The silver Knight

"Watch out!" Zane's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

The master turned sharply, just in time to see them—two black spheres lodged deep in his gut. Behind him, the soldiers grinned, their weapons still vibrating with residual energy. The master's breath hitched, and a faint tremor passed through him, though his expression didn't change.

Zane and Giro didn't wait. In a single motion, their veils surged outward, lifting a massive boulder from the forest floor. With a collective push, they sent it crashing down onto the soldiers. The sound was sickening—bones cracking, the scrape of stone grinding against flesh—and then silence. The soldiers lay lifeless, their attack cut short.

The master staggered, his knees hitting the ground with a dull thud. He clutched his side, his breaths shallow and ragged, his mind racing. But even now, his face betrayed no fear, only the weight of a decision he'd already made.

"Master!" Zane's voice cracked, desperate and raw. "Use the dark veil! Please! You'll die if you don't!" He lurched forward, but Giro caught him, wrapping an arm tightly around Zane's chest to stop him.

"No," the master said, his voice steady, even as blood seeped between his fingers. "No matter what happens, I will never use it."

Zane struggled against Giro's grip, his face twisted in anguish. "Master, please! You can't—"

"Listen to me," the master said, his gaze locking onto both of them. His voice was calm but carried a finality that made their struggles cease. "No matter what, don't let yourselves be consumed by darkness."

Those were his last words.

The master slumped forward, his body finally succumbing to the wounds. His veil shimmered faintly around him, then dissipated like morning mist under the sun.

The captain, still standing a few paces away, exhaled sharply. His face was pale, sweat glistening on his forehead. Relief washed over him as the tension broke. The dark energy around him fizzled out, and his sphere shattered in his hand.

He swayed on his feet, his legs buckling beneath him. As the master's life ebbed away, so did the captain's consciousness. He crumpled to the ground, his eyes fluttering shut. The clearing fell silent, the weight of the moment settling over it like a heavy shroud.

"Kill him now! Save the master!" Zane's voice was a raw, frantic roar, but Giro didn't stop. He couldn't. He knew—had known from the moment the master's body slumped lifeless to the ground—that there was no saving him.

Giro tightened his grip on Zane, hoisting him over his shoulder as he turned and ran. The forest blurred around him, the darkened trees twisting into shapes that seemed to claw at his resolve. His feet pounded the uneven ground, weaving in frantic zigzags, though no pursuers had yet appeared. The fear gripped him too tightly, its icy fingers twisting his every move.

The path ahead danced and flickered, splitting into two, sometimes three. Giro's head swam, dizziness threatening to topple him, but he pushed on. Zane thrashed on his back, pounding against Giro's shoulders and yelling for him to turn around, to fight, to go back.

But Giro couldn't turn back. Not now. The master's sacrifice had to mean something, and Giro would not let it end with their deaths. The sounds of Zane's cries pierced his ears, sharp and unrelenting. Giro's tears flowed unchecked, blurring his vision as much as the twisting forest did.

At last, they reached the old training grounds—the grounds which was used before shifting to the current one, their old home, their sanctuary. Giro collapsed to his knees, Zane slipping from his back to the ground. For a moment, the world stilled, their shared breath ragged and raw in the heavy silence of the clearing.

The days that followed blurred together, a strange and bitter mix of grief and survival. Giro buried himself in tasks, his mind fixed on moving forward, on making the pain into something he could bear. But Zane… Zane refused. He sat, motionless and brooding, his eyes fixed on the distant trees as if willing the master to return.

And so, while one brother resolved to walk forward, carrying the weight of their loss, the other remained rooted in the past, shackled by the unyielding truth he refused to accept. The rift between them grew, silent and unspoken, yet vast and unbridgeable.

Time passed, but unease settled heavily on Giro's shoulders, growing heavier with each day. Then, one morning, Zane was gone.

Panic surged through Giro, his worst fears clawing their way to the surface. He told himself it couldn't be what he suspected—what he dreaded—but his gut churned, and the whisper of doubt grew louder. He had to check.

