Nothing of a soul remained. Seemingly, power had consumed what little of humanity dully glinted within the Council. Not to be undone, there was something of respect, if not reverence, to the charity that sparked the once hallowed organization, yet that too existed only as a façade, for how indeed were the multitudes to trust anything less? So Shion fabricated this front, this crude interpretation of a thing called “caring”. It failed to convince. Nor was it questioned.

In recent years, this was strictly a matter of fear. Not so in the beginning. This lack of concern was once hailed simply enough as the rugged authority of studious men whose time couldn’t be wasted. Naturally this urgent business was ever for the betterment of all who lived and breathed upon the whole of Lagoon . . . even the lessers and cursed, so they would have their flock believe. Some still thought so, but these were either deluded or saw a wickedness for which they yet held out hope. Today such optimists were few and far between because redemption, rarely if ever, seemed something no member of the Council felt necessary, much less desirable.

To Rethon, of whom existed a humanity beaten and marred, all seemed lost in Shion's passing, and yet the part of him that still sought the light of day, well . . . rejoiced. For how indeed was the death of fear not at hand? Could the whole of the Council now come clean and maybe actually be forgiven for their many grievous crimes? Of that, for the slightest of moments he couldn’t know, well aside from the deepest of knowledge that Mother Sea would not forgive, could not, even if every villager had, down to the most wretched of the cursed.

None of it mattered. The moment Achon arose Rethon knew beyond all doubt forgiveness was, and had perhaps ever been, as the mist on a frosty morn, intangible and fleeting. Achon, a leech, had utterly attached himself to Shion in ways none other deemed sane. The wickedness of the Council aside, degrees of wretchedness remained, of which Rethon attained the holiest tier, whether he knew it or not. Rethon believed Shion's soul lay rotting at the putrid core of this bottomless pit long before death claimed him, but no. Achon, even from early on, had burrowed beneath Shion and even now, especially now, shone as the sludge lining the bottom of the barrel. For to think on it, had not Shion begun relatively worthy, aside from ambitions Mother Sea could never condone? Achon couldn’t claim such and was utterly proud to claim otherwise.

Achon had been present that night. He'd heard Shirell's cry, but then really who hadn’t? He'd witnessed the witch's wrath upon that of Shion and the moment he'd fallen within the confines of Mother Sea a smile etched across his vile face. He'd known well what this meant. This was his chance and from here he'd murder every last Council member to find ultimate power, but only if any resisted. Ah, but some had. Power, like wickedness, was an infectious thing and attached with a vice grip the chicata never dreamed possible.

Four had risen, but no, was it five? No, six had risen to claim Shion's place and why not? Not a tear was shed for the Highest of Elders, at least not within the confines of the Council. Of these six, of which Rethon wasn’t among, two fell in short order. These at Achon's hand, who called a thing mercy to wait a solitary moment for the other four to recant . . . they had, every one. Even Alion had recanted. Yet this was the depth of Achon's mercy, for though Shion, as evil as he was, valued appearance because an undeniable part of him longed to be loved. Achon cared not for such trivialities. His evil would be shown, lauded and praised, lest Lagoon be bathed in blood. So it was that Shion's death utterly failed to prove a relief to the island, but rather opened wide the floodgates to a depravity that couldn’t otherwise escape.

The two deaths and the slightest of debate marked as the only reprieve the island would know. Then, with Achon leading, they'd proceeded to march upon the beach. He'd cared not for who may find Shion or what anyone might assume as to how he'd perished. A moment he'd given in thanks to his new nemesis, Shirell, for his passing, for he'd been nothing other than conflicted regarding the late High Elder. Ever had Shion had been his mentor. To kill him somehow seemed wrong and he'd been held in check by that last tendril of morality these last few years, but the shackles had fallen away, all thanks to the witch.

Now was a time for action and Ciroc must be proven dead. Justice couldn’t touch on his motives, even though the boy had indeed committed the unspeakable crime of not dying when prompted. Because Achon cared not for appearances he'd also not given a damn what the witch was called. To him she was and had ever been Shirell, his newest and final threat and the way to tear her apart was through her child.

