The rot started in the small finger of my left hand. It was a dull, grayish pulse under the skin, a sign that the King’s decree had finally found me. I am Silas, thirty-two, and I have guarded the High Throne for twelve years. I wanted to keep my post. I wanted to hold the line until the end of my days, but the tremor in my hand betrayed my age. The uncanny element of our court is the Golden Apple. It never rots. It reflects the true decay of the viewer. I held it in my fist, the metal cold and smooth, while the grayness spread up my wrist.

I presented the apple to the King. He sat on the throne, a small man in heavy velvet, his eyes bright and sharp as broken glass. He laughed, a sharp bark that echoed off the stone walls. "You hold it tight, Silas. Too tight." His voice was dry, like leaves skittering on pavement. "You think if you squeeze it, it will stop breaking you." He did not look at the apple. He looked at my hand. "Guard the throne room alone tonight. No one else. Not the page. Not the cat. You."

The pressure of the disease tightened my chest. I wanted to argue. I wanted to say that I was a soldier, not a mirror. But I bowed. I bowed until my knees cracked. "As you command, Your Majesty." I walked out into the corridor. The shadows were long. The air smelled of wax and old blood. I knew what he wanted. He wanted to see if I would break before the night ended. He wanted to see if the rot would take me while I stood still. I had spent twelve years trying to conquer my fear of him. I had thought that if I was perfect, if I was strong, the rot would not touch me. I was wrong. I was guarding the throne, but I was really guarding my own fear of becoming him.

The night was long. The apple in my hand grew warm. It was not the warmth of metal heated by the sun. It was the warmth of a living thing. I looked into its skin. I did not see my face. I saw a withered root, tangled and dark, pulsing with a slow, black sap. I realized then that I was not guarding the King. I was guarding my own decay. The apple was a mirror, but it was also a feeder. It showed me what I was, and in showing me, it made me more of it. I tried to let go. My fingers would not open. The rot had taken hold of my tendons. I could feel it spreading, a cold fire in my veins. I wanted to scream, but my throat was closed. I was a statue. I was a thing of stone and metal and fear.

The King entered. He did not speak. He walked to the center of the room. He stopped. He looked at me. I was trembling. The apple was glowing now, a soft, golden light that seemed to come from within. He reached out. His hand was steady. He took the apple from my grip. It was easy. Too easy. I stepped back. My duty was fulfilled. I had held it until he came. But the apple was gone from my hand. I was empty. I felt a hollowness in my chest, a vacuum where my heart used to be.

The King placed the apple on the throne. It glowed brighter. The light filled the room, casting long shadows against the walls. He looked at me. His face was unreadable. "You wanted to conquer the rot," he said. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like a knife. "You only fed it."

I felt a sudden, violent clarity. It was not a thought. It was a fact. I had been the disease all along. My service, my duty, my fear, my desire to be perfect, it was all fuel. I had given the rot my life, and it had taken it. I tried to speak. I tried to defend my service. I wanted to say that I had done my duty. I wanted to say that I was a good guard. But my voice was a dry crack. It was the sound of a branch breaking. The King turned away. He walked to the door. He did not look back. He was dismissed. The door closed. I was alone in the dark.

The silence was heavy. It pressed against my ears. I stood there for a long time. I did not move. I did not breathe. I was waiting for the end. I was waiting for the rot to take me completely. But it did not. I waited for the pain. I waited for the grayness to cover my eyes. But there was nothing. Just the cold stone floor. Just the smell of wax. I looked at my hands. They were still. The tremor was gone. I flexed my fingers. They moved smoothly. The grayness was gone. I had lost the disease. But I had lost myself. I was empty. I was a vessel with no contents. I was a guard with no post.

I walked to the courtyard. The night air was cold. It bit at my face. I looked at the stars. They were bright and indifferent. I looked at my hands again. They were pale. They were strong. But they were empty. I did not feel anything. I did not feel fear. I did not feel pride. I did not feel love. I was a thing that held nothing. The apple was safe. It was on the throne, glowing in the dark. I was free. I was free from the rot. I was free from the King. I was free from myself.

I placed my hand on the cold stone wall. It was smooth. It was hard. It was real. I pressed my hand against it. I could feel the chill seeping into my skin. I was no longer a guard. I was a thing that holds nothing. The apple is safe. I am free.

The rot is gone. I am clean. I am empty. I am free.

I walk. I walk. I walk.

The night is dark. The stars are bright. I am alone. I am empty. I am free.

I am Silas. I am thirty-two. I am free.