The bread was stale. Not dry, not crumbly, but heavy with a dampness that felt like rot. I held it in my left hand, the crust rough against my palm, and watched the dust motes dance in the shaft of light that cut through the high window of the Hall. It was a beautiful light. It was a lie.

I am the Baker. Or rather, I was the Baker. The title has been stripped from my name, much like the skin from a fruit, leaving only the bitter core. But I still wear the apron. I still smell of yeast and heat. The Court does not understand this. They think I am a servant. They think I am a function. They do not know that I am a vessel. They do not know that the bread is a tongue.

The King sat at the head of the long oak table. He looked small. His crown was a disc of gold so thin it was almost translucent, catching the light and scattering it into fractured rainbows on the polished floor. He ate. He chewed. He swallowed. The mechanism of his body was all that remained of the man. The Courtiers flanked him, a wall of velvet and silence. They did not eat. They watched. Their eyes were flat, dead things, like stones dropped into deep water.

I placed the loaf on the silver platter. The sound of the wood against the metal was a sharp crack, a gunshot in the quiet.

"Eat," the King said. His voice was thin, reedy.

I picked up the knife. It was a ceremonial thing, ornate, useless for cutting. I used it to slice the bread. The crust gave way with a sigh. The crumb was white, tight, dense. It was not soft. It was not airy. It was a brick. A small, edible brick.

I placed a slice on his plate.

He took a bite. He chewed. His jaw worked, a rhythmic grinding. He did not speak. He looked at me. His eyes were wide, unblinking.

"It is dry," he said.

"It is the grain of the land," I replied. My voice was steady. I had practiced it in the dark of the cellar, where the air was thick with the smell of sour dough. I had practiced it until the words were smooth, until they no longer tasted of fear.

"The land is dead," he said. "The rain does not come."

"The rain is in the bread," I said.

He frowned. The muscles in his face twitched. He looked to his right, to the Duke of Ashworth. The Duke was a tall man, gaunt as a winter branch. He wore a cloak of black fur. He did not look at the King. He looked at the floor. He looked at the shadows.

"Is the grain dead?" the Duke asked.

I looked at the Duke. I looked at his hands. They were still. They were pale. They were empty.

"The grain is alive," I said. "It sleeps."

"Then wake it," the King said.

I set the knife down. The metal rang against the platter. The sound hung in the air, sharp and bright.

"I cannot," I said.

The silence that followed was heavy. It pressed against my eardrums. It tasted of copper. Of old blood. The King leaned forward. The gold of his crown caught the light again, blinding me for a second.

"Then you are a liar," he said.

"No," I said. "I am a witness."

The Duke laughed. It was a dry sound, like leaves skittering over pavement.

"A witness," he said. "What does a witness do, Baker? Does he eat? Does he breathe? Or does he only look?"

"I look," I said. "And I remember."

"Remember what?" the King asked.

I looked at the loaf. The remaining half. The crumb was tight. It was dense. It was a record. Every layer of the dough, every fold, every press of the hand, was preserved. It was a fossil. A stone.

I remembered the night the fire started. I remembered the heat. I remembered the smell of the burning timber. I remembered the faces of the people in the square, their mouths open, their eyes wide. I remembered the King standing on the balcony, his arms raised, his face twisted in a mask of rage. He had shouted. He had screamed. He had demanded the rain.

I had baked the bread that night. I had baked it with flour that had been soaked in the ashes of the burned fields. I had baked it with water that had been boiled until it was clear, until it was pure. I had baked it with salt that had been ground from the bones of the dead.

The bread was good. It was perfect. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever made.

The King ate it. He ate the whole loaf. He ate it in one sitting. He ate it with a knife and fork, cutting it into small, precise squares. He ate it slowly. He chewed. He swallowed.

And then he vomited.

He vomited on the table. On the silver platter. On the velvet cloth. The bread came up whole, unchewed, white and pristine. It sat in the pile of vomit, a ghostly thing, untouched.

The Courtiers did not move. They did not flinch. They watched. Their eyes were flat. Dead.

The King wiped his mouth with a napkin. He looked at the bread. He looked at me.

"It is not alive," he said.

"It is dead," I said.

"Then it is useless," he said.

"I am not here to be useful," I said. "I am here to be true."

The Duke stood up. He moved to the center of the table. He picked up a piece of the vomited bread. He held it up to the light. It was white. It was clean. It was perfect.

"Look at it," the Duke said. "It is pure. It is clean. It is nothing."

He dropped it on the floor. It rolled to a stop near my feet.

"Pick it up," the King said.

I did not move.

"Pick it up," the King said again. His voice was louder. Sharper.

I looked at the Duke. The Duke looked at me. His eyes were cold. They were the eyes of a man who had seen the bottom of the world and found it empty.

"If you do not pick it up," the Duke said, "we will burn the bakery. We will burn the oven. We will burn you."

I looked at the bread on the floor. It was small. It was insignificant. It was a nothing.

I knelt down. I picked it up. My fingers touched the crumb. It was dry. It was cold. It was dead.

I held it in my hand. I looked at the King. I looked at the Duke. I looked at the Courtiers.

I put the bread in my mouth.

I chewed.

It tasted of nothing. It tasted of ash. It tasted of dust. It tasted of the end of things.

I swallowed.

The King smiled. It was a small, thin smile. It did not reach his eyes.

"Good," he said. "Now we begin."

The Duke sat down. The Courtiers resumed their silence. The light from the window shifted, moving across the table, across the King’s face, across the white plate.

I stood up. My legs were weak. My head was spinning. I felt the bread in my stomach, a stone, a weight, a curse.

I looked at the empty platter. I looked at the knife. I looked at the King.

He was eating again. He was eating the rest of the loaf. He was chewing. He was swallowing.

I turned and walked out of the Hall. The doors closed behind me. The sound was a heavy thud, final, absolute.

I walked into the corridor. The walls were white. The floor was stone. The air was cold.

I walked to the bakery. The oven was cold. The dough was dead. The flour was dust.

I sat down on the floor. I put my head in my hands. I felt the bread in my stomach. It was still there. It was still heavy. It was still dead.

I waited for the pain. I waited for the sickness. I waited for the truth to come out of my mouth, to spill out of my eyes, to tear through my skin.

It did not come.

I was alone.

I was the Baker.

I was the vessel.

I was the silence.

I picked up the knife. I picked up the bread. I cut it. I ate it.

I ate it.

I ate it.

I ate it.

Until there was nothing left.

Until I was nothing.

Until the light went out.