Shrouded head to toe in white, his face mostly hidden beneath a rough strip of cloth, the stranger stood in the heart of what used to be a town. Now, only ruin remained. Flames licked at charred debris, and thick plumes of smoke curled upward, swallowing the sky. The air reeked of ash and death.
He stepped carefully through the blackened wreckage, boots crunching over scorched stone and splintered wood. His eyes scanned the lifeless horizon, searching. Hoping, perhaps, for movement—any sign that someone had survived. But there was nothing. Not even a breath of wind.
The blast he had released earlier—black fire that consumed all—had done its work with ruthless precision. And from the silence, it seemed John had died with the rest of them.
He exhaled slowly, almost imperceptibly, then reached beneath his cloak. His gloved fingers found a small metallic device. With a press, it came to life, casting a wavering blue glow that flickered in the smoky air. A figure appeared, cloaked in the same ceremonial garb, though his bore blood-red stripes that marked him as higher rank.
The man in the projection had his back turned, engaged in something unseen.
"Sir," the stranger said, standing tall, his voice quiet but sure.
The projected man spun sharply, his features tense with irritation. "How many times have I told you not to contact me on this line?" he snapped, slamming a hand against something out of view. The noise crackled through the static.
The stranger blinked, caught off guard. "Sir… it's me. The one you sent to eliminate John."
Recognition dawned. The red-striped man exhaled and waved a hand dismissively, as if brushing away dust. "Ah. Right. My apologies." His tone shifted, but the tension in his face remained. "Well? What's the report?"
The stranger cast a last look over the burning ruins, then turned back. "It was done. One strike. He's gone."
There was no pride in his voice, only the blunt efficiency of a soldier. But then… a flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes.
"…But there was something else," he said, quieter now. "There was a child."
The man in red raised a brow. "A child?"
"He couldn't have been more than ten," the stranger murmured. His voice was low, distant. "I found him crying. Clutching two bodies in his arms. I don't know who they were… but they mattered to him."
Silence stretched between them.
The superior's expression remained unchanged, carved from stone. When he finally spoke, his words were clinical. Hollow. "Don't dwell on it. You did what was necessary." He paused, then added coolly, "Return and report to the council."
The image winked out, leaving only the smoke, the fire… and the guilt.
The stranger stood still, surrounded by the echoing quiet of devastation. The boy's sobs still rang in his ears, louder than any explosion. He closed his eyes tightly, as if to seal the memory away. He had done what was asked of him—what was required. But the mission's success didn't ease the weight pressing on his chest.
He stood there for a long time.
When he opened his eyes again, something inside him had hardened. Whatever softness had flickered, whatever regret had threatened to bloom—it was buried now. Locked away.
Without a word, he lifted off the ground, vanishing into the ashen sky. The ruin fell behind him like a shadow he refused to look back on.
As John neared the hidden threshold of his refuge, the boy in his arms clung to him like a lifeline. Arcos's small fingers were locked around John's tunic, his body quivering with fear that hadn't yet found the strength to fade. His eyes, wide and haunted, betrayed the chaos still unraveling in his mind—the screams, the fire, the charred remnants of a village that no longer existed. Everyone he'd ever loved, every home he'd ever known… gone, like a nightmare that never woke up.
The plains stretched endlessly before them, a desolate canvas of snow and silence. Not a tree, not a rock, not a hint of shelter in sight—just a white void, cold and uncaring. Arcos stared out over it all, his brows knitting. He didn't ask where they were going; he didn't need to. The question hung between them anyway, aching and unanswered.
John touched down gently, the crunch of his boots against the ice the only sound for miles. He set the boy down with great care, one hand on his shoulder to steady him. His voice came quiet, but firm. "We're here."
Arcos glanced around, confusion flickering in his eyes. "But… there's nothing here," he said, clutching his thin cloak tighter around himself. His voice cracked on the words.
John's expression softened. A knowing smile curved his lips. "Is that what you see?" he said, and there was a playful glint in his voice—like a secret was just waiting to be told.
