The forgotten memories

The fight began—and ended—in the span of a heartbeat.
Marionette’s strings shot forward, dancing like serpents, puppets lunging with silent shrieks. Beauty from the East vanished, reappearing behind her with hands poised to snap the strings. Lover from Hell stepped forward, blade drawn but untouched—his mere presence already slicing the will to resist.
Jack of No Trade didn’t even rise from his perch.
“She’s done already,” he said. “No fun at all.”
The red threads fell limp.
Marionette dropped to her knees, porcelain legs buckling beneath her. The cracks on her face widened, but no pain escaped her lips. Just a still, empty expression. Hollow.
Lover from Hell raised his sword—one clean sweep would end her.
“Wait—” she whispered.
The blade stopped.
The Hidden Warrior froze mid-step, back still turned.
It wasn’t the word that stopped him. It was the voice.
Soft. Melodic. Sweet, but not perfect. It trembled slightly—an unnatural sound coming from something meant to be emotionless.
“You used to sit in the second row,” she said quietly, “right hand always clenched when I danced.”
Lover’s blade lowered an inch.
Beauty from the East tilted her head.
Jack’s smile faded into stillness.
The Hidden Warrior turned.
The flames on his head flickered violently. For the first time in years, they dimmed.
“...That voice…” he muttered, almost to himself.
He stepped forward slowly. His tall, monstrous form cast a long shadow over the broken Marionette. His decaying hand twitched. He didn't draw his spear.
He knelt.
Looked at her face—not the cracks, not the threads, not the pale, soulless eyes. But something behind it.
A memory.
The sound of violin strings. The creak of wooden seats. Laughter of a younger boy—his laughter. A spotlight on a performer in white gloves and a stitched smile, dancing silently for those who had nothing else to smile for.
“You’re…” he choked, voice rasping, “the performer.”
She didn’t nod. Just watched.
“But I watched you burn,” he said.
Her lips curled. Not into a smile. Just the hint of one.
“Not everything that burns… dies.”
The others said nothing. For once, even Jack remained respectfully silent.
The moment stretched long.
And then, without a word, the Hidden Warrior stood up.
“We leave,” Lover from Hell said.
They obeyed.
And as they vanished into smoke and shadow, Marionette remained on her knees. Cracked, limp, but not broken. Her head tilted up to the sky—where memories still flickered, faint, but never forgotten.