Chapter 57: Whispers of the Forgotten
The memories didn't come all at once—it started with a whisper.
Elara stirred in the middle of the night, sweat lining her brow as the last remnants of a dream clung to her mind. In the dream, she had been standing in a forest clearing. The trees whispered, bending toward her with mournful creaks as if trying to share a terrible secret. At the center, the Shrouded One stood, not with menace, but confusion in his eyes. Behind him, shadows moved, distorting the air like heatwaves—fragments of illusions, broken and splintered. And then, a voice—her own voice—had said, "He twisted your mind. None of that was real."
She woke with a gasp, heart hammering.
Ariella experienced the same. Her dream had been different—a room with cracked mirrors, each one showing a distorted version of her. In one reflection, she was weeping. In another, she was laughing maniacally. In the last mirror, she stood with her hand outstretched toward the Shrouded One, and a voice behind her said, "He made you believe it. You never wanted to kill her until he told you to."
The next morning, the two girls met beneath the ancient oak near the edge of the village. They didn't need to speak at first—both knew something had changed. Finally, Ariella said, "He messed with our minds, didn't he?"
Elara nodded. "He did. And we let him."
They pieced it together then, memories realigned by the dreams. How, during their first encounters with the Shrouded One, their emotions had shifted unnaturally. How they had doubted themselves—then suddenly grown certain he was their enemy, only to find contradictions in his actions. He hadn't always attacked. Sometimes, he had seemed lost... like he didn't even know why he was fighting.
"He planted thoughts," Ariella said. "Twisted our fears. Made us see him as nothing but a monster."
"And now we know the truth," Elara murmured. "But that still doesn't stop him. Not unless we figure out how he keeps coming back."
They didn't celebrate the last time they ended him. He'd crumbled in fire and fury, and they had buried his body using their strongest spells. But deep down, they knew it wasn't over. His return was inevitable.
They waited in silence, days stretching like taut strings, each one humming with unspoken anticipation.
Then, one night, they both dreamed again—this time, the dreams were not their own.
Each girl, alone in her home, saw the same vision: a silver staircase winding through clouds. On either side of the steps stood two regal figures—the Blue Queen with her icy calm, and the White Queen with her radiant warmth. The queens spoke not with mouths, but with presence, with essence.
"The one you fight has never been whole," the Blue Queen intoned.
"He is bound to a relic. A vessel from childhood," added the White Queen.
A hazy image formed between them—a small, cracked, shabby pot. The same pot Elara had once seen in a vision. The very one Ariella remembered from the room he always returned to.
"It is his anchor. Through it, his soul returns. Break the bond, and you break the cycle."
When they awoke, the girls didn't hesitate. They stalked the old village path toward the Shrouded One's home, a modest place tucked behind the far edge of the fields. They didn't know he had returned—until they saw a shadow move behind the curtain.
He was back.
Still unaware of the Master's existence, they believed he was acting alone. They watched his home for days, waiting for a moment to strike. But this time, Elara had a different idea.
"We shouldn't attack," she said. "Not yet."
Ariella raised a brow. "Why not?"
"Let's plant doubt. Confuse him like he once confused us."
When he left the house at dusk, they approached. He paused, narrowing his eyes at them, muscles tensing for a fight. But they didn't raise their hands.
"We know what you are," Ariella said. "And we know what you've forgotten."
The Shrouded One didn't respond, but something flickered in his gaze.
"You were taken as a child," Elara continued. "Your parents tried to protect you. You had abilities... power. Someone wanted it."
"We've seen it," Ariella added. "In dreams. In visions. A monster came for you. Your parents died protecting you."
He stared at them, unmoving. But his grip tightened into fists.
"Those dreams you wake up from screaming?" Elara whispered. "They're real. And that shabby pot you keep... that's the reason you keep coming back."
The Shrouded One's heart thundered in his chest. How could they know? He had never told anyone—not even his brothers—about the boy in the dream, the screams, the fire. Or about the pot, that worn thing he had once threatened to throw away, only for the Master to react with fury and terror.
He didn't answer. He turned and walked away.
But his steps were heavy with turmoil.
...He stormed into the mansion, past the ornate halls, and into the Master's study where the man sat with a book in hand. The Master looked up, calm and unreadable.
The Shrouded One's voice trembled with fury. "I need to know the truth. About the pot. About my dreams. About them."
The Master raised an eyebrow. "What truth?"
"My parents," he snapped. "What did you do to them?"
The Master blinked, then let out a soft chuckle. "Parents? What parents? You're an orphan. I found you. I saved you. Raised you like a son. You should know better than anyone. Who told you, the girls? "
"They couldn't have known," the Shrouded One insisted. "They described things I've never told anyone—things I've only seen in my dreams."
"That's what they do," the Master said smoothly. "They twist truths to look like memories. They're manipulating you—trying to tear you away from your purpose."
But the Shrouded One stepped back, his breathing shallow. "No... I don't believe you."
The Master's expression sharpened. "Then you're a fool."
And that's when the pain came.
Pain stabbed through his skull—sharp, merciless. He cried out and fell to his knees as memories flooded his mind like a dam breaking: a woman's voice calling his name. A man shielding him with his body. Flames. A throne room. Cold eyes. The sound of a monster's roar and his mother screaming his name one last time—
And then darkness.
When he woke, he was back in the childhood room. The one with the single bed and the cracked walls. The only thing familiar was the shabby pot resting on the floor.
But everything else had changed.
His eyes were different now—colder, sharper. The deep red in his gaze burned brighter than before, so intense it could freeze the air around him.
He stood slowly.
No more doubts. No more illusions.
He remembered it all.
And he would make the Master pay.