You are cold. The wind bites through the wool. You pull the collar higher. It scrapes against your throat. The fabric is thin. It was not always thin. It was heavy once. It was black. It is grey now. You feel the wear in the weave. It fits you. It is you.

You walk the corridor. The stone is cold under your boots. The torches hiss. They spit sparks into the dark. The air smells of damp moss and old blood. You are the King’s Guard. You are his shadow. You do not speak. You do not breathe loud. You watch.

The King is sick. The physicians say the rot is in his lungs. They say it is in his mind. They say he will die by morning. You know better. You know the truth. The truth is a heavy stone in your chest. You carry it. You have carried it for years.

You enter the chamber. The door groans. The King sits on the bed. He is pale. His eyes are hollow. He looks at you. He does not smile. He never smiles anymore.

You stand at attention. Your back is straight. Your hands are at your sides. You hold the sword. The hilt is warm. Your hand is steady.

"Stay," he says.

His voice is a rasp. A dry leaf skittering on stone.

You do not move. You wait.

He coughs. It is a wet sound. It tears at him. He leans forward. He grabs the edge of the bed. The sheets ripple.

You step closer. You are forbidden to step closer. The law says so. The law says you are a wall. You are a shield. You are not a son. You are not a friend. You are a thing of duty.

But you step closer.

He sees you. He does not stop you.

"Thomas," he says.

You freeze. Your name is Edward. You have always been Edward. You are not Thomas.

He looks confused. His eyes drift. They lose focus. They land on the wall. They land on the past.

"Thomas came today," he says.

Your heart stops. Then it starts again. It beats hard. It beats fast. It hammers against your ribs.

Thomas is dead. Thomas died ten years ago. You killed him. You did it in the yard. You did it in the rain. You did it because he was a traitor. He was going to sell the castle. He was going to sell the people. He was going to sell you.

You struck him. The blade found his chest. He fell. He did not get up. You cleaned the blade. You reported the incident. You were praised. You were rewarded. You were made the head guard.

But you were not Thomas. You were Edward.

"Thomas is here," the King whispers.

You look at him. You see the delusion. You see the sickness. It has taken his memory. It has taken his mind. He is losing himself.

You must correct him. You must be the truth. You must be the order.

"No, my lord," you say. Your voice is flat. It is stone. "Thomas is dead."

The King shakes his head. His hands tremble. He looks at you with pity.

"He is not dead," the King says. "He is waiting."

Waiting for what?

Waiting for the end.

The King reaches for your hand. You do not pull away. You let him hold it. His fingers are cold. They are thin. They are like twigs.

"I am tired, Edward," he says.

He uses your name. He knows you are Edward.

The delusion was a mask. The sickness is real. The pain is real.

"I know," you say.

The room is silent. The wind howls outside. It sounds like a beast. It sounds like a wolf.

The King’s breathing becomes shallow. His eyes close. He slumps on the bed.

You stand over him. You hold his hand. You do not let go.

The hours pass. The torches burn low. The wax drips. It pools on the floor. It smells of burnt tallow.

The King stirs. He opens his eyes. They are clear. They are sharp.

He looks at you. He sees you. He sees the sword at your hip.

"Draw it," he says.

Your blood runs cold.

"No," you say.

"Draw it."

You reach for the sword. Your hand shakes. Your fingers are clumsy. You pull the blade from the sheath. It sings. It is a high, clear note.

The King looks at the blade. He smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a tired smile.

"You have carried this for too long," he says.

You do not understand. You wait for the command. You wait for the order to strike. You wait for the duty.

"Strike me," he says.

Your heart pounds. Your ears ring. The room spins.

"No," you say. "It is not my right."

"It is your duty," he says. "It is the only way."

The only way to what?

To save the kingdom.

To save the people.

To save you.

The King’s body is failing. The rot is spreading. It is not just in his lungs. It is in his soul. It is in the land. The crops are failing. The rivers are low. The people are starving. The sickness is not just physical. It is spiritual. It is a curse.

The King knows. You know.

The only cure is the sacrifice. The only sacrifice is the King.

But he cannot die naturally. He must be released. He must be freed.

You hold the sword. The tip points to the floor. You look at the King. He is waiting. He is trusting you.

You think of Thomas. You think of the rain. You think of the blood. You killed a traitor. You saved the throne. But you did not save the King. You did not save the people. You only saved yourself.

You killed Thomas because he was weak. You killed him because he was afraid. You killed him because you were strong.

But strength is not enough.

Strength is a cage.

You look at the King. He is your mirror. He is your father. He is your brother. He is the man who made you what you are.

He is dying.

He wants you to do it.

He wants you to take the burden.

He wants you to take the sin.

You raise the sword. Your arm is heavy. The metal is cold. The air is still.

The King closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. It is a ragged breath. It is the last breath.

You swing the sword.

The sound is a crunch. It is a wet sound. It is the sound of a branch breaking. It is the sound of a bone snapping.

The King falls. His body hits the bed. It is heavy. It is dead.

The blood pools. It spreads. It soaks into the sheets. It is dark. It is red.

You stand there. The sword is in your hand. Your hand is covered in blood. It is warm. It is sticky.

You look at your hands. They are your hands. They are Edward’s hands.

You feel nothing. You feel everything.

You feel the weight of the sword. You feel the weight of the room. You feel the weight of the years.

You drop the sword. It clatters on the stone floor. It rings out. It echoes.

You walk to the door. You open it. The wind hits your face. It is cold. It is clean.

You step out. You walk down the corridor. You walk to the gate. You walk out of the castle.

The night is dark. The stars are out. They are bright. They are cold.

You walk into the darkness. You do not look back. You do not look down. You look forward.

You are free.

You are alone.

The castle is behind you. The King is dead. The sickness is over.

The people will mourn. The people will celebrate. They will say the King was killed by a traitor. They will say the guard was brave. They will say you saved the throne.

They will not know. They will never know.

The truth is hidden. The truth is buried.

You walk on. The road is long. The road is hard.

You have no home. You have no name. You have no past.

You are the wind. You are the dust. You are the shadow.

You are free.

The sword is gone. The duty is gone. The King is gone.

You are just a man.

You are just a man walking in the night.

The wind howls. It sounds like a prayer. It sounds like a cry.

You keep walking. You do not stop. You do not rest.

You walk until the sun rises. The light is weak. The light is grey.

You see the fields. The crops are dead. The earth is dry.

You see the village. The chimneys are dark. The doors are closed.

You are a ghost. You are a memory. You are a lie.

But you are real. You are here.

You breathe. You live.

The sacrifice is done. The redemption is done.

You are saved.

You are lost.

You are free.