It seemed a haughty thing indeed, this belief he could accomplish something Shion could not, but then that was the crux of it. He had to. He had to prove to the Council, the tribe and yes, even Mother Sea that his ascendency was comprised of more than mere threats . . . he deserved to be here. He must prove he, and he alone, could accomplish what Shion could not . . . the destruction of Shirell, for aside from all else, Achon was green with envy. He so longed to exist as the island's new fear. High Elder be damned, he'd rise well above such limited ideals, to be crowned ruler, king and warlord all wrapped into one. He'd even held out tentative aspirations to utterly annihilate Mother Sea, herself, though he knew not how. But first things first . . . Ciroc must die.

# # #

A tempest of unnatural design descended. It was what both Mrageden and Raef feared . . . the witch. She was bent well upon their destruction and no redemption remained. It wasn’t as if Mrageden, a sailor of considerable skill, hadn't seen the signs. When had Mother Sea remained silent for long? Hers was a calm gained only through venting. Even so, this was something new entirely. How exactly, he couldn't rightly know, but the witch, she'd somehow overtaken even the likes of Mother Sea. For such a feat, a deeper fear set in.

Each wave grew exponentially, not that it mattered in the beginning. Tear-huts were designed for deeper waters and as such were well prepared for the occasional submersion, though little could be done as far as direction within a storm. Mrageden’s finely built craft was designed to last, but tossed about like a plaything when Mother Sea grew angry. Indeed, it was pure insanity to take a vessel such as this so far out to sea and so alone, though a fleet of tear-huts would not, could not, have fared any better.

When had choice ever been something they'd been in possession of? From the beginning they'd been ruled and often mercilessly. How could they have expected anything different now that the trio of the witch, Mother Sea and death had found them out?

There would be no surviving this. It was the only thing of which he could be sure.

# # #

The very sands, blood stained or not, seemed a tremble. Something was coming, something somehow very, very wrong. Both Diote's and Acissey's tears fell strangely, as if no longer certain of their purpose. They seemed to angle towards Mother Sea as if fleeing a fate worse than the storm brewing on the horizon.

Ciroc lay a solitary figure, not yet passed from this plane, but never again to wake. Among the living, he and he alone failed to notice the brigade of elders breaking from beyond the tree line; ironic that, since he possessed the most to fear, for he was why they'd come. Nine of the twelve appeared, the whole of what remained within the Council; every one gifted and skilled in their trade. Each was garbed in thinly veiled robes of yellow, a flaxen shade marking more than authority, but justice and the fair sovereignty of Father Sun, a lesser deity, but ever had it been a crime to feign the colors of Mother Sea. She'd always stood alone, a testament now more than ever, since a deep stain blemished the good name of Father Sun and had for decades. It was no wonder so many villagers paid sole homage to Mother Sea for she remained forever pure.

Each footfall echoed tragedy, as if death lay in their wake, and it had. Fear trailed them always, a disease riddled of woe. Here and now a force of minds combined to spread a terror, utterly new. What could resist them? Who dared try? Closer they came and closer still, till the grass was ravaged and the sand kicked up in protest. Every eye found them, but nary a one possessed power enough to hold them at bay. They hadn't needed to. As quickly as they'd come, they ceased their advance.

A voice without a voice rang through every mind, singular yet amplified by the minds of the Council. It was that of Achon, but he was not Shion. He'd paid no mind to the peons, scattered like so many ants, churning up the normally pristine sands. Even the gifted failed to garner his attention. They were nothing to him, with his own Council members being little more so. No. He cared only to address his nemesis, the only one to whom he considered worthy of his time.

"SHIRELL!!!"

At this a shock resonated betwixt widened eyes, as every mind silently screamed. Never a name spoken! Achon cared not for such useless traditions. They were, after all, based entirely upon lies. Achon wished to rip the veil asunder to show forth the purity of an evil unblemished by deceit.

