Draped in white from head to heel, the stranger looked less like a man and more like a ghost drifting through the grave of a town. A coarse strip of cloth veiled most of his face, leaving only his eyes exposed—two sharp, searching points of dark steel scanning the ashen ruins around him.
What had once been a place of life—of laughter, markets, and morning light—was now reduced to a charred skeleton. Flames still clung to fragments of collapsed roofs and shattered beams, their orange tongues licking skyward through the smoke-choked air. The smell was suffocating: scorched earth, burnt flesh, and the heavy, metallic tang of blood.
His boots crunched over the brittle remains of what might've been someone's home. Or shop. Or sanctuary. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing recognizable was left—only broken stone, blackened timber, and silence. A silence so deep it felt unnatural. No wind, no voices, not even the caw of carrion birds. Just the sound of his own breath, slow and hollow beneath his mask.
He paused in the middle of the devastation, his gaze sweeping across the lifeless landscape as though still hoping—despite knowing better—that someone might stagger out from the smoke. That a cry for help might cut through the stillness. But the blast he had unleashed hours before—unholy black fire that devoured everything it touched—had left no room for hope.
And if the silence spoke true, John had died with the rest.
The man exhaled through his teeth, the sound barely audible. Reaching beneath his cloak, his gloved fingers found a cold, metallic disk no bigger than his palm. A faint hum rose as he activated it. From the device, a flickering blue projection bloomed—an image of another figure clad in ceremonial white, though marked by two jagged crimson stripes running down the sleeves. A higher rank. A man of command.
The projection showed his back at first, hunched over something out of view. When the stranger spoke, his voice was steady, though quiet. "Sir."
The man in the projection spun around, his face shadowed but tense, already irritated. "How many times must I tell you not to contact me on this line?" he barked, slamming something just beyond the frame. The sound cracked like a gunshot through the static.
The stranger hesitated. "Sir… it's me. The one you assigned to eliminate John."
There was a beat. The anger drained from the projected man's features, replaced by recognition and something colder—calculation.
"Ah. Of course. My apologies." His voice softened, but the edge didn't leave. "What's the status?"
The stranger glanced back at the ruins one last time. Smoke curled around him like fingers dragging him into the past. He looked away. "It's done. One strike. He's gone."
There was no victory in the words. Only the grim efficiency of a man who had stopped counting his sins.
But then—something shifted in his tone.
"…There was something else," he added, softer now, like a thread unravelling.
The man in red frowned. "What?"
"There was a child," the stranger said, voice low, distant. "He couldn't have been more than ten. I found him in the rubble, crying. He was holding two bodies—tight. Like if he held them hard enough, they'd wake up."
A pause. Silence pressed between them, heavier than the smoke.
The superior's face didn't change. He might as well have been carved from stone.
"Don't dwell on it," he said flatly. "You did what was necessary. The child will adapt. Or he won't. Either way, our mission remains unchanged." He gave a dismissive flick of his hand, then added, "Return. The council expects your report."
The projection blinked out.
And then, there was only smoke. Fire. And the gnawing ache inside.
The stranger stood unmoving, swallowed by the remains of what he'd destroyed. The boy's cries still echoed in his head—sharp, fragile sounds that pierced deeper than any weapon. He closed his eyes. Not to rest. Not to pray. But to bury the sound before it buried him.
He had followed orders. He had succeeded.
So why did it feel like something inside him had been lost in the fire too?
He stayed there for a long time, cloaked in silence and smoke, while the ruins whispered their mournful lullaby to the dead.
When he opened his eyes again, something inside him had turned to stone. The flicker of softness he'd almost surrendered to, the fragile bloom of regret threatening to rise—gone now. Buried beneath a resolve so cold and absolute, it could've shattered glass.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. He simply rose from the ground, silent as smoke, and vanished into the leaden sky. The broken village below fell away like a fading nightmare—something he'd seen too much of to mourn out loud, something he didn't dare look back at.
Cradled against his chest, the boy barely moved. Arcos clung to John with desperate fingers, his tiny fists knotted in the folds of John's tunic, as if letting go meant being lost forever. His body trembled—not from the cold, but from fear, raw and soul-deep, the kind that left scars even when wounds had healed. His wide eyes, glassy and unblinking, mirrored the wreckage still playing out inside his mind: the flames, the screams, the suffocating black smoke curling up from the place where his world had once been.
Gone. All of it.
The plains stretched ahead of them like a cruel joke—miles of nothing, endless snow and wind and silence. Not a tree, not a shelter, not even a shadow to rest in. Just a vast, indifferent expanse. Arcos didn't ask where they were going. He didn't have to. The question hovered between them anyway, quiet and aching: What now?
When John finally touched down, the crunch of his boots against the ice echoed like thunder in the stillness. He bent down and set the boy gently on his feet, steadying him with one large hand on his shoulder. His voice, when it came, was low but sure.
"We're here."
Arcos looked around, eyes narrowing. Just snow. Just sky. "But… there's nothing here," he said, clutching his too-thin cloak closer. His voice cracked, like something fragile about to break.
A small smile tugged at John's lips. Not mockery—just something quieter, like the memory of hope. "Is that what you see?" he murmured. And for the first time, there was a spark of warmth in his voice, as if he was on the edge of sharing a secret.
Then he stepped forward, lifted a hand, and reached toward the air itself. His fingers brushed the empty space—and pulled.
