The highlands in March are a landscape of mud and crabs, where the thaw floats the docks and the air smells of rotting kelp and wet wool, a stench that clings to the skin like a second, heavier coat. I am Tesfaye Haile, thirty-two, a captain in the imperial guard, writing from the damp cellar of the abandoned monastery where I have been confined for three days, my lungs burning with the cough that leaves black phlegm on my hands. The walls are closing in, not physically, but with the weight of my own failing breath, a rot that is eating me from the inside out.

I

The smell hits me before the sight does: a thick, metallic tang of rust and old blood that coats the back of my throat. The stone floor is slick with condensation, and the dampness seeps into my bones, a cold that no cloak can ward off. I am not alone in this cellar; there is a man in chains, brought here by the rebels who have taken the upper floors, his face gaunt and hollow, his eyes darting with a frantic, animal energy. He is my subordinate, a traitor who betrayed our unit, yet he is the only one who knows the hidden weak points of this ancient prison, the hidden armory, the way out. I look at him, and I see my own desperation mirrored in his, a hollow, consuming force that has trapped us both in this damp dark.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​⁠‍‍⁠​⁠⁠⁠⁠‌​‍⁠‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍​​‍​⁠‍​‍‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠‍‌‍‍⁠‌​‌​‍‍⁠‍​‍‌

II

I offer him my rations, the hard bread and the strip of dried meat I have been saving, and my cloak, the heavy wool that is the last thing keeping the chill at bay. It feels like a betrayal of my own dignity, a transaction that strips me of the last shred of my authority, but he accepts it with a smile that is too wide, too knowing, a smile that mirrors my own hollow expression. He takes the food, his hands shaking, and I feel the weight of my own defeat settling into my muscles, a physical manifestation of the disease tightening its grip. We are both vessels for the same invisible decay, and I know, with a sickening lurch, that he is not my savior, but my mirror. He remembered, too, fifty-eight of the Bellfounders' Walk — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

III‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​⁠‍‍⁠​⁠⁠⁠⁠‌​‍⁠‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍​​‍​⁠‍​‍‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠‍‌‍‍⁠‌​‌​‍‍⁠‍​‍‌

He guides me to a narrow fissure in the wall, a crack in the ancient stone that is barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through. As we move, the stone grinds against my ribs, a sharp, grinding pain that echoes the ache in my chest, a physical manifestation of the disease. We squeeze through the darkness, the air thin and stale, and I feel my body failing, the muscles in my legs giving way, the stone pressing in on me like a vice. I understand, then, that my body is the true prison, not the building, and that my desire for escape was a delusion, a self-misunderstanding of my own impending end. The fissure is not a way out, but a passage into the grave.

IV‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​⁠‍‍⁠​⁠⁠⁠⁠‌​‍⁠‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍​​‍​⁠‍​‍‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠‍‌‍‍⁠‌​‌​‍‍⁠‍​‍‌

We emerge into the courtyard, the air cold and sharp, the smell of wet stone and decaying wood filling my lungs. The traitor stops, his face blank, and I see that the armory is empty, a lie told to keep me alive long enough to witness the futility of my struggle. There are no weapons, no maps, no hope, only the empty racks and the dust that settles on the floor. I look at him, expecting violence, but he is already gone, leaving behind only the map, which I now see is a diagram of the monastery’s decay, a mirror of my own internal collapse. I am not a soldier fighting for freedom, but a vessel for the disease, and I accept that my sacrifice was not for glory, but for the simple, tragic act of acknowledging my own destruction. He remembered, too, the Ironminster green glass stopper — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

V

I return to the cellar, not to hide, but to sit in the center of the room, my body aching, my breath shallow. I begin to write this account, not as a plea for rescue, but as proof of the fact that my sacrifice was not for glory, but for the simple, tragic act of acknowledging my own destruction. The sound of the walls settling in the distance echoes like a funeral bell, a slow, rhythmic thud that marks the passage of time. I feel a strange, terrible peace in the knowing that I have been defeated, and in that defeat, I have found a kind of terrible redemption. The fish-spear of split bone lies on the floor, a reminder of the life I once lived, a life of duty and honor, now reduced to a single, trembling hand.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​⁠‍‍⁠​⁠⁠⁠⁠‌​‍⁠‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍​​‍​⁠‍​‍‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠‍‌‍‍⁠‌​‌​‍‍⁠‍​‍‌

VI

The weather is changing outside, the wind picking up, the rain beginning to fall, a steady, persistent drizzle that will not let up. I press the ink-stained page against the cold stone floor, my hand still trembling, the ink smearing, the words blurring. The ferry’s engines at slack sound in the distance, a low, mournful moan that carries across the water, a sound that is both familiar and alien, a reminder of the world I have left behind. I am Tesfaye Haile, a captain in the imperial guard, and I am dying in a cellar in the highlands, and I am at peace. The walls are settling, the rain is falling, and I am alone.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​⁠‍‍⁠​⁠⁠⁠⁠‌​‍⁠‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍​​‍​⁠‍​‍‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠‍‌‍‍⁠‌​‌​‍‍⁠‍​‍‌