"SHIRELL!!! A CERTAIN DEATH LAY AS FATE!!! A SON!!! A WITCH'S SON!!! CIROC!!! HE IS NAUGHT BUT UNDONE!!! I SWEAR TO SEE IT FINISHED!!! ALL OF HIM SHALL BLEED DEATH!!! AND THEN . . . SHALL I EVER USURP YOU . . . A THRONE CRACKED AND CRAWLING OF DECAY!!! DEATH . . . DEATH SHALL BECOME YOU!!! EVER A NAME BROKEN!!! AND I . . . A TRUE EVIL REALIZED AND UNDERSTOOD!!!"

Nary an idle threat, all instinctively knew peace, if it had ever truly existed, was at an end. Lest the witch cast Achon down here and now, but that didn’t happen. With the fate of Shion, of which none could know, but surely holy and shining in comparison, all were incredulous the witch failed to act. Shock and sorrow mixed, for all now knew who'd succeeded Shion, an unworthy heir and one they'd sooner see meet a similar fate.

A distinctive pause gave these thoughts a moment to cultivate fear . . . a new fear, but not by design. Achon truly cared not for what peons thought of him or anything else. In all reality, he'd waited this moment as a dare. If Shirell could he'd give her this solitary chance to strike him down for his “blasphemy”. She did not. For it he began to laugh heartily.

Confusion reigned over the haphazard crowd. How was it the witch hadn’t sought vengeance? Little doubt remained for the way in which she ought to have reacted. Lore clearly stated something history had affirmed; though the witch was easily provoked she'd always sought revenge in stages. She slowly, methodically tore a life asunder by inflicting all manner of woe upon those loved by the one who'd dared to speak her name, or in any other way insult her.

For this they were taught to believe naught but a curse should befall at the dawning of the crime, yet two things gave this truth pause. Though no proof could be had, all could see that Shion had fallen, but being unblemished of body none could blame either Ciroc or Diote. Truly none had, even if it were a belief centered wholly upon the inability of mere children to perpetrate such a vile crime. Be this as it may, naught was spoken on the subject for a dread fell down. Shion had fallen, yes, but all heard the witch's cry not so very long ago. With no signs of injury how could this not have been her work? And yet, if so, how could this not be interpreted as an immediate reaction from the witch?

More than this, Achon hadn’t simply spoken her name, but shouted it purposely within the presence of many. Even when spoken, it was often in a whisper or otherwise accidental and certainly never in the presence others, much less a multitude. Yet beyond all this, Achon had laid down a direct and grievous threat. NO ONE EVER DID THIS. Within the threat was the blasphemous accusation that Ciroc was what? The witch's son?! Such was not possible! All knew well who'd bore him unto Shard, Acissey, and she sat hunched over him even now.

His father, Esrin, was naught to be seen, nor likely ever would be again, though all knew he'd never much cared for his son. Really, who could blame him? For the . . . and then the realization struck . . . the witch had a hand in his birth. She had, if lore was to be believed, made it all possible. How exactly had she done such a thing? All knew well the name she'd called out only two hours prior, Ciroc. All assumed the witch had marked him for death, but what of it? She'd marked countless others and never once cried out their names. Not until now. Did it . . . could it mean something? Was the accusation true?

Even if it were, would not she have reacted to the imminent threat quicker, not slower? What could it all mean? Doubts on all things began to flood their brains. Achon could've explained so very much, but why? He cared for nary a one, nor their thoughts on any matter. His mind slipped free, however, that toying with them was invigorating. So he continued.

"Oh, such little nothings, harboring minds of rot! So little you know! The lot of you . . . deceived! What of a place as this, that truth wholly passed over! Naught but you know it! Reality . . . a myth of unequaled measure! Oh, what tingling joy being so free! Naught but to be so damned! Shion was but a creature of lies! I shall damn you, every one! But naught a lie shall escape these lips! I swear it true!"

