The dream was white. Not the white of snow, which is cold and sharp, nor the white of linen, which is soft and warm. It was the white of bone. It was the white of the inside of a shell. It was the white of forgetting.

Captain Elias Thorne woke with the taste of chalk on his tongue. He sat up. The room was dim. Rain tapped against the leaded glass, a soft, persistent rhythm. He looked at his hands. They were steady. They were his. He was in the Citadel.

The Citadel stood on the black rock above the sea. It was old. Older than the kingdom. The walls were thick, built by hands that had long turned to dust. Inside, the air was still and heavy. It smelled of wet stone and old iron.

Elias dressed. He pulled on his tunic. He tightened the belt. The leather bit into his waist. He checked his sword. The blade was dull. It had not been sharpened in weeks. He did not care. He needed the weight of it. He needed the promise of it.

He walked to the courtyard. The rain had stopped. The sky was a bruise of purple and grey. The gulls screamed in the distance.

"Captain."

The voice came from the shadows near the gate. It was soft. It was quiet.

Elias turned. A boy stood there. He was small. He was pale. His eyes were wide and dark. He held nothing in his hands. He held nothing in his heart. He was empty.

"Who are you?" Elias asked.

"I am the one who waits," the boy said.

Elias frowned. "Wait for what?"

"For the King."

"The King is not here."

"He is everywhere," the boy said. "He is in the walls. He is in the air. He is in you."

Elias felt a chill. He reached for his sword. "Go away."

"I cannot go," the boy said. "I am bound. I am the key. I am the lock."

Elias stared at him. The boy did not blink. The boy did not breathe. He was a statue. He was a ghost.

"Tell me the truth," Elias said. "What do you want?"

"I want you to open the door," the boy said.

"What door?"

"The one that leads to the throne room."

Elias laughed. It was a dry, harsh sound. "The throne room is sealed. It has been sealed for a hundred years. No one enters. No one leaves."

"Then you must be the first," the boy said. "Or the last."

Elias felt a pull in his chest. It was a physical sensation. A hook in his ribs. He looked at the boy. He looked at the gate. The gate was open. The path led up the hill, into the dark.

"Lead the way," Elias said.

They walked. The steps were wet. The air grew colder. The Citadel loomed above them. It was a beast. It was a god.

They reached the great doors. They were made of oak. They were banded with iron. They were covered in moss.

"Open it," the boy said.

Elias placed his hand on the handle. It was cold. It bit into his skin. He pulled. The door did not move.

"It is locked," Elias said.

"Use your strength," the boy said.

Elias pulled again. His arms trembled. His face turned red. He roared. The sound echoed in the courtyard.

The door opened.

A creak. A groan. A sigh.

The boy stepped aside. Elias walked in.

The throne room was vast. It was empty. The light came from high windows, filtered by stained glass. Red. Blue. Green. The colors bled across the floor.

In the center stood the throne. It was made of white stone. It was simple. It was stark. It was beautiful.

Sitting on the throne was a figure. It was wrapped in white robes. It was still.

Elias walked forward. His heart beat in his ears. Thump. Thump. Thump.

He stopped at the foot of the dais. He looked up.

The figure did not move.

"Who is this?" Elias asked.

The boy was gone.

"Who is this?" Elias asked again. His voice was loud. It bounced off the walls.

The figure on the throne moved. It turned its head. It had no face. It was smooth. It was blank. It was white.

Elias drew his sword. The steel sang as it left the sheath.

"Show yourself," Elias said.

The figure raised a hand. It pointed to the sword in Elias’s hand.

Elias looked down. The sword was changing. The metal was softening. It was becoming bone. The hilt was becoming teeth. The pommel was becoming an eye.

Elias tried to let go. He could not. The sword was fused to his hand. The skin was merging with the metal. The pain was sharp. It was bright. It was absolute.

He screamed. The sound tore from his throat. It was not a human sound. It was the sound of tearing. It was the sound of breaking.

The figure on the throne leaned forward. It spoke. The voice was not a voice. It was a vibration. It was a hum. It was the sound of the wind in the bones of the dead.

"You are the keeper," the figure said.

Elias shook his head. "No. I am a soldier. I am free."

"Freedom is a cage," the figure said. "You built it with your own hands. You locked yourself inside. You forgot the key. You forgot the door."

Elias looked at his hand. It was bone. It was white. It was part of the throne.

He tried to step back. He could not. His feet were rooted. His legs were stone. He was becoming part of the room. He was becoming part of the wall.

"I remember," Elias whispered. "I remember the dream. The white."

"Yes," the figure said. "You chose the white. You chose the silence. You chose the end."

Elias wept. Tears ran down his face. They were hot. They were salt. They fell onto the stone floor.

"I wanted to be free," he said.

"Freedom is the cost," the figure said. "You paid it. You paid it all. Your life. Your name. Your soul. You paid it to be here. To be still. To be safe."

Elias looked at the window. The light was fading. The colors were dimming. The room was turning grey.

He looked at the figure. He realized the figure was a mirror. It was him. It was the man he had been. It was the man he had become.

He closed his eyes. He let the pain go. He let the fear go. He let the hate go.

He opened his eyes. The pain was gone. The fear was gone. The hate was gone.

He was still.

He was safe.

The door closed. The iron bands shifted. The moss grew.

Years passed. Decades passed. Centuries passed.

The Citadel stood. The sea crashed against the rocks. The gulls screamed.

In the throne room, the figure sat. It did not move. It did not breathe. It was white. It was bone. It was the inside of a shell.

Sometimes, in the deep of night, when the wind was high, a sound came from the room. It was a whisper. It was a sob. It was a plea.

But no one heard.

No one came.

The door was sealed.

The key was lost.

The lock was broken.

Elias Thorne was the keeper.

He was the king.

He was the ghost.

He was the silence.

He was the white.

He was the end.

And the white was all.

The white was everything.

The white was forever.