Chapter 63
The Shrouded One was healing well. With the wound mysteriously gone, there was no longer a rush to return to the village and finish what he started. Yet, as his body recovered, his mind grew restless. A deep unease rooted in the blankness of his memory began to gnaw at him. The battle had ended, his enemies had fled, and his body bore no trace of injury. But the mystery remained—how had he survived? Why couldn't he remember any part of what happened when he lay wounded on that bed?
The pot. It had done something, he was sure of it. But how? And why did he have no recollection of it? More pressing, what was he really? Who had given him the pot, and why was his existence so entangled with it?
He knew, deep down, that Elara and Ariella had answers. They had wounded him with that dagger, and they knew his true name. But pride was a heavy chain around his neck. He couldn't bring himself to show up at their doorstep and beg for the truth. Not after everything he had done to them. Not after the humiliation of being defeated.
So instead, he turned inward and went digging in places that others had long forgotten. He quietly began questioning the oldest servants in the mansion—those who had served the Master before the empire, before the rise of the brothers, when the Master was still merely a prince. Most of them were cautious, offering little or nothing of value. Their loyalty to the Master was ironclad, and they didn't dare speak freely.
Percy noticed the change. "What have you been up to these past few days?" he asked, watching the Shrouded One slip in and out of unused corridors and dusty archives.
"Nothing important," he muttered, brushing past his brother without meeting his gaze.
Percy didn't press. He knew that when the Shrouded One was lost in thought, it was best to let him be.
Meanwhile, Little 7 grew increasingly restless. "The village is weak now," he said one evening. "This is the perfect time to strike again. What are we waiting for?"
Little 9 didn't answer. He just stared out the window, his expression unreadable. He couldn't explain it, but something inside him told him to wait. That there was more to discover, more to understand before another step was taken.
And then, just when it seemed all hope of finding the truth had dried up, he found an old man cleaning the outer edges of the Master's chambers. The man was slow, hunched, and nearly blind in one eye. But there was something in his voice—some old weight that hinted at stories long buried.
"You were here when he was still the prince, weren't you?" Little 9 asked him, trying to sound casual.
The man nodded slowly. "Aye. Long before the wars and the empire. Back when the Master still wore a crown too big for his head."
Little 9's heart beat faster. "Do you remember… any children? Ones who were brought here? Not born, but taken?"
The servant paused, leaning on his broom. "There was one… a little boy. Taken by force, if I recall. His parents didn't want to let him go, but the Master made sure they had no say in the matter."
Little 9 stiffened. "What happened to the parents?"
The man's voice turned quiet. "He killed them. Right in front of the boy."
A shiver crawled down Little 9's spine.
"The child never recovered," the servant went on. "He cried every day, locked himself in his room. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't talk. Just stared at the walls, like he was waiting for someone to come get him."
Little 9's lips parted, but no words came.
"The Master didn't have the patience for it," the servant said with a scoff. "Ordered the boy's memories wiped. Said he was of no use if all he did was mourn. The boy was never the same after that."
The Shrouded One didn't realize he was holding his breath until the old man turned and began shuffling away, dragging the broom behind him.
He stood there, frozen, trying to process what he had just heard. The story stirred something deep inside—an ache, a void, a silent scream buried beneath layers of confusion. He didn't need the servant to say it.
He already knew.
He was the boy.