed against her skull. They pushed against her heart.

She saw them. She saw the kings. They were not men. They were shadows. They were hollow. They were empty. They had no souls. They had sold them. They had sold them to the book.

The book was a trap. It was a cage. It was a mouth.

Maren felt the pull. It was strong. It was sweet. It was easy. She could give them. She could give them all. She could become the book. She could become the silence. She could become the end.

She wanted to.

She looked at the court. She looked at the faces. She saw fear. She saw hate. She saw desire. They wanted her to fail. They wanted her to stop. They wanted to keep the power. They wanted to keep the throne.

But they were wrong.

The power was not in the throne. The power was in the book. The book was the throne. The book was the king.

Maren closed the book.

The silence broke. The noise returned. The laughter came back. It was louder now. It was cruel. It was mocking.

The King stood up. He was shaking. He was sweating. He was afraid.

"You have stopped," he said. His voice was loud. It was angry. It was loud.

Maren nodded. She held the book. The book was warm. It was alive. It was waiting.

"I have not stopped," she said.

The King laughed. It was a bad laugh. It was a dry laugh. It was a laugh of a man who knows he is losing.

"You are old," he said. "You are weak. You are nothing. The book chooses the strong. The book chooses the young. It will not choose you."

Maren looked at him. She did not speak. She did not argue. She did not defend herself. She just looked.

She looked at the book. She looked at the cover. She saw the crack. She saw the tear. She saw the darkness inside.

She thought of Ewan.

Ewan was her friend. Ewan was her brother in all but blood. He had been young. He had been strong. He had been bright. He had been the heir. He had been the hope.

But Ewan had been taken.

Not by the King. Not by the court. By the book.

The book had whispered to him. The book had promised him power. The book had promised him life. The book had promised him everything.

And Ewan had listened.

Ewan had read. Ewan had opened the door. Ewan had let the darkness in.

Ewan was gone. His body was in a box. His soul was in the book.

Maren had stayed. Maren had watched. Maren had held the book while Ewan faded. She had held it while the light left his eyes. She had held it while the life left his body.

She had held it because he asked her to.

He had asked her to keep it. He had asked her to protect it. He had asked her to keep the secret.

He had been a fool. He had been a traitor. He had betrayed the King. He had betrayed the court. He had betrayed himself.

And Maren had kept the secret.

Now the King thought she was weak. He thought she was old. He thought she was done.

He was wrong.

Maren opened the book again.

The air froze. The candles went out. The darkness came. It was total. It was absolute. It was the end.

The King screamed. He was in the dark. He was alone. He was afraid.

Maren read.

She read the final page. The page was blank. It was white. It was empty.

But it was not empty.

It was full.

It was full of Ewan. It was full of the King. It was full of the court. It was full of the past. It was full of the future.

It was full of everything.

Maren felt the pull again. It was stronger now. It was undeniable. It was the end.

She could let go. She could give them. She could save the King. She could save the court. She could save herself.

But she would lose Ewan.

Ewan was in the book. If she gave the book, she would lose him. He would be gone. He would be free. But he would be gone.

She could keep the book. She could keep the secret. She could keep the power.

But she would lose the King. She would lose the court. She would lose her life.

She looked at the King. He was cowering. He was shaking. He was small.

She looked at the court. They were cowering. They were shaking. They were small.

She looked at the book.

It was not a weapon. It was not a tool. It was a mirror.

It showed them who they were. It showed them what they had done. It showed them what they were worth.

They were nothing.

They were shadows. They were hollow. They were empty.

Maren smiled.

It was a small smile. It was a sad smile. It was a smile of release.

She did not read the final word. She did not speak the name. She did not seal the deal.

She closed the book.

The darkness lifted. The candles lit. The air warmed. The noise returned.

The King stood up. He was pale. He was shaking. He was alive.

He looked at Maren. He looked at the book. He looked at the court.

He did not speak. He did not laugh. He did not command.

He sat down.

He sat down at the far end. He sat down in the corner. He sat down in the shadow.

Maren walked to him. She walked slowly. Her legs hurt. Her back hurt. Her mind hurt.

She sat down next to him.

She placed the book between them.

The book was closed. The book was quiet. The book was still.

The King looked at her. He looked at the book. He looked at his hands.

His hands were shaking.

"Did you save me?" he asked. His voice was a whisper. It was small. It was afraid.

Maren shook her head.

"I saved you from yourself," she said.

The King looked at her. He did not understand. He would never understand.

He was the King. He was the power. He was the throne.

He did not know what it was to be nothing. He did not know what it was to be empty. He did not know what it was to be alone.

Maren knew.

She had been alone. She had been empty. She had been nothing.

She had held the book. She had held the secret. She had held the pain.

She had held it for Ewan.

And now she had let go.

The book was still. It was quiet. It was empty.

The King picked up the book. He held it. He felt the weight. He felt the cold.

He looked at Maren. He saw her face. He saw her eyes. He saw the truth.

He dropped the book.

The book fell to the floor. It hit the stone. It made a sound. It was a small sound. It was a final sound.

Maren picked it up.

She held it. She held it tight. She held it against her chest.

She felt the warmth. She felt the pulse. She felt the life.

It was Ewan.

It was still Ewan.

She would keep it. She would keep the secret. She would keep the pain.

She would keep it until the end.

The King stood up. He walked to the door. He opened it. He walked out.

The court followed. They walked out. They did not look back. They did not speak. They did not laugh.

The hall was empty.

The hall was quiet.

The hall was dark.

Maren sat alone.

She held the book.

She held the silence.

She held the end.

The feast was over.

The whispers were gone.

The book was warm.

The book was alive.

The book was her.