Path of the Forsaken Sigil

Chapter 9

The air in the dusty attic grew so cold that Bruce could see his own breath. It came out in small puffs of gray ash. 

A dozen blades made of solid darkness floated in the air. They pointed directly at the throat of Mike, the Head Assassin of the Iron-Heart Clan. The man known as the Ghost of the Iron-Heart was no longer acting like a ghost. He looked like a trapped rat. 

Mike pressed his back against the heavy wooden door of the attic. His black mask covered his mouth and nose, but his dark eyes were wide with pure panic. For his entire life, Mike had been the predator. He was the man who hid in the shadows. He was the man who made people disappear. But right now, the shadows did not belong to him. They belonged to the boy he had just tried to kill.

"This is not possible," Mike whispered. His voice was shaking. "You are just a boy. You have no training. You have no magic."

Bruce stood in the center of the room. He did not look like a servant anymore. His thin shoulders were straight. His dark hair blew in an invisible wind. His eyes burned with a bright, silver fire. 

Behind him, the Ashen Seraph towered in the room. The giant, six-winged angel of ashes and bones filled the attic with its dark majesty. The Seraph did not move to attack. It simply watched. It knew that its master did not need help anymore. 

"You are right, Mike," Bruce said. His voice was calm. It was too calm. It sounded like the quiet moment right before a terrible storm. "I have no magic of my own. But you were kind enough to give me yours."

Bruce looked down at his own right hand. He could still feel the cold, oily energy of Mike’s "Shadow-Stitch" magic pulsing under his skin. The Brand of the Void on his right shoulder was glowing with a bright, fierce light. For nineteen years, the clan had told Bruce that the brand was a curse. They said it sealed his soul so he could never use magic. 

But they were wrong. The brand was not a closed door. It was an open mouth. It was a hunger that could eat other people's magic. 

"Stay back!" Mike yelled. 

The assassin moved his hands fast. He was a master of his craft, and he was not going to give up without a fight. He flicked his wrists again. Three small, silver throwing knives flew from his sleeves. They moved incredibly fast, aimed right at Bruce’s eyes and heart. 

Bruce did not blink. He did not even lift his sword. 

He just thought the word: “Stop.”

The shadows on the floor jumped up like a wall of dark water. The three silver knives hit the shadows and stopped dead in the air. They hung there for a second, caught in the thick darkness, and then fell to the wooden floor with a quiet clatter. 

Mike gasped. He reached into his pockets to grab more weapons, but Bruce was tired of playing games. 

"My turn," Bruce said gently. 

Bruce raised his hand and pointed his fingers at Mike. He used the very same magic that he had just absorbed from the assassin. But he did not use it like a human. He used it with the raw, terrifying power of the Ashen Seraph backing him up. 

Shoom.

The shadows in the room exploded into action. They did not form thin, silver wires like Mike’s magic. They formed thick, black spikes of solid dark energy. The spikes shot across the room faster than an arrow. 

"No!" Mike screamed. He tried to jump to the side. He tried to melt into the darkness and use his assassin skills to escape. 

But there was nowhere to hide. The darkness was Bruce's weapon now. 

Four thick shadow-spikes slammed into Mike. They did not pierce his skin, but they pierced his clothing and his own shadow on the wall behind him. One spike pinned his right shoulder. Another pinned his left shoulder. Two more spikes pinned his legs. 

The force of the magic lifted the master assassin completely off his feet. Mike slammed hard against the heavy oak door. The heavy spikes of darkness pinned him high up on the wood, leaving his boots dangling a foot above the floor. 

He looked like a macabre butterfly pinned to a board. 

"Let me go!" Mike roared. He struggled and kicked. He pulled at the dark spikes with his hands, trying to free himself. But the shadows were as hard as iron. The more he pulled, the tighter they held him. The dark spikes hissed, burning his black leather gloves with cold fire. 

Bruce began to walk forward. He walked very slowly. His bare feet made no sound on the wooden floor. 

Every time Bruce took a step, the temperature in the room dropped. A thin layer of white frost began to form on the walls and the windows. The Ashen Seraph followed right behind him, its massive wings dragging along the floor, leaving a trail of gray ash. 

Mike stopped struggling. He looked at the boy walking toward him, and for the first time in his cold, cruel life, the assassin felt pure, freezing terror. 

"Bruce, please," Mike begged. His voice cracked. The confident killer was gone. Now, he was just a scared man pinned to a door. "Listen to me. I was just following orders. I am a tool. Lady Hestia pays me. The Elders tell me what to do. It was not my idea to hurt you!"