A great gasp let forth. The haphazard community that remained upon the beach, no matter what their purpose, began to shudder in earnest. None would move to stop him, however. Most couldn’t care less for little Ciroc and fear of his connection to the witch, though never known or inquired only fed their derision. For it they wished him gone, permanently gone, and some had silently vowed to finish the task if Achon should somehow fail as had Shion. Of those who gave a damn, something deep had seemingly stricken them down and they moved nary a muscle.

After Achon addressed the crowd he took a step further and then another. His purpose may lie in the boy's death, but naught needed doing had Ciroc’s end already come nigh. That and he cared not for spectacle. He required no show of force. He simply wished the task complete, no matter the means. Those who remained of the Council couldn’t but agree, but for a wholly different reason . . . fear. Achon, for what incredulous cause seemingly didn’t know fear, but they . . . they knew it well, far too well. Theirs was not to anger the witch, but rather to end the threat. This could do that . . . maybe. Or it could enrage her. Either way, dying would fail to achieve either goal and that was what awaited them in opposing Achon, but still, as a whole, fear gave them pause.

Achon needed not the Council and as such was not a forgiving man, yet bloody examples did seem to motivate. Without more than a glance backward one of those garbed in yellow gave forth a guttural cry and was then silent, falling forward, lifeless. The gasps from the crowd seemed endless with revelation, and yet at this surprise claimed the remaining seven as well.

Achon had well expected them to fall in line, yet that didn't happen, not so much anyway. A select few had indeed shuffled forward rather quickly, but others remained petrified, moved back a step or broke into full retreat. Why? It was simply because none could know from whence this death had come. Already knowing, or at the least suspecting, Shion had fallen at the witch's mind, how could this not be her yet again? After all, nary a one knew Achon possessed such a power, for he'd hidden it well.

To Achon, himself, it couldn’t have been any simpler. Of such a mind, Shirell had not been the first, nor he assumed would she be the last. Yet he was more than one of her ilk. Far from it, or rather quite nearer, he was her brother. By this same math Ciroc was his nephew, not that he'd given a damn. Ah but he had. He couldn’t have an upstart with the potential to usurp his throne, whether now or years from now. That and the relation meant nothing to him, for all he shared with Shirell was a mother and years of separation, aside from wonders of the mind.

Achon was the younger of the two by a decade. Over the ensuing years, their mother Jinessa, had well seen the horrors wrought upon her daughter and would have no more of it, but then neither would the Council. They'd proved as much by instilling her with the implant. A threat, Shirell had become to them, and they'd not tolerate any more abominations. Yet, for the likes of her, the chicata could not overcome. None knew she'd even been pregnant, as she'd been banished, and in truth she'd never returned, but she'd wished a better life for her little Achon.

As a child of only five, Achon arrived within a tear-hut, upon a secluded part of the island. His mother taught him what she could of Lagoon and even Shirell. Many times she'd admonished him to keep quiet that which she'd already known stirred within him. She'd gone on elsewhere. Achon never knew where or even if she still lived. Not that it mattered. He knew well who was to blame . . . everyone; even the lesser bastards that secretly raised him as their own. For all their “benevolence” they'd seen something far too familiar about him and treated him accordingly.

Down through the many years that followed, he'd paid heed his mother's wishes and kept silent the extent of what he could do, though proudly proclaimed himself ability laden. He'd practiced upon the hapless creatures of the island. He'd honed his abilities and rose well within the ranks of the gifted and finally gained entry into the hallowed Council. There Shion took him under his wing, knowing of his potential for hidden things. Not that he'd ever suspected just where Achon originated, but within the young man a hatred brewed and Shion recognized it as something he could mold into a successor.

Shion had indeed known things of value and taught so very much, but despite it all kept Achon at arm's length with secrets unrevealed. The pupil possessed something resembling respect for the high elder, but that faded with a growing anger. Though Shion was well practiced in the art of blocking all unwanted mental intrusions, he'd never seen anyone of Achon's ability. As the pupil began to pry open his mind for these secrets, Shion’s limitations were revealed, but being far from inept, the master knew from whence the intrusion began. For it a certain curiosity spawned; something of de je vu.

