You dream of ivy.

It is not the green kind. It is a pale, ashen vine, creeping up the stone of a tower you cannot see. You are a soldier. You are a prisoner. The distinction has blurred in the dark. You wake with the taste of dust on your tongue. The air is cold and smells of damp wool and old blood.

You are in the Hall of Mirrors.

This is how they keep you. Not in a cell, but in the center of the most beautiful room in the court. The floor is black marble. The walls are glass. And in the glass, you see yourself. And you see the ivy.

The ivy is on the mirror. It grows only in the reflection.

You stand up. Your legs shake. You have been kneeling for hours, perhaps days. Time is a fluid thing here. It pools in the corners of the room. You reach for the edge of the mirror. Your hand passes through the glass. It is cold. It is solid. It is not a barrier. It is a membrane.

"Look at him," a voice says.

It is Lord Ashworth. He stands in the doorway. He wears red velvet. It is stained. You do not know if it is wine or blood. He holds a cane. The tip is silver.

"You are the thief," Ashworth says.

"I am the guard," you say.

Your voice is a rasp. You have not spoken in a long time.

"You are the traitor," Ashworth corrects. He steps into the room. His boots click on the marble. The sound is sharp. It is the only sound in the world. "You stole the King’s crown. You hid it in the walls. You thought you were protecting it. You were protecting yourself."

You look at the mirror. The ivy is thicker now. It wraps around your reflection’s neck. It squeezes.

"I did not steal it," you say.

The words are a lie. You know this. But the lie is a shield. You are a soldier. You know how to use shields. You know how to hide behind them.

Ashworth stops in front of you. He is tall. He looks down at you. His eyes are the color of the stone floor. Dark. Empty.

"The King is dead," Ashworth says.

The air leaves the room.

You know he is dead. You have known for three days. The court has known for three days. But no one has told you. No one has come to arrest you. They have kept you here. In the mirrors.

"Why?" you ask.

"Because you are the last one who knows where the crown is."

You look at the mirror again. The ivy is climbing your face. In the reflection, your skin is peeling. It falls away like dead leaves. Beneath it, there is bone. And beneath the bone, there is root.

You feel a pain in your chest. It is not physical. It is a breaking. A splitting.

You remember the night. You remember the weight of the crown. It was heavy. Heavier than it looked. It was made of gold and grief. You had carried it to the crypt. You had put it on the shelf. You had locked the door. You had told no one.

You had thought it was duty.

You had thought it was love.

Ashworth raises his cane. He points it at the mirror.

"Open," he commands.

The mirror does not open.

"Open," he commands again.

The ivy in the reflection moves. It reaches out from the glass. It touches your hand.

It is warm.

You pull back.

"You are the root," Ashworth says. "You are the disease."

"I am the cure," you say.

You do not know why you say it. The words come from a place deep inside you. A place where the soldier sleeps. A place where the man who loved the King sleeps.

Ashworth smiles. It is a thin smile. It does not reach his eyes.

"The King is not a man," he says. "The King is a idea. And you are the shadow of that idea. You have become the thing you tried to protect."

He turns and walks away.

The doors close.

You are alone.

The mirrors are dark. The ivy is everywhere. It covers the floor. It covers the ceiling. It covers the air.

You breathe in. You breathe out.

You taste the dust.

You remember the first time you saw the ivy. It was in the garden. It was green. It was growing around the statue of the King. You had tried to cut it. The knife had broken. The ivy had remained.

You had thought it was a symbol.

You had been wrong.

It was a memory.

It was a loop.

You close your eyes.

You see the crown.

You see the King.

You see yourself.

You are the thief.

You are the guard.

You are the traitor.

You are the root.

The pain in your chest grows. It is a fire. It burns in your veins. It burns in your mind.

You open your eyes.

The mirrors are gone.

The room is empty.

The walls are stone.

The ivy is on the stone.

It is real.

It is growing.

You are kneeling.

You are on your knees.

Your hands are on the floor.

The roots are in your hands.

They are pulling you down.

You try to move.

You cannot move.

You try to speak.

You cannot speak.

You are part of the wall.

You are part of the stone.

You are part of the ivy.

The doors open.

Ashworth enters.

He is not alone.

There are others.

They wear gray robes.

They carry candles.

The light is yellow.

The light is soft.

Ashworth stops.

He looks at the wall.

He looks at the ivy.

He sees you.

He sees your face in the vine.

He sees your eyes.

They are open.

They are empty.

He raises his cane.

He does not strike.

He touches the ivy.

He touches your eye.

He pulls the vine away.

It comes out with a wet sound.

It is not blood.

It is sap.

It is clear.

It is cold.

He looks at you.

He looks at his hand.

He looks at the sap.

He knows.

He knows you are not the thief.

He knows you are the victim.

He knows you are the mirror.

He knows he is the one who is trapped.

He drops the cane.

He falls to his knees.

He cries.

The sound is high.

The sound is thin.

It is the sound of a child.

The ivy grows.

It covers him.

It covers the floor.

It covers the room.

You are still there.

You are in the wall.

You are in the stone.

You are in the ivy.

You are the pale path.

You are the way out.

But there is no way out.

There is only the loop.

There is only the return.

You close your eyes.

You wait.

You wait for the next dream.

You wait for the next king.

You wait for the next thief.

You wait for the next guard.

You wait for the next traitor.

You wait for the next root.

The ivy grows.

The ivy grows.

The ivy grows.

It does not stop.

It will not stop.

It is eternal.

It is permanent.

It is you.

The doors close.

The room is dark.

The ivy is green.

You are the stone.

You are the silence.

You are the end.

And the beginning.

And the end.