The sky unraveled.
A shimmer rippled through the world like a sigh, and suddenly the white wasteland peeled back to reveal something impossible. A valley, hidden behind the illusion, bloomed into view—lush and green, cradled by gentle hills. Warm sunlight poured down from above, rich and golden, as though it had always been there, waiting just behind the veil.
Wildflowers danced in the breeze. Trees rustled softly. A cluster of small, earthen homes nestled at the edge of the field, their chimneys trailing smoke into the bright air. Somewhere nearby, birds were singing.
Arcos stared, breath caught in his throat. His eyes filled with wonder—pure, unfiltered wonder—the kind that makes your chest hurt because it reminds you what it feels like to want something again.
He took a step forward. Then another. His feet sank into grass so soft it felt like memory. The air smelled of sun-warmed soil and new beginnings. It didn't feel real. But oh, he wanted it to be.
Behind him, John stood still, watching. There was something different in his face now—something old and infinitely gentle, like twilight settling over a worn landscape.
"How…" Arcos breathed. "How is this real?"
John placed a hand on his shoulder, light as the wind. "Some things," he said quietly, "only reveal themselves to those who've truly lost everything."
Then he smiled, and that smile—half sorrow, half solace—felt like the first shelter in a long, long storm. "Come. There's more to see."
They walked together into the warmth, and as they passed the edge of the field, Arcos saw movement in the distance—six children, roughly his age, running wild through the tall grass. They laughed as they chased one another, tumbling and sparring like warriors in training, their joy as natural as breathing.
Arcos slowed, watching them with a mixture of awe and hesitation.
"What are they doing?" he asked, eyes wide.
"They're learning," John said, his voice soft with pride. "My students. Each one with a fire of their own."
Arcos turned to him, hesitating. "…Do you think they'd let me try?"
John looked down at him, his eyes kind and steady. "I think they'd be lucky to have you."
Arcos hesitated at the edge of the courtyard, his small fingers curled tightly around the coarse fabric of John's cloak. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment he stood frozen, heart fluttering like a frightened bird. Every instinct urged him to turn and vanish into the familiar comfort of shadows. But beneath the fear, a fragile thread of hope tugged at him—delicate, persistent.
John felt the weight of the boy's hesitation. He didn't speak, didn't coax, only let the silence breathe between them. And then, after what felt like an eternity stretched across heartbeats, Arcos gave the faintest nod. It wasn't bold, but it was enough. Step by step, he moved forward, half-shielded behind John's tall frame, his presence quiet as a whisper.
They crossed into the courtyard, sunlight casting warm patterns across the stone. The laughter of children swirled on the breeze—light, carefree. But as the students caught sight of them, the sound stuttered and fell away, like a song interrupted mid-note. One by one, the young faces turned toward the figure by John's side.
And then, as if the spell had broken, the silence burst open.
"Master, you're back!" one of the boys cried, joy lighting up his face as he sprinted forward.
The others followed, their excitement tumbling out in a chorus of familiar voices.
John laughed, his expression softening, his whole being relaxing like a man coming home after a long winter. "I trust none of you burned the place down while I was gone?" he said with a playful arch of his brow.
"No, Master!" came the gleeful reply, a riot of giggles and overlapping denials.
In the swell of reunion, few noticed the silent figure clinging to John's side. Few, except one.
A girl near the front—Phoenix—slowed as her eyes landed on Arcos. She didn't speak at first. Her gaze was not unkind, but sharp, thoughtful. Curious. She tilted her head slightly, a single strand of copper hair catching the light.
"Master…" she said at last, her voice quiet but clear, "who's that?"
She pointed—not rudely, just openly, the way children do when something is new and important and unknown.
John looked down. Arcos hadn't moved, his face half-hidden, chin tucked to chest. But his eyes lifted, wide and wary. John gave him a small, reassuring nod.
"This," he said, placing a steady hand on the boy's shoulder, "is Arcos."
The boy didn't speak. His body tensed as every other child turned to look. Dozens of eyes pressed against him like weight. His breath hitched, and his cheeks bloomed red. He cast his gaze down, shoulders curling inward like a leaf against the cold.
"He's going to be staying with us now," John continued, gently. "His home… it's gone."
The words settled over the courtyard like falling dust. Soft. Heavy.
A quiet fell again, not awkward but reverent—children instinctively understanding there were wounds they couldn't see.
Arcos raised one hand in a small, trembling wave. It barely moved. He didn't trust his voice. Not yet. Not here.
John's grip on his shoulder tightened, not in pressure, but in presence. He turned back to the others.
"So," he said with a calm weight, "be good to him. Understood?"
The students exchanged glances, uncertainty passing between them like a shared breath. But then Phoenix stepped forward. She smiled—not the loud kind, not the one worn like a mask. This smile was soft at the edges, warm in the middle.
"Hi, Arcos," she said simply, as though it were the easiest thing in the world.
The others followed—some awkwardly, some shy, a few still hesitant—but none cruel. A few waved. One offered a quiet "welcome." The wary silence gave way to something gentler.
Arcos blinked, stunned by the unexpected warmth. He had prepared for stares, for whispers, for the sting of being an outsider again. But not this.
A small smile, hesitant but unmistakable, curled at the corner of his lips. His fingers loosened their grip on John's cloak. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe—just a little—that he might not always be alone.