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I was about to submerge myself back into the darkness
when I heard the sound of tiny gliding feet. It was an
altogether different sound than the relentless clunking of the
mercenaries, and it came from the spot where the Missing
Child had been blown from the world. Within moments, I
was treated to a wonderful sight.
Out of the still-lingering smoke of the murder elemental’s
demise, there spilled a multitude of pale children, all of
whom moved swiftly despite appearing quite dead. At least
fifty of the little things darted into the shadows as quickly
as hummingbirds. When they had all been thoroughly
absorbed into the smoke and fire and darkness, I could hear
the screams of the troops rip through the smoky air. I was
delighted to see that the Prince of Smoke wasn’t the only
creature capable of magic tricks—it seemed that the Missing
Child was a master mystifier, on par with the best magic
makers.
My amusement at the proceedings died quickly and
horribly, when from behind me there came a chorus of
familiar voices. I turned around to find a gang of dead
children standing upon a pile of rubble, glaring at me. I
knew each one of their names.
All save one fell silent. Her name was Lilly. “Look, it’s
little Vincent, all grown up! We all had such a good time
playing that day in the park, didn’t we, Vincent? That is, until
you turned us over to that awful father of yours. He put us
in cages for months. He used our blood to make his paints,
Vincent. Did you know what he’d do to us? Did it make you
happy to see us slowly killed? Why didn’t you try to stop
him? Why didn’t you let us out of our cages, Vincent? Why
did you let us die?”
Their questions sent me tumbling into yet another terrible
memory.

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