The End of the Days of Innocence

The blazing orange globe of the sun barely peeked over the horizon. A young woman, still in bed, let out a lazy groan and blinked open her sky-blue eyes.

“Nn.”

Unlike her older brother and sister—both with low blood pressure—she didn’t require a wake-up call in the morning. Instead, she jumped out of bed to shake the sleepiness out of her, plopped down on the stool in front of her sister’s hand-me-down vanity, and snatched up a comb. Still yawning, she brushed out her long blonde hair and started braiding it in a careful, practiced manner.

The girl was in her early teens, with a pretty face and a developing but graceful figure. Although there was something endearing and almost kitten-esque about her appearance, her mannerisms suggested a catlike daring and slyness. Everyone had seemingly contradictory qualities; in her case, the contradictions appeared just a little sharper. Almost to prove this point, she daintily stroked her braids, then changed from her nightgown into brown work-clothes that looked about as feminine as an anvil.

She smiled at herself in the mirror and slapped both palms against her cheeks. “Right!” she cried, dropping to the floor. She began some sort of bizarre stretching routine in a slow awkward manner, like someone imitating a dance they’d seen. She continued until she cried out in pain and grabbed her cramped leg.

Hobbling slightly as she got to her feet, she puffed up her cheeks and exhaled sharply. She curled up one side of her mouth (to her it was a tough-looking grin) and sneered, “Desert Eagle, say your prayers.”

And with that, Pacifica Casull, the youngest daughter in the Casull family, strode out of her room.

The walled city of Manurhin hemmed the western frontier of the Linevan Kingdom, a monarchal nation in the Dustbin Continent. While Manurhin was officially considered a city, in reality it was little more than a small country town with a barricade and a man named Luigis Franki serving as the duke of the city.

Thanks to the benevolent rule of Duke Franki, living standards in Manurhin were high (despite the backwater nature of the city), but Manurhin was best known as a stopover spot for self-proclaimed adventurers—rogues and scoundrels hoping to strike it rich in the vast expanse of unexplored territory beyond the city. Manurhin had the same sorts of things found everywhere, but, unbeknownst to most, it did have something unique.

At the far edge of Manurhin’s commercial district stood a simple two-story brick building, uncommon for a city where exceptionally cheap land had pushed multiple-story homes out of style. The building, labeled with a crudely chiseled sign that read: Casull Weapons Shop, served as store, warehouse, and home to Yuma Casull and his three children. Behind the building lay a huge yard, complete with garden and small pond; Yuma Casull believed in self-sufficiency, and thus grew vegetables in his garden, raised fish in his pond, and had a dozen or so chickens running around in his yard.

As the early morning sun bathed the town in its soft light, a young man looked around the store and sleepily scratched his head. His handsome face, featuring an elegantly shaped nose, was offset by a constant, grumpy squint that hid his black eyes. That and his stooped posture combined to create a world-weary look that somehow suited him more than the youthful vibrancy normally expected of a twenty-year-old. Straightening the collar of his nightshirt, he walked through the dimly lit shop.

“Pacifica!” he called, brushing hair off his shoulder. His long, disheveled mane had been hastily tied into a ponytail. “Hey, Pacifica!”

The room the young man searched contained a wide variety of merchandise in addition to the advertised weapons: hunting gear, carpentry tools, household goods, and a rack of vegetables stocked by the family’s personal garden. Above the vegetables hung a message board used by adventurers. It bore notes ranging from the generic “Companion Wanted!” to the somewhat shady “Treasure Map for Sale!” (Either because of the owner’s broad interests or simple good policy, the store sold any merchandise that would fit through its doors.)

The vegetables on display, however, had all wilted, and the most recent message on the board was more than ten days old. The stale air inside the store suggested that the place hadn’t been open for business in several days.

“Pacifica!” the young man shouted again, to no reply. He was Shannon Casull, eldest son of the Casull family, and he made no attempt to hide his annoyance. Changing his strategy, he began looking in closets and under counters.

“Where are you?” he murmured as he peered into some boxes. He tentatively opened a drawer.

