The first silver note did not merely pierce the night; it carved into it, twisting the silence into something warped and unnatural. The cobblestones beneath Cipher's boots thrummed with each tone, and the square itself seemed to breathe in rhythm with the Piper's song.
Cipher's grip on his scythe tightened. The runes shimmered faintly, their starlit glow cutting against the encroaching music, but the pressure of the melody was undeniable. It wasn't just sound—it was gravity, pulling at thought, will, and bone.
The children shuddered, clutching their ears, yet their feet inched forward. The melody did not ask; it commanded. It seeped into the marrow of their small bodies, turning them into instruments of the story itself.
Cipher's jaw locked. "Not again," he muttered, voice low but firm. He remembered too vividly the boy from years ago—the child who had looked at him with hopeful eyes, who had fallen because Cipher's words had not been enough. That memory refused to remain buried.
The Piper's silhouette moved between rooftops, faster than a human should be able to leap, his long cloak snapping like shadow-cut banners in the wind. Each shift of his position changed the pull of the music, tugging the children like puppets on invisible strings.
The Automaton clung to Cipher's shoulder, its faint golden eyes narrowing. "He is not simply playing. He is weaving. The town is his loom, and they are the threads."
Cipher exhaled through his nose, calm, measured. "Then I'll cut the threads."
He slammed the butt of the scythe down. The silver runes erupted in a ripple, forcing back the tide of rats that had begun crawling toward the children again. They squealed in unison, hissing as smoke rose from their warped bodies where the light touched. But for every rat scattered, three more emerged from cracks and drains, their eyes glowing like sparks of the Piper's song.
The children screamed as the music intensified, a crescendo of haunting laughter entwined with flute-song.
Cipher moved. He swept his scythe in wide arcs, forcing the rats back, but he wasn't just attacking—he was herding, forcing them away from the children, creating space inside the circle of silver light. Each motion was efficient, practiced. His strikes weren't the flailing of desperation but the purposeful strokes of a man who understood his role. He wasn't here to win glory. He was here to shield.
"Cipher!" the Automaton's voice buzzed with tension. "Your defense holds, but your enemy does not tire. The Piper could play until every child collapses."
"I know," Cipher said through clenched teeth, spinning the scythe to cut down another rat lunging for the edge of the light. The memory of his first classroom still haunted him—the boy's wide eyes, the scream that followed, the guilt that had never left. He would not let these children fall the same way.
The Piper's mocking laughter echoed, closer now. His voice slithered between notes, smooth and cruel.
"Teacher of stars… You waste yourself. Their wills bend because they want to bend. They long to follow. Children were made to be led."
Cipher's gaze snapped upward. The Piper stood at the highest rooftop, his silver-black flute raised, the fractured moon gleaming off its polished surface. His face was hidden in shadow, but his smile could be felt rather than seen—cold, triumphant.
Cipher's scythe pulsed with starlight. His voice rang out, steady as a bell across the square. "Then they'll learn another way."
The Piper laughed again, a hollow sound that scraped against the bones of the town. "You presume to teach against the story? You presume to rewrite me?"
Cipher lifted his weapon, pointing the blade toward the Piper. "I don't rewrite. I remind. They are more than your notes."
The Piper lowered the flute to his lips.
The second song began.
This time it wasn't a call—it was an assault. The music stabbed into the square, jagged and sharp, a frenzy of notes meant to drown thought. The children screamed, some falling to their knees. Rats surged in, clawing against the barrier of light, their screeches harmonizing with the Piper's tune.
Cipher's boots slid against the cobblestones as the pressure bore down. His chest tightened. His scythe hummed violently, fighting to maintain its glow.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus not on the chaos, but on the heartbeat beneath it. His heartbeat. Steady. Deliberate. The sound he had relied on through countless classrooms, through countless storms of doubt and failure.
He opened his eyes.
The scythe flared, silver light blinding as it erupted outward, shoving rats back in a wave. The nearest children gasped, clarity flickering in their eyes.
Cipher dropped to one knee in front of a trembling boy at the circle's edge. His tone softened, sharp edges fading into the calm cadence of a mentor. "Look at me. Breathe. Plant your feet. You're not a note in his song—you're a voice of your own. Can you say it?"
The boy sobbed, nodding faintly. "M-my own voice…"
"Louder," Cipher urged. "Drown him out."
"I—I'm my own voice!"
The words cracked the air, small but firm. For a moment, the Piper's song faltered, a note warping off-key. His silhouette twitched on the rooftop.
Cipher smiled faintly. "Good. Now hold on to it. Don't let go."
He rose again, swinging his scythe as the rats surged, scattering shadow-flesh with each sweep. More children were blinking now, whispering to themselves, struggling to resist. Each whispered declaration was like a thread snapping from the Piper's loom.
The Automaton's voice was hushed, awed. "Cipher… you're countering his music with theirs."
Cipher's gaze never left the Piper. "Not mine. Theirs."
The Piper's laughter rang sharper, tinged with fury. His cloak billowed as he leapt from the rooftop, landing silently at the far end of the square. He stood tall, flute gleaming like a blade, eyes glowing faint red beneath the shadow of his hood.
Children whimpered. The rats screamed.
Cipher lifted his scythe, stars blazing along the runes. His voice cut the air like steel. "You'll play no further."
The Piper tilted his head, raising the flute slowly to his lips. His reply was soft, but venomous. "Then silence me, Teacher."
The square held its breath.
The first true clash was about to begin.
Cipher charged forward, silver light spilling from every rune etched in his weapon. The Piper's flute sang, and the air itself rippled with sound, striking Cipher like invisible blades. He gritted his teeth, scythe arcing wide to cut the oncoming wave. Sparks of starlight and sound collided, exploding outward in violent harmony.
The children screamed, but some clutched each other, anchoring themselves against the pull. Cipher's voice carried even through the chaos, steady and unyielding.
"Hold to yourselves! You are more than this story!"
The Piper's laughter slashed the night. "And yet the story is all they have!"
The rats swarmed again, endless. Cipher spun, his scythe a whirl of steel and light, scattering them into fragments. But he didn't chase the Piper recklessly. He stood firm, every movement a shield between the children and the nightmare before them.
The Piper's song rose higher, sharper. Cipher's runes burned brighter, refusing to bow.
For the first time, the Piper faltered, a single note trembling off-key as the children's small voices began to echo Cipher's words. Weak, trembling, but present.
And Cipher knew: this was no longer his fight alone.
The battle of song and scythe had begun in earnest.
And the night itself seemed to lean in, waiting to see which voice would prevail.