Chapter 55 – Shadows That Never Fade
This time, there were no cheers. No dances or songs beneath the moonlight. The village lay quiet in an eerie silence that stretched beyond relief. The villagers dared not celebrate—not because they weren't grateful—but because they feared the truth that lingered like smoke: the Shrouded One had been defeated before… and yet, he always returned.
They'd seen the blue and white glow pierce the sky once again, brighter and more powerful than ever. They'd watched from the safety of their homes, eyes wide with hope, yet hearts heavy with caution. The Shrouded One was gone… but for how long?
"He'll return," murmured an old woman by the well, rocking on her stool. "He always does. Death doesn't seem to hold him."
The people shared her dread. They longed for the peace of days before his first descent—before the strange winds began to howl at night and children spoke of nightmares they never remembered. But fate, or perhaps the universe itself, seemed determined to test them again and again.
In their training place under a tree, Elara and Ariella sat quietly, still cloaked in the afterglow of their last battle. They had won, hadn't they?
Elara ran a hand through her tangled blue-streaked hair. "He shouldn't be able to come back this time," she said, but even to her own ears, her voice lacked conviction.
Ariella looked at her, the light in her pale eyes dimmer than usual. "He always does. Maybe not as fast… but he always finds a way."
They both thought of the helpers—the ones who fought beside the Shrouded One. First, the boy they burnt to just bones. Then, the calm and ruthless one with a blade as sharp as his silence. Who were they? Allies? Brothers? Puppets?
Elara bit her lip. "What if he's not acting alone? What if there's something bigger guiding him?"
Ariella hesitated before nodding. "I've wondered the same thing. We should've defeated him that first time… but each time, he comes back stronger. With backup. Someone's helping him. Maybe… controlling him."
The idea of a larger force at play sent chills down their spines. As if to confirm their fears, the wind shifted—a whisper of old magic curling around them like a memory. They needed answers.
"We could summon the Queens," Ariella suggested, voice low. "They might know what we're up against."
Elara paused. "But what if the Guardians show up again instead?"
That memory haunted them. On Ariella's last birthday, they'd tried reaching the Queens—only to be intercepted by the Guardians of the Chosen. They'd taken form through birds, stripping the girls of their own physicality and leaving them trapped in animal bodies for hours. If the same happened again, what chaos might follow?
Still, they couldn't let fear decide for them. Not anymore.
The two made their way to the crevice—a place of whispers, mystery, and ancient watchers. The Guardian of the Crevice, a towering figure with roots for limbs and glowing amber eyes, emerged as they approached.
"We need your guidance," Elara said. "We want to summon the Blue and White Queens… but last time, the Guardians came instead."
The Guardian nodded. "The Guardians only appear when your lives are in danger. If you're safe, the Queens will answer. Proceed."
Relieved, the girls called for the queens in their minds. Magic flowed like a pulse through the earth. Moments later, a shimmer parted the space before them, and the two Queens emerged—one cloaked in radiant white, the other in sapphire blue.
"We've felt the disturbances," the Blue Queen spoke. "You've slain him again."
"Yes," Ariella answered. "But it never feels like the end. We believe there's a greater force behind him. He always returns… with help."
The Queens exchanged a knowing glance, but the White Queen's response was measured. "We have our suspicions… but nothing certain yet. We will observe further. We cannot mislead you with speculation."
Frustration tugged at Elara's heart. "We need answers. We need to know how to end this cycle."
"And you shall," said the Blue Queen gently. "But not with half-truths. Continue your path. The truth will find you soon enough."
Meanwhile, far from the village, deep within the Master's house, Percy materialized in a swirl of shadow beside the trembling form of Little 7. The boy had woken alone, confused, wounded, and terrified. The place was quiet, his brother's body gone. Looking around he realized he was at Master's hall.
"I told you not to call me here," Percy snapped as he checked around Little 7 for burnt sides. "If someone sees me—"
"I had no choice!" Little 7 gritted through his teeth. "He's gone! Little 9—he's gone, and I don't know where!"
Percy's irritation faded as he finished healing the boy. Without another word, he helped in before the Masters presence.
Inside, Master sat still, his hands clenched beneath the folds of his robe. His eyes lingered on the lifeless body sprawled at the center of the room—Little 9's charred form, silent and cold.
He had landed here. Alone. Dead.
This time, Master dared not approach the mirror. The figure within had rules—unspoken, unwritten, but always enforced. No grief. No weakness. Only results.
He carried Little 9 himself, arms trembling, and placed him in his old room. He locked the door.
When Percy and Little 7 arrived, he said nothing of what he had done. Little 7 relayed everything that had happened. His voice cracked when he asked the question: "Where did his he go?"
Master's eyes flickered. "He disappeared."
And that was all he said.
Not out of cruelty. Not out of indifference.
But out of fear—fear that if the others learned the truth… the Shrouded One might once again rise from the dead, shaped by their stories, empowered by the belief in his return.