The glass is cold, Sir. It cuts.

To His Grace, Lord Chancellor Thorne,

I write this from the infirmary at Blackwood Keep, where the air smells of boiled wool and old blood. I have just returned from the field, though my hands will not stop trembling. I fought Lord Vane’s men in the valley below the keep. We held the pass. It cost us forty men, men I knew by their names and the price of their boots. Vane died with a spear in his throat. I took his mirror from his belt. It is a shard of black obsidian, no larger than a palm, framed in silver that has tarnished green. When I held it, I saw the truth. Not a reflection, but the intent behind the eyes of those who looked at me. I saw Vane’s fear. I saw the greed of his lieutenants. I brought the mirror to your presence yesterday, expecting a reward for the victory and a warning of the trap Vane had set for the King’s main army. You took the shard. You looked at it for a moment, then set it on the table with the same indifference one shows a chipped cup. You said, "Keep it, Kaelen. It is a curiosity. Do not let it distract you from your duties."

I have kept it. I have tried to be undistracted. But the mirror does not lie. It shows the blackness in the eyes of those who would harm the Crown. Three days ago, I saw it in the eyes of the King’s own cupbearer. I warned you. You laughed. You called it the fever of battle. You said my mind was unsettled by the gore of the valley. The sycophants in the hall, men who cost more in their silks than I earned in ten years of service, smiled as they passed me. They smelled of lavender and cheap wine. I am alone in this room. The mirror sits on the bedside table, its surface smooth and dark as a still pond. I look at it, and I see my own face, older than it should be, eyes hollowed by the weight of what I know.

To His Grace, Lord Chancellor Thorne,

I am writing again. I cannot sleep. The mirror whispers. It is not a sound, but a pressure behind the eyes. It shows me the past. Not the future, as I thought. It shows what was hidden. Last night, I held it up to the candlelight and saw the face of the King. I saw the blackness in his eyes. I saw the truth of the murders in the north, the ones you called accidents. I saw your hand in it, Thorne. I saw you guiding the King’s knife. I went to the throne room to speak with you, to clear my name, to tell you that I know. You were waiting. You sat on the dais, your face calm, your hands folded in your lap. You did not look surprised. You looked tired. You told me to come up the steps. I did. The stone was cold under my boots.

"You have seen," you said. It was not a question.

"I have," I replied. My voice sounded thin in the large room.

"The mirror is a tool," you said. "It reveals the past to the one who holds it. It is a burden. I have carried it for twenty years. I used it to protect the King. To keep the secrets that would bring down the house. But the King knows now. He knows I know. He wants you to destroy it. He wants me to be forgotten. Or he wants you to take the fall. I offer you a choice, Kaelen. Destroy the mirror, and I will speak for you. You will be rewarded, honored, and safe. Or, you may keep it. And you will be exiled. The King cannot kill a knight who holds the truth, for the truth is a shield. But he cannot have you here. Choose."

I looked at you. I looked at the King, who sat in the shadows behind you, his face unreadable. I thought of the men I had lost in the valley.

I thought of the forty coffins. I thought of my oath. I chose exile.

I am a fool. I am a warrior, not a politician. I should have destroyed it.

I should have let you take the fall. But I could not. I could not lie.

I walked down the steps. The court was silent. The sycophants stared.

I felt their eyes on my back, hot and heavy.

To His Grace, Lord Chancellor Thorne,

I am leaving the city. The guards opened the gate for me. I have a horse, a bag of coins, and the mirror. The Chancellor watched me go from the balcony. He smiled. It was a sad smile. He knows what I have done. He knows I have doomed myself. As I rode out of the city, I looked back at the keep. The mirror was in my hand. I looked into it one last time. I saw the Chancellor’s face. I saw the blackness fade. I saw a man who was tired, and old, and alone. The mirror shattered in my hand. The fragments cut my palm. The blood was hot on the cold glass. The whispers stopped. The silence was total. I realized then that the curse was not in the mirror. The curse was in the knowledge. The truth was a weight I could not carry. I dropped the shards into the dirt by the roadside. A dog ran past, sniffing the air. It did not stop. It did not care.

To Brother Elias, Blackwood Monastery,

I have arrived. I am no longer a knight. I am a scribe. The work is simple. I copy texts. I grind ink. I eat bread and water. The stone of the monastery is cold in winter, and the air is thin.

I am alone. I do not speak to the other monks. They do not speak to me.

I keep my head down. I do not look at anyone’s eyes. I do not hold any glass.

I am safe. I am forgotten.

The pain in my palm has healed, leaving a scar that is white and thin. I think of the mirror often. I think of the whispers. I think of the Chancellor’s smile. I have accepted my defeat. It is not a loss. It is a release. I am a man who knows too much, and I have paid the price. The price is silence. The price is solitude.

To Brother Elias, Blackwood Monastery,

Three years have passed. I am old now. My hands tremble when I hold the pen. The ink blots on the page. I cannot control my fingers. A young monk, a boy of perhaps fifteen, came to me today. He asked about the mirror. He had heard stories. He asked if it was true. If it could show the truth. I looked at him. I saw his innocence. I saw his hunger for the strange. I told him it was a lie. I told him it was a trick of the light, a fragment of glass that caught the sun. I told him that the truth is boring, and that men make up stories to make it interesting. He believed me. He nodded, satisfied. He walked away. I smiled. It was a sad smile. I have become the thing I warned against. I am a keeper of secrets. I am silent. I am alone. The truth is a burden, and I have set it down.

I have buried it. I am just a man. I am just a scribe.

I am writing in the dark. The ink is dry. The mirror is gone.

The court is far away. I am waiting for the end. My hand rests on the blank page.

The pen is still. The silence is complete.