“I don’t see how she could be hiding in there,” came a voice from the back of the store. “Maybe she’s in the garden?”

Shannon glanced up. His older sister, Raquel, descended the stairs in a pink nightgown.

She resembled Shannon in looks and general physique, but she emanated a youthful and infectious happiness. Her nightgown had an embroidered cat on one lapel, and she wore a nightcap with a furry white ball on top—uncommon attire for someone her age, but it somehow suited her. Her pretty features were soft and relaxed, and unlike Shannon, her calm wasn’t restricted to the short moments after waking up in the morning.

“In the garden?” Shannon repeated. “This early?”

“The matches. You know.”

“She’s been fighting with Desert Eagle?”

The two paused to yawn. Neither of them was a morning person.

Shannon rubbed his eyes. “She never learns,” he snapped as he swept past Raquel. “Fine. I’ll go get her.”

Raquel gave a floppy wave. “Be careful,” she warned halfheartedly as he disappeared out the back door.

All living things fought for survival. Every creature took life; it was an unavoidable sin. A struggle simply for power, rather than survival, might have been ultimately meaningless, but only a fool who didn’t see the world as it truly was sought to avoid all battles. The strong lived on—to be alive was to already be at war.

Now my brain’s ready, Pacifica thought as she spread her feet. Time for battle.

Pacifica’s father had taught her the art of mentally preparing for combat. As she summoned her courage for the fight, she bent her legs and balled her fists under her chin.

The girl was nearly equal in ability to her opponent, but she’d suffered the humiliation of seven consecutive defeats due to her impatient and unsuccessful first strikes. She knew that the battle wouldn’t last more than an instant—it never did—and that whoever struck first would lose. The enemy, perhaps sensing the intensity of Pacifica’s fighting spirit, made no unnecessary movement and merely fixed cold eyes on her.

Just then, Shannon’s sleepy voice rang through the yard. “Pacifica!”

His voice shattered the tension. Pacifica attacked.

“Aaaiiiyaaaa!”

“Grrraawww!”

Pacifica explosively launched her secret attack technique: the Killer Hurricane Special Number Two. (She’d come up with the name herself, but hadn’t yet decided what it meant.) The enemy responded with a brutal jumping kick, also meant to end the brawl immediately. The combatants collided with a violent impact.

For an instant, the two warriors stood back to back, frozen in the last stances of their respective attacks… and then Pacifica made a low, pained groan and fell over with a thud. She writhed on the ground, a distinct red mark on her cheek branding her with defeat.

“I lost again,” she moaned.

“Good effort,” her brother offered as he looked down at her. Pacifica responded with a malevolent glare.

“A defeated warrior needs no praise!” she snapped.

“You should take any praise you can get.” Shannon raised his eyes from the crawling Pacifica to the creature that had defeated her. “You must be the only person in the world who would risk life and limb for an omelet.”

Desert Eagle clucked contemptuously. The brute of a chicken was no ordinary fowl. Desert Eagle was notorious throughout the neighborhood for stopping short only at murder to protect her eggs. She’d permanently traumatized a number of trespassing animals.

Tears of frustration welled up in Pacifica’s eyes. “But Desert Eagle’s eggs are the best!” she complained. “They give me the strength of ten men!”

“But are they worth dying for?” Shannon watched the hen strut back to her eggs with an almost regal air.

Pacifica clenched her fists and glared at the winter sky. “I’ll show that bird who’s boss tomorrow,” she vowed. “Just watch me—I’ll do it!”

“Right.” Shannon bent over to give his sister a hand up. “Just call it quits for today, would you? I need some help.”

Pacifica took the offered hand. “Help?” she repeated meekly. She knew what he needed, but she’d been dreading it for days.

Shannon sighed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I can’t do the funeral by myself.”

A crowd of townspeople watched as flames slowly engulfed the wooden coffin. The cremation was all there was to the funeral—no ceremony, no priest reciting prayers, nothing religious in the slightest. The fire reached farther and farther skyward, scattering sparks into the atmosphere before eventually fading. Perhaps comparing the flames to the transient nature of life was overly sentimental, but such were Shannon’s thoughts as he silently watched his father’s body turn to ash.

