Chapter 54: Echoes of Fire and Shadow
Percy sat alone in the dim corridor, eyes fixed on the wall where the firelight danced. The crackling torch beside him did little to warm the cold ache in his chest. Little 5 was gone — reduced to char and bone, replaced like he was never there. And the worst part wasn't the death.
It was the silence that followed.
No ceremony. No mourning. No vow of vengeance. Just… replacement.
He clenched his fists, jaw tight. "Just like that," he muttered, bitterly. "As if he was nothing."
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Little 7 passed by without a glance, heading to the training chambers. His pace was sharp, focused. Percy couldn't blame him. He was next.
Inside the Master's chamber, emotion was a thing buried deep. The Shrouded One had seen it — how the Master never flinched, never softened. But Percy had been watching longer than most. And if you knew where to look, you saw it: the tight clench of the Master's hand after hearing Little 5 was gone, the pause before he dismissed the Shrouded One.
Still, words never came. No grief. No recognition.
Because he couldn't.
The Master stood now in the solitude of his private hall, facing the darkened mirror, though it remained silent. No shadowy figure emerged this time. Still, the Master's thoughts were loud — memories of the boys he once called tools, now boys he'd raised, trained, punished, fed.
He had given them numbers, not names. Stripped them of identity to make them perfect. But even machines gather dust. Even weapons weather.
And somehow… he had grown to care.
Not like a father. Not exactly. But something close.
Yet care was weakness. And weakness was death.
So he buried it.
"All that matters is the task," he whispered to the silence.
---
Little 9 — the Shrouded One — was given three days of recovery. His wounds were healing, but the real injuries lay beneath his skin, in the marrow of regret. Percy had tended to him each day, silent as always. The air between them remained thick with the things they didn't say.
On the fourth day, the Master summoned him.
"You will ride with the beasts," he said without ceremony. "Little 7 will go with you. This time, you strike first. Do not wait for their mercy."
The Shrouded One nodded once. His silence was deeper now, like a vow etched in his soul.
Outside, Little 7 trained alone, blades of shadow slicing through summoned illusions. He wasn't like Little 5 — there was no reckless banter, no taunting. Just grim determination. Percy watched from the balcony, arms crossed. There was something unsettling in the boy's precision, the way his strikes landed without hesitation.
"He's good," Percy muttered to himself. "But not ready."
---
The village was quiet when the sky darkened again.
A rumble rolled through the earth as a beast with two snarling heads emerged from the trees, the Shrouded One seated between its shoulders. Little 7 followed on foot, flanked by two one-headed beasts.
This time, they didn't issue warnings. There were no taunts, no theatrical displays. Only power.
The Shrouded One struck first, launching a column of dark flame that ripped across the square. Elara and Ariella were already moving, a blur of light and wind. Their palms glowed — blue for Elara, white for Ariella — and together they spun a barrier that splintered the flame before it could touch the homes.
Ariella retaliated, a wave of light that seared through the air, carving a path toward the two-headed beast. The creature roared, rearing back, and the Shrouded One leapt from its back, his arms outstretched, magic roaring.
Little 7 joined in, striking from the side, catching Elara with a whip of shadow. She grunted but stayed upright, responding with a burst of blue fire that forced him back.
They fought as one. The girls. A perfect balance — flame and wind, light and shield. The coordination was terrifying. They moved like they were no longer separate beings but two halves of the same force.
Still, the Shrouded One pressed forward, desperation burning behind his attacks. He remembered Little 5's scream. He remembered the bones.
He wouldn't fail again.
But failure doesn't always look like retreat.
Sometimes, it looks like standing your ground… and still losing.
Ariella's blade of light sliced through his defenses, and Elara followed with a vortex of flame that wrapped around him, holding him in place. His beasts howled, but were knocked back by a surge of elemental energy.
"No!" he cried, but the words were lost in the roar of combined light and fire.
The girls, glowing now in full force, brought their palms together. A sphere of blinding energy spiraled into the sky — blue and white, woven with threads of the prophecy's power — and then plunged down.
It hit.
The force sent shockwaves through the earth. The beasts scattered. Dust and flame rose high into the sky.
And when it cleared…
Two bodies lay motionless in the crater. One cloaked in scorched robes. The other, smaller, crumpled at the edge.
The Shrouded One did not move.
Little 7's chest rose once. Then stilled.
Elara sank to her knees, exhaustion flooding her limbs. Ariella stood over her, trembling.
"Is it over?" Elara whispered.
Ariella didn't answer.
---
Hours passed.
The stars blinked awake in the sky. The village remained still, unsure whether to grieve or celebrate.
But in the hollow of the crater, Little 7 stirred.
His vision swam. Pain lanced through his side. But he lived.
And the Shrouded One's body was gone.
He dragged himself out of the crater, one slow crawl at a time. Blood streaked the ground beneath him. Whatever had moved the body had done so quickly. Quietly.
He reached for the small shard of communication stone in his pocket and whispered one name.
"Percy."
---
Percy was not pleased.
"You called me into a village? Do you know how dangerous—"
Then he saw Little 7.
"Alright, alright, stop bleeding first. Complain later."
He worked quickly, fingers glowing faintly as he sealed wounds and pressed herbs into the raw edges of magic-burnt skin.
"Where's Nine?" he asked once, but Little 7 only shook his head.
Gone.
They said nothing more.
With a final surge of dark mist, Percy cloaked them both in shadows, and together they vanished into the night — headed back toward the only place left that would take them in.
The place where grief had no voice.
And replacements were always waiting.