The Piper's tune writhed through the square, a melody that seemed less played and more exhaled from something ancient and ravenous. It twisted between alleys and rooftops, weaving into the children's ears. Some swayed, glassy-eyed, toes edging forward like dancers on strings. The cobblestones pulsed faintly, as if echoing the beat.
Cipher's jaw tightened. He could feel the pull, too—like invisible hands probing the cracks of his mind, trying to pry open doors he had long since locked. His scythe hummed with a dull resonance, the runes flickering as if the melody gnawed at their very light.
"Teacher," the Automaton whispered, perched on his shoulder, "this music does not merely command—it rewrites. To resist is to interrupt the rhythm."
Cipher narrowed his eyes. That much he understood. Words could steady a heart, but rhythm… rhythm reached bone. He turned slightly, catching sight of the nearest child—a boy with soot on his cheeks—trembling, knees bent as though about to march forward. Cipher slammed the butt of his scythe into the ground again, sending out a sharp crack of sound. The boy flinched, the trance broken.
"Listen to me!" Cipher barked, his voice carrying like a whipcrack. "You don't need to drown it out. You need to replace it. Count with me. Now!"
The children blinked, uncertain. The Piper's tune curled tighter, like snakes in their ears. Cipher raised his free hand and snapped his fingers—once, sharp, decisive.
"One!"
The runes of his scythe pulsed in time with the beat.
He snapped again.
"Two!"
The Piper's song wavered as some of the children hesitated, their minds snagging on Cipher's counter-rhythm. He stepped forward deliberately, each bootfall loud against the stone.
"Three! Four!"
The Automaton tilted its head, gears clicking in fascination. "You are… teaching them a new song."
Cipher didn't look back. "No," he said, voice hard but steady. "I'm teaching them that they have a choice."
For a few breaths, it worked. The children's eyes regained their clarity, their ragged whispers of "one, two, three, four" threading together into something fragile but real. The Piper faltered mid-note, his head twitching violently, the gleam in his eyes flaring with something close to fury.
Then the music changed.
The flute shrieked, bending into a new key, dissonant and jagged. The air grew heavy, the stones beneath their feet softening into a sticky, tar-like sludge. Cipher pulled the children back instinctively as dark shapes began to slither between the buildings.
Rats.
Not the small, scrabbling pests of any normal town. These were monstrous shadows, fur slick as oil, eyes glowing with an unnatural yellow light. Their tails lashed like whips, claws scraping sparks off stone. And they weren't just crawling—they moved in unsettling synchronicity, forming lines, spirals, shapes that mirrored the Piper's music.
The Automaton's light dimmed in its chest. "The rats are not vermin… they are verses. Each one carries the story forward."
Cipher's scythe was already in motion. He swung in a broad arc, severing the first wave that lunged toward them. The rats exploded into ribbons of black mist, but the melody didn't falter. More emerged, crawling out of doorframes, spilling from windows, climbing from the very cracks in the square.
"Back!" Cipher called to the children, planting himself like a wall between them and the advancing tide. "Eyes up! You've already proven you can resist the song. Now prove you can stand still when the world tries to push you down."
He didn't wait for a reply. The scythe whirled in his hands, a crescent of silver runes slicing arcs through the swarming bodies. Every strike was precise, economical—enough to clear space, never wasted. Yet even as he cut them down, the Piper's music wrapped tighter around the edges of the battle, each slain rat only replaced by another crawling from shadow.
Cipher ground his teeth. Fighting them all would change nothing. He knew it. But this wasn't about slaying vermin—it was about showing the children what defiance looked like when surrounded.
A rat lunged at his leg; Cipher crushed it beneath his boot, twisting until it dissipated. Another leapt for his throat—he caught it midair on the shaft of his scythe, then spun the weapon, sending the beast flying into a cluster that dissolved on impact.
The children gasped behind him, some screaming, some crying. One of the younger ones clutched his friend's hand and stammered, "He—he's not afraid—"
Cipher cut down another rat and barked over his shoulder: "Wrong. I am afraid. But I refuse to let fear decide for me. That's all courage is."
The Automaton's gears whirred faster, as if memorizing every word.
The Piper raised his flute higher, his form shuddering, eyes blazing like embers. His next notes were jagged, uneven, but they had weight. The rats' shapes shifted, elongating, forming grotesque parodies of children themselves—mockeries with hollow eyes and twisted limbs. They staggered forward in mimicry of a march.
The children behind Cipher wailed, the sight more horrifying than any beast. "That's us!" one cried. "That's what he'll make us—"
Cipher turned, his voice cutting through panic. "No. That's not you. That's what happens if you stop choosing. Do you understand the difference?"
His words landed like hammer strikes. Some of the older children clenched their fists, forcing their trembling legs to still. The rhythm of their counting began again, ragged but present: "One… two… three… four…"
Cipher seized on it. He shifted his stance, striking in time with their words, his scythe arcs syncing perfectly with the beat. Silver light surged brighter with every count, rippling outward to meet the Piper's dissonant notes.
The Automaton's voice trembled with awe. "You're not just resisting… you're rewriting the rhythm itself."
Cipher snarled as he drove his scythe into the ground, a shockwave of silver exploding outward and scattering dozens of rats into mist. "Not rewriting. Reminding them they can write their own."
For a moment—just a moment—the Piper's music cracked. His form flickered like a candle in the wind, his head snapping violently as if the very notion of resistance struck deeper than the scythe ever could. His flute wailed, frantic, desperate.
Cipher lifted his scythe again, but the Piper's gaze locked on him, fury boiling in those ember eyes. And then, with a guttural exhale, the Piper changed the tune again. This time the sound burrowed deeper, crawling under the skin, vibrating in bone marrow. Cipher staggered as the world blurred around him—the children's faces doubling, the square rippling like water.
He grit his teeth, forcing his vision steady. The Automaton's voice buzzed at his ear. "Teacher, he seeks to unmake choice itself. To drown even the thought of resisting."
Cipher inhaled sharply, grounding himself. He wasn't just fighting for the children's bodies. He was fighting for their ability to choose—for their right to remain themselves. And if words and lessons alone weren't enough, then he would teach with every swing of his blade.
He raised the scythe high, runes blazing like stars, and slammed it down into the square. The impact sent a ring of silver rippling outward—not enough to defeat the Piper, not yet, but enough to remind the children once more that the story wasn't absolute.
"Stay with me!" Cipher roared, his voice carrying like a vow. "This is not the end of your song!"
The children screamed their count back at him, louder this time, their voices overlapping the Piper's flute:
"One! Two! Three! Four!"
The Piper staggered, his shadow-rats faltering for the first time.
Cipher lifted his scythe again, shoulders squared, eyes unyielding. He knew this was only the beginning of the fight. But the children's voices rose behind him, defiant and sharp, and for the first time, the Piper's song was not the only music that filled the square.