He ran to there, to the place where the master had fallen. The sight stopped him cold. Bodies were strewn across the sparring stage, lifeless and crumpled like discarded puppets. In the center of it all stood Zane, shrouded in a dark, pulsating veil. It was no ordinary veil—this one bled a deep, suffocating purple, spreading outwards in waves that seemed to choke the very air around them.

Giro's breath caught in his throat. Zane had killed them all—the soldiers who had camped here, the ones who had been nothing more than a distant, lingering threat. Giro's mind raced, denial and regret battling for control. How had this happened? How had Zane fallen so far, so fast?

Then the truth hit him like a blow to the chest: Zane had been practicing the dark veil all this time. He must have trained in secret, hiding it so well that Giro never even noticed. How could he have missed the signs? Regret welled up inside him, bitter and sharp, a voice whispering accusations he couldn't silence.

But another part of him—a darker, quieter part—felt something else. Relief.

Zane was like a shadow, a reflection of all the darkness Giro tried to suppress in himself. If Giro could extract every ounce of evil from his soul and give it shape, it would look like Zane. He watched his brother now, standing amidst the carnage, his smirk sharp and triumphant.

For the first time, Giro saw the cute, mischievous Zane of their childhood replaced by someone else entirely. It was unsettling, and yet, there was a strange familiarity in it.

Zane turned without a word and walked toward the thing which was once their home, disappearing into its shadowed doorway. Giro's body refused to move. He felt rooted to the ground, his heart pounding against his ribs.

What is he doing in there?

But Giro already knew the answer. Of course, he knew.

Zane emerged from the house, a book clutched in his hands, its leather cover worn and cracked with age. Giro's breath hitched. His worst fear was now a reality. Zane held that book—the one the master had buried beneath their home, the one he had sworn them never to touch.

Giro's stomach twisted as Zane approached, his steps deliberate, his gaze fixed ahead, heading straight toward the path home. Without thinking, Giro rolled sideways, pressing himself flat behind a tree. He cupped both hands tightly over his nose and mouth, his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. He didn't dare breathe. He couldn't let Zane hear him.

When Zane was far enough down the path, his figure shrinking into the forest's dim haze, Giro finally moved. He crept out from behind the tree, his body tense with caution. He tread softly, slipping between shadows, his feet avoiding the tangled mess of limbs and broken weapons on the ground. The dead soldiers lay sprawled as if Zane's veil had frozen them mid-motion.

At last, Giro stepped inside the home. A pang of sorrow hit him as he took in the place that had once been their sanctuary. It was unrecognizable. The soldiers had left behind a chaotic ruin. The walls were smeared with stains of wine and tobacco, their sharp odors still lingering. Irregular splashes of paint—an act of meaningless destruction—defaced the walls. This had once been heaven. Now it was a pit of despair.

He stood in the center of the room, staring at the patch of earth Zane had dug up. The shallow hole revealed disturbed soil, where Zane had unearthed the forbidden book. But Zane didn't know the full truth.

There was something else buried there.

The master had once confided a terrible secret to Giro, a truth he had never shared with Zane. Beneath the same ground lay a scroll, hidden even deeper, containing the final stage of the dark veil—a stage far more dangerous, one that could consume its wielder entirely. The master had suspected Zane's fascination with the dark veil long before Giro ever did.

Giro's resolve hardened. He couldn't let Zane find this scroll.

Moving swiftly but quietly, Giro began to dig, his fingers tearing at the earth with urgency. He unearthed the black scroll, its surface as ominous as the power it held. Without hesitation, Giro tucked it into his coat. He scanned the room one last time, feeling the weight of the master's trust pressing on him.

Then he left.

He buried the scroll again, in another place, in a place he was certain Zane would never think to look. Only when the task was done did he pause, wiping the dirt from his hands. His heart ached with the knowledge of what Zane had become, and yet, his steps did not falter.

Giro turned and ran, leaving the broken home—and the broken memories—behind.