The city of Oakhaven burned in the night. It did not burn with the slow, smoldering patience of a hearth fire. It burned with a sudden, violent scream. The sky turned the color of a bruise, purple and black, and the air tasted of ash and copper.

Elias stood on the high bridge. He held the staff. It was made of driftwood, smooth and cold. He had found it in the river three days before the war began. He did not know why he carried it. He only knew that when he held it, the noise in his head went quiet.

The soldiers were already there. They wore red coats. Their boots crunched on the glass from the shattered windows. They moved with the rhythm of machines. They did not speak. They did not need to. Their swords were drawn. The steel gleamed under the firelight.

Elias lowered his head. He felt a weight in his chest. It was heavy. It was old. He remembered his father. His father had been a smith. He had struck the iron until it sang. Now the iron sang with fire.

A soldier stopped in front of him. He was young. His face was pale. His eyes were wide. He looked at the staff. He looked at Elias.

"Put it down," the soldier said. His voice was thin. It broke on the last word.

Elias did not move. He gripped the staff tighter. His knuckles turned white.

"I will not," Elias said. His voice was low. It was steady.

The soldier laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on stone. "You think it will save you? You think it is magic?"

"It is not magic," Elias said. "It is truth."

The soldier raised his sword. The blade caught the light. It was sharp. It was deadly.

"Truth does not stop steel," the soldier said.

He swung.

Elias closed his eyes. He did not see the blow. He felt it. It hit his shoulder. The pain was sharp. It was hot. He staggered back. He fell to his knees. The staff clattered on the cobblestones.

The soldier stepped over him. He walked toward the city. He walked into the fire.

Elias lay on the ground. The blood seeped from his shoulder. It was red. It was warm. He looked at the staff. It lay still. It did not glow. It did not hum. It was just wood.

He picked it up. It was lighter than before. Or perhaps he was weaker.

He stood up. His legs shook. He walked toward the city. He walked through the smoke. He walked past the bodies.

The city was empty. The houses were hollow shells. The streets were quiet. The fire was dying. It coughed. It wheezed. It gave up.

Elias entered the central square. There was a fountain. The water was dry. The basin was cracked. He sat on the edge of the fountain. He leaned against the stone. He held the staff across his lap.

He waited.

Hours passed. The fire faded. The smoke thinned. The stars appeared. They were cold. They were distant.

A sound came from the dark. It was soft. It was gentle.

Elias opened his eyes.

A girl stood before him. She was small. She was no older than ten. She wore a dress that had been torn. Her hair was matted with ash. Her eyes were bright. They were clear.

She looked at the staff. She looked at Elias.

"Is it done?" she asked.

Elias looked at her. He did not know her name. He did not know who she was. But he knew her. He had always known her. She was the memory he could not name. She was the sound of rain on a roof. She was the smell of bread baking.

"Yes," Elias said. "It is done."

The girl smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a tired smile.

"Who were you?" she asked.

"I was a man," Elias said. "I was a man who held a staff."

"And now?"

"Now I am nothing."

The girl shook her head. "No. You are the keeper."

She reached out. She touched the staff. Her fingers were small. They were pale.

"Give it to me," she said.

Elias looked at her. He hesitated. He wanted to keep it. He wanted to hold on to the last piece of order. He wanted to keep the truth safe.

But he looked at her face. He saw the future in her eyes. He saw the life that would grow from the ashes. He saw the justice that was waiting.

He let go.

The staff fell from his hands. It landed in the dry fountain. It made a soft thud.

The girl picked it up. She held it tightly. She looked at Elias.

"Go," she said. "Leave."

Elias stood up. He turned away. He walked out of the square. He walked through the streets. He did not look back.

He walked until the city was behind him. He walked until the trees were in front of him. He walked until the sun rose.

The light was pale. It was gray. It was new.

He stopped at the edge of the forest. He looked back. The city was a silhouette. It was dark. It was still.

He felt a lightness in his chest. The weight was gone. The pain in his shoulder was gone. He felt empty. He felt clean.

He took a step forward. He entered the trees. The branches brushed against his face. They were wet. They were cold.

He walked on.

He did not know where he was going. He did not know who he was. He only knew that he was free.

The staff was with the girl. The girl was with the city. The city was with the fire.

The fire was with the past.

Elias was with the present.

He walked. The trees closed in around him. The path was narrow. The path was difficult.

He did not stop.

He did not turn back.

He walked into the morning.

The air was fresh. It was crisp. It filled his lungs. It filled his heart.

He thought of the soldier. He thought of the sword. He thought of the blow.

He did not feel anger. He did not feel fear. He felt nothing.

He was empty.

He was free.

The staff was gone.

The truth was with the girl.

The justice was with the city.

Elias was with himself.

He walked on. The sun climbed higher. The shadows shortened. The birds began to sing.

They sang softly. They sang clearly.

Elias listened. He did not understand the words. He understood the music.

He walked on. The forest was deep. The path was long.

He did not look back.

He did not need to.

The past was behind him. The present was around him. The future was ahead of him.

He walked into the light.

The light was golden. The light was warm. The light was true.

He walked on.

He walked on.

He walked on.

The story of Oakhaven ended that morning. The fire was out. The city was silent. The people were gone. Or perhaps they were sleeping. Or perhaps they were dreaming.

Elias did not know. He did not care.

He had done his part. He had held the staff. He had let it go.

He had chosen the truth.

He had chosen the silence.

He had chosen the peace.

He walked on. The trees were tall. The sky was wide.

He was small. He was alone.

He was free.

The staff was with the girl. The girl was with the city. The city was with the earth.

The earth was with the time.

The time was with the end.

Elias was with the beginning.

He walked on. The path was clear. The path was straight.

He walked on.

The sun was high. The sun was bright.

He walked on.

The end was near. The end was here.

He walked on.