The Gilded Seal sat in my palm, cold as river stone, its surface etched with a serpent eating its own tail. I am Elias, a Royal Sentinel of the Third Watch, and I hold the key to our village’s slow rot. The plague has taken the children first, then the farmers, leaving only the priests and the dead in the pews. I want to burn the Seal. I want to end it. The High Priest, Father Aldous, stands behind me, his shadow long and thin in the candlelight of the archive. He does not shout. He does not need to. His voice is dry as parchment. "You will keep it, Elias. It is divine will." I refuse. He locks the door. The walls begin to whisper my name, a low, grinding sound like stone on stone. I am trapped with the object that kills us, and the man who knows why.

I break the lock with the pommel of my sword. The metal is rusted, the hinge weak with age. I step into the corridor. The Seal burns my hand, a white heat that climbs my wrist. I look down. The skin is blistering, blackening, but the pain is distant, like a memory of a burn. I see the truth then. The plague is not a curse. It is a leak. The Seal is decaying, spewing a toxic mist into the well water, into the air, into the lungs of the living. Father Aldous knows. He has known for years. He does not want the plague to stop. He wants the immortality. He is not a god. He is a man who has traded his village for his own longevity. I walk to the cathedral. My feet do not hurt. My lungs do not burn. I am changing.

The cathedral is empty, save for Aldous, who waits in the nave. He looks older than I remember. His skin is slack, hanging from his bones. He sees me and his eyes widen, not with fear, but with hunger. "You should not have come," he says. He draws his staff. It is heavy oak, iron-capped. I draw my sword. He swings. I block. The impact shakes my arms. He is strong, unnaturally so. I strike back. My sword cuts through his tunic, but not his skin. He laughs, a wet, rattling sound. He strikes me in the ribs. I fall. The sword slips from my hand. He steps over me, his boots heavy on the stone. He takes the Seal from my hand. He puts it on his neck. He is immortal now. I am dying. I lie on the cold floor, watching the light fade at the edges of my vision. I feel my body failing, the muscles turning to water, the bones to dust. I am gone.

But I am not.

I open my eyes. The pain is gone. The blisters on my hand are gone. The skin is smooth, new, pink. I sit up. Aldous is screaming. He is on his knees, clutching his throat. His skin is cracking, peeling away in strips, revealing red, raw flesh beneath. He is aging. Fast. His hair turns white, then falls out. His teeth blacken and crumble. The Seal is not a gift. It is a theft. It steals life from the land and gives it to the holder, but the holder cannot hold it. It decays them. It consumes them. I watch him die. It takes only minutes. He collapses, a heap of rags and bone. The Seal falls to the floor. It is cold. It is heavy. It is just a piece of metal. I pick it up. The plague stops. The village wakes.

I walk to the edge of the village. The Seal is in my pocket. I do not burn it. I keep it. I am the Sentinel. The cycle continues. I am the mirror.

The wind picked up as I reached the gate, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. I checked the seal in my pocket. It was there, solid, unyielding. I thought of the forms I had filled out for the dead, the neat columns of names in the ledger, the ink still wet on the page of young Thomas Bradshaw. I had signed his death certificate with a steady hand. I had stamped it with the Royal Seal, the one in my pocket. The bureaucracy of death is a precise thing. It requires order. It requires a witness. I was the witness. I am the witness.

I looked back at the village. The smoke from the chimneys was thin, gray, rising in a straight line.

The fields were bare, the soil dark and turned. The work had to be done. The seeds had to be planted.

The well had to be cleaned. I went back inside. The door was open.

The ledger was on the desk. The pen was in the holder. I sat down.

I picked up the pen. The ink was black, thick, slow to dry. I wrote the date.

I wrote the name. I wrote the cause of death. I wrote the name of the witness.

I signed it. I stamped it. I closed the book.

The seal in my pocket was warm. It was always warm now. It pulsed, like a second heart.

I felt the weight of it against my thigh. I felt the weight of the village. I am Elias.

I am the Sentinel. I keep the seal. I keep the cycle.

I am the mirror.

The next morning, the first child coughed. It was a dry, hacking sound, echoing in the small room. I stood in the doorway, watching. The mother held the child, her face pale, her hands shaking.

She looked at me. She knew. They all knew.

I did not speak. I walked to the desk. I opened the ledger.

I wrote the name. I stamped it. The seal in my pocket burned.

I did not flinch. I am the Sentinel. I keep the seal.

I keep the cycle. I am the mirror. The child died.

The mother screamed. I did not look at her. I looked at the seal.

It was cold. It was heavy. It was just a piece of metal.

I put it in my pocket. I walked out. The sun was rising.

The light was golden. It was the color of the seal. It was the color of the lie.

I am Elias. I am the Sentinel. I keep the seal.

I keep the cycle. I am the mirror.

I sat in the archive, the walls whispering my name.

I closed my eyes. I listened to the sound. It was the sound of the well water rising.

It was the sound of the soil settling. It was the sound of the village breathing. I opened my eyes.

The seal was on the desk. I picked it up. I put it in my pocket.

I walked out. The village was waiting. The work was waiting.

I am Elias. I am the Sentinel. I keep the seal.

I keep the cycle. I am the mirror.