Despite this, Shion never rejected Achon, and yet he may as well have. With the lie that his training was complete he'd distanced himself from the younger man. It was rejection of an exacting nature. It could not be anything else. Yet Achon was kept in check by a sliver of guilt; a feeling of betrayal upon his master. Even so, it couldn’t last and eventually he'd begun again to search Shion's mind for the deepest of secrets. It wasn’t so very long ago he'd discovered everything of Shirell and her mother. It wasn’t a far stretch to put two and two together. He'd learned of her exile and who'd given that order . . . Shion.

Revenge was well in order and Achon wasn’t too powerless to exact it. Regardless of all he’d learned from Shion, near to a father figure, he had to fall, both from power and that of life. It was a coincidence of the highest caliber his sister beat him to it. Regardless, there was no gratitude, but rather a deepening hatred . . . Shirell had stolen away his kill. Now, though, now a distinct form of revenge had presented itself in Ciroc. He would die and then his mother after him. Then he'd bend Lagoon and all its inhabitants to his twisted will.

So his entourage ran, he'd no need of them, but an example must be made. One by one more men in yellow fell; starting with the one's who'd attempted to retreat. In all four more had fallen, a total of five, and all that remained of the Council, not including Achon himself, were three. These had stepped forward instead of away and Rethon was amongst them, for he'd not sought freedom from escape, but rather facing and ending the threat at hand. Achon worried not of such things, but neither did he possess knowledge of such intent. So little was his respect for a one of them he'd not considered their minds worth the effort of rummaging through. Even so, there was naught that Rethon could do against such odds.

Seemingly the crowd gave forth a gasp anew with every death. At the events, some even soiled themselves, though they barely took notice. For it many remained petrified, but some had the nerve to run, thinking this was ever the witch and she was only ending those whom had ill intent towards her son. How that wasn’t them, they failed to guess, but they'd not marched in with that purpose and would not, especially now, even imagine laying a hand upon Ciroc. Their only hope was that he’d die without further assistance.

In a rage, Achon began to drop these fleeing villagers as well, and yet only two fell before a sudden and undeniable weakness overtook him. Little doubt remained his prowess in the art of death surpassed that of his sister, but neither was he unshakable. Training or not, his mind was overwrought and he found himself falling to his knees, drained nearly to his core. It was a crucial error he'd never experienced, nor considered. Truly, he'd thought himself invincible. He was not.

Little passed by as time was generally known. Every minute, every second, slowed indefinitely, but only for Achon. A rather unfamiliar ache spawned from the recesses of his mind and slithered out to paralyze his very bones. He was indeed falling, and uncontrollably so, but he'd never wholly reached the sand, not intact anyway. Somehow he found his head went missing and of that he no longer cared as the light of the twin suns quickly dimmed to nothing.

Rethon stood over Achon, with sword in hand, a relic from the temple, but no less effective for its age. Ever had it been the practice of the Council to accomplish all things via the mind, but in the urgency of the moment he'd slipped the dusty treasure away and hidden it within layers of his robe. None thought to peruse his mind for such an item, but then none thought to peruse his mind for anything. Rarely was he the focus of anyone, especially not Achon, and that was his downfall.

As such all stood stunned, witnessing yet another expanding patch of crimson; one which none could now say they regretted. Yet they did. Until a moment ago some believed Achon to be their savior, at least from that of the witch. Others still thought this was her work, as was the practice for all blame, regardless of source, to fall squarely upon her ghostly shoulders, and that they were now forever damned. None would be able to convince them otherwise. Those yet to choose a side hardly noticed and paid no more heed to the dying boy.

A select few, however, never took their eyes off him, nor had their tears ceased to fall. Not that was, till now. Incredulously, the ragged flesh of Ciroc's hand had begun to knit itself back together.