The simplicity of it all had been Yuma Casull’s wish. In the Linevan Kingdom, a funeral normally included ceremonies prescribed by the official Mauser faith. But Shannon’s father had wanted no such thing, for some reason.

His eyes fixed on the embers, Shannon called out softly to Pacifica. “Hey.”

“What?” she replied as she rubbed her nose along her sleeve. Her mourning clothes didn’t fit her very well.

“It’s… it’s okay to cry.”

“Father said he didn’t want anything depressing at his funeral,” she murmured. “Don’t worry about me.” Besides, she almost added. I’ve already cried enough. She and Shannon both knew that.

“It’s weird, though,” she admitted quietly. “I feel… different from how I thought I would.”

The last of the coffin and its contents dissipated into dust and smoke, giving the funeral a simple and quiet ending, typical of Yuma’s native land. The crowd began to disperse.

Judging from the turnout, Yuma Casull had been widely loved and respected—neighbors, friends, and even adventurers and peddlers passing through had gathered in the town square for his cremation. Yuma’s children were surprised at the large number in attendance, but one guest in particular was most unexpected.

“Is that the duke?” asked a voice in the crowd.

Shannon turned to see a figure at the edge of the square. It was a man around fifty years of age, with a stern, dignified face and quiet eyes. He was dressed in black mourning clothes similar to those worn by everyone else, but even the simplicity of his garb couldn’t hide his stateliness and elegance. A black-clothed woman stood in silent attendance beside him.

Shannon knew the man from official events in town: Luigis Franki, Duke of Manurhin. Shannon found himself wondering what “difficulties” of the aristocratic lifestyle had given the duke his worry lines. Like his father, Shannon had an irreverent attitude toward people of status.

Shannon and Raquel glanced at each other. They knew the duke’s reputation for being a kind and benevolent ruler, but why would a nobleman personally attend the funeral of a commoner?

Duke Franki slowly walked over to the Casull siblings and a very confused-looking Pacifica. Even she knew that an aristocrat venturing outdoors normally brought several imposing bodyguards, but the small woman with the duke didn’t look like a bodyguard at all. Her age was difficult to guess, but she seemed to be in her mid-twenties, with flaxen hair, cut short as a young boy’s, and cold detachment written across her sharp features.

Shannon noticed that her upper body didn’t move much when she walked, which meant one thing: she knew how to fight.

“You are the family of Yuma Casull?” the woman asked with crisp politeness. Her mouth smiled, but her gray eyes did not. “As I’m sure you know, this is the duke of Manurhin, His Grace Luigis Franki.”

The three siblings dropped to one knee in deference. The duke waved them up and smiled, the sternness in his face suddenly melting away.

“Let’s omit the formalities, my dear,” he told his attendant. “I’m here unannounced. I knew your father personally,” the duke explained, his voice quieting. “I’ve come to pay my respects—not as Duke, but as an acquaintance.”

Pacifica’s eyes widened. Father knew the duke? “Thank you, Your Grace,” Shannon replied evenly.

Neither his words nor his tone betrayed his inner trepidation. “I’m sure Father would have been pleased.”

“Yes.” The duke cleared his throat, then went on in a friendly but careful tone. “And, ah, what are your plans at this point?”

“Plans?” Shannon glanced at his sisters. “We haven’t talked about that yet, but I suppose I’ll take over Father’s store.”

“I see.” The duke lowered his gaze. When he looked back up at the siblings, he spoke rather abruptly. “And did your father leave a will?”

Shannon’s eyebrows furrowed. “Well… Father died suddenly, in an accident.” Shannon had been told so by the City Guard; he hadn’t actually seen his father die.

“Of course, but your father was a man who planned ahead. Widower that he was, I assume he left some sort of written instructions for his children in the event of some misfortune.”

The siblings looked confused, so the duke quickly held out his hands. “Although it’s none of my business,” he added. “I just thought that perhaps he… left a message for me.”

The black-clad attendant inserted herself between the duke and the siblings, cutting off the conservation.

“Your Grace,” she said briskly. “You must be going. Important duties await.”