Then he stepped forward into the still air and lifted a hand, fingers brushing the empty space before him. With a smooth, deliberate motion, he pulled downward as if peeling back the sky itself.
And just like that, the world changed.
A shimmer rippled through the air, and the barren plain gave way to something breathtaking—a hidden valley, lush and green, soaked in the golden light of a sun that didn't exist moments ago. Fields swayed in a gentle breeze, a patchwork of wildflowers and soft grass stretching out toward a cluster of small, welcoming homes. Smoke drifted lazily from their chimneys. Birds flitted through the trees. The air was warm.
Arcos's breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, full of wonder. He stepped forward, slowly at first, as though afraid it would vanish if he moved too quickly. But the warmth met him with open arms. His feet sank into the soft earth, the scent of soil and summer air filling his lungs.
It felt like a dream. A perfect, impossible dream.
Behind him, John stood quietly, watching. There was something in his eyes—something old and kind, like the sky just before dusk.
"How… how is this real?" Arcos whispered, barely trusting his voice.
John's hand rested gently on his shoulder. "Some things," he said softly, "are meant to be found only by those who truly need them." He smiled. "Come on. There's more to see."
As they walked further in, Arcos noticed movement—six small shapes darting through the open field, their laughter echoing faintly in the distance. Children. They were about his age, full of energy, sparring and tumbling, training like it was second nature. He watched them with cautious curiosity.
"What are they doing?" he asked, glancing up at John.
"They're training," John said, his tone warm. "My students. Would you like to meet them?"
Arcos hesitated, his hand tightening around the edge of John's cloak. The urge to retreat lingered, but so did the hope—the tiniest flicker of it. After a moment, he gave a small nod and stepped forward, still keeping himself tucked partly behind John's side like a shadow.
As they neared, the students noticed them. One by one, they froze. Then the air erupted in cheerful voices.
"Master, you're back!" one of them cried out, their faces lighting up as they raced toward him.
John chuckled, his whole face softening. "I trust none of you burned the place down while I was gone?" he teased.
"No, Master!" came the chorus, a tangle of playful voices overlapping in happy denial.
They barely noticed the newcomer—barely, except for one. A girl near the front of the group slowed, her gaze locking onto the quiet figure peeking out from behind John. Her name was Phoenix, and the question was already rising in her eyes.
"Master… who's that?" she asked, pointing, her voice tinged with curiosity and a hint of wonder.
John glanced down at Arcos and gave him an encouraging nod. The boy stayed close, but for the first time, he didn't shrink back.
All at once, the other children turned their attention to Arcos. He froze like a deer in headlights, his small shoulders tensing as dozens of curious eyes fixed on him. A deep blush crept across his cheeks, and he looked down, as if trying to shrink away from their gaze.
John noticed and leaned down slightly, his presence steady and warm. With a soft smile, he placed a reassuring hand on Arcos's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Oh—right," John said, his voice calm but carrying weight. "I almost forgot to introduce him." He straightened and turned toward the group. "This is Arcos. He's going to be staying with us from now on."
The words hung in the air for a beat. Then, softer, almost like a sigh: "His home… it's gone."
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with unspoken questions and sympathy. Arcos raised a tentative hand in greeting, though it trembled slightly, his fingers barely parting. He didn't trust his voice not to crack if he tried to speak.
"So," John continued, his smile returning—gentle but with an edge of seriousness, "be good to him, alright?"
The group glanced among themselves, uncertainty flickering across their faces. Then Phoenix stepped forward, her eyes bright with something like compassion. "Hi, Arcos," she said warmly, her tone full of the kind of sincerity only a child can offer without effort.
The others followed suit, their greetings shy but genuine, their wariness fading as kindness began to take its place.
Arcos blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. A small smile tugged at his lips—tentative, but real. For the first time since the fire, since the silence that followed, he felt a thread of something he hadn't dared to hope for:
Belonging.