The duke let out a breath. “Is it that late already?” he murmured. “Well, then, I must take my leave.”

The duke turned on his heels and walked smartly away, his attendant in perfect lockstep. Shannon almost called after them, but decided against it.

The man was a duke; no matter how puzzled, Shannon was in no position to question Duke Franki’s curiosity.

Pacifica voiced her siblings’ silent concerns. “Weird,” she muttered. “What was that all about?”

As the old expression went: “A crowd is the best place to hide.” A heavy, middle-aged man proved the cliche to be true as he stood among the mourners, his tongue darting in and out to moisten his reptilian-like lips.

“Is that the duke?” he grunted.

Wesson, the local carpenter, stood directly in front of the man. He turned to face him. “Excuse me?”

“The duke.” The man pointed. “Look.”

Wesson’s gaze followed the stout finger. “That’s him,” he agreed, returning his eyes to the stranger. Foreigners and passing adventurers weren’t unusual in Manurhin, so the fact that the heavy man wasn’t a local—or that he had slicked reddish hair, oily skin, and dirty clothes—didn’t draw much attention.

“And who would’ve thought?” Wesson commented. “The duke himself, coming to Yuma Casull’s funeral.”

“Was Mister Casull an important man?”

“No, he just owned a small weapons shop. The adventurers took a liking to him.” Wesson paused. “On the other hand,” he added, “Yuma never talked about what he did before he came to town. And he was an odd one, not unlike how the duke is a bit eccentric. Maybe that’s why they got along.”

“That so?” The stranger nodded intently, like an investigator taking down new information.

“Sure. Any particular reason you’re asking about Yuma?”

“We had some dealings together once,” the stranger said with a shrug. “I’m just, y’know… curious.”

The man excused himself from Wesson and squeezed his way out of the throng of mourners. When he was far enough away from the mob, his thin, wet lips distorted into a sly grin.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Maybe I should pay a visit to the good duke.”

Someone who wanted to lose himself in a crowd was often deceptive or troubled. Or, in those rare cases… were planning a professional murder.

“Getting rid of the girl will be child’s play,” the man said to himself, snickering at his own pun. “But I’ve lost seven men already. I think the deal needs a little sweetening.”

The rotund man wrapped his drab olive cloak more tightly around his girth as he exited the city square. “I wonder,” he mused under his breath. “What’s Sinner up to today?”

A slightly off-key note sprung from the plucked string, reverberating softly in the still, quiet room before fading into silence.

Shannon frowned. “That didn’t sound good,” he murmured as he reassessed his lute. He took a tuning fork from the case and tapped it against his leg, then started tightening and adjusting the strings.

Shannon knew that he had more important things to do than play his old lute, but with the funeral over, he felt like taking some time for himself for a change. His sisters had set out to go through their father’s old belongings; never very good at organizing things, Shannon had retreated to keep from getting in the way. Besides, the chore made Shannon uncomfortable—he felt that clearing out his father’s possessions was like trying to rid the house of every trace of the man’s existence.

“I guess women are more practical,” he mumbled to himself.

Alone in his sparse room (contrary to Raquel’s chambers, which were bursting with books and knick-knacks), Shannon realized, not for the first time, that the place could even strike him as unwelcoming. He also realized how long it had been since he’d last played his lute.

When his mother had first taught him the instrument, he’d become absorbed in singing and playing music and had even considered performing. A scowl crossed his face as he thought of how unadventurous he’d become.

Of course, for the past several years, his father’s rigorous fencing lessons had left Shannon little time for any other pursuits.

It wasn’t that Shannon disliked fencing, but his father’s obsession with swordsmanship had always been puzzling. Yuma had never volunteered any kind of explanation.

And now I can’t ask him anymore, Shannon thought.

A knock came at the door. “I’m coming in,” said a soft voice.

Shannon looked up. Raquel entered the room, her sleeves rolled up and her long, black hair in a ponytail. She was definitely in organization-mode.

“I found something,” Raquel explained as she drew an envelope from her pocket. It was a plain envelope with a broken seal, but Shannon could immediately guess its contents.

“Father’s will?” he asked flatly.

“Mm.” Raquel handed the letter to her brother. With furrowed eyebrows, Shannon slid the letter out of its confines. It had to be a will… but why had a man in the prime of his life written such a thing?

Was he expecting to die suddenly?

“Duke Franki was right,” Shannon murmured, recalling the duke’s nervous curiosity. “And you noticed the wound on Father’s back?”

Raquel nodded. “It was from a knife. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

It had been the sort of small wound that a less observant person could miss, but not the Casull siblings. Their father had drilled Shannon in martial arts and Raquel in dagger self-defense; the training had included how to treat blade injuries. Both of them recognized the type of wound they’d found on their father’s lower back.

Yuma’s dead body had been discovered by the City Guard. In most small towns, a citizen’s patrol kept the peace, but Manurhin had its own City Guard despite its small population.

The unit of professional protectors reported only to Duke Franki—in other words, the duke was in a perfect position to suppress any clues the guards had discovered about Yuma’s death.

“Some accident,” Shannon growled. “That bastard is hiding something.”

Shannon unfolded the letter, crammed with his father’s familiar handwriting. He began to read aloud:

My dear Raquel and Shannon,

Now that I’ve died, I have an important mission for the two of you.

Shannon looked up at his sister. “Important mission? ” he repeated.

Your mother and I gave you life for this very day. You know, I took your mother in my arms, one thing led to the next, and pretty soon your mother was saying, ‘Oh, stop! No, you brute, no! Oh, my, what’s that feeling? Oh, oh, YES! DON’T STOP!’ You know.

Shannon groaned and slumped over the table. “Father was always joking around,” Raquel said with a sniff, wiping at her moist eyes.

“Hilarious.” Shannon continued to read. As his gaze moved over the handwritten lines, his eyebrows began to rise.

Fourteen years earlier, Yuma Nambu Casull and his wife Carol Casull had been asked by “a friend” to take care of an infant that they named Pacifica. Shannon and Raquel already knew that part of the story, as did Pacifica herself; although they’d been young at the time, Shannon and his sister could remember the day their mother and father had brought the swaddled newborn home.

What Shannon and Raquel didn’t know—until their father’s will explained it—was that this “friend” was Queen Elmyr, ruler of the Kingdom of Linevan.

Shannon looked up abruptly. “Does this mean,” he breathed, “that Pacifica… is the Scrapped Princess?”

Raquel answered in a flat tone, “That’s exactly what it means.”

The very name “Scrapped Princess” was considered blasphemous throughout the kingdom. Although no one dared whisper it in public, deep in the memories of the Linevan people lived the legend of the infant princess who had vanished, without a trace, at her birth. The rumors about her varied, but almost every one agreed that she’d been killed as an infant.

Shannon quickly went back to the letter.

Since I assume that something happened to me, you must protect Pacifica until the day she turns sixteen—the Day of Destiny. I know it’s not an easy job, and I know that your late mother and I weren’t perfect parents… but consider this the first and only favor we ever ask of you.

Shannon squinted skeptically. His father had often asked for “first and only favors.”

P.S. The royal family doesn’t know that Pacifica is still alive. If they ever find out, they’re sure to send assassins—lots of them. And those bastards from the Church of Mauser will send their own hired killers, too. Just do your best. In the meantime, your mother and I will be spending our time in the afterlife “getting it on,” as the kids these days say. Ha ha ha!

“Father,” Shannon moaned, massaging his temple. “How the hell can you just spring something like this on us?!”

“Oh, Father.” Raquel wept.

Shannon glared at her for a moment, then was overcome with the sudden realization that his being completely unemotional might actually be a bad thing. He wasn’t an unfeeling monster, after all.

Regardless, he continued to complain. “I mean, I know this is serious… but this is so like him, getting others to finish what he started. Like how he left us in a mountain of debt! Why do I have to get stuck with all—?”

A sudden noise interrupted Shannon and caused both siblings to turn abruptly toward the door.

Pacifica leaned against the doorframe, her shoulders sagging.

Shannon blinked. He was the kind of man who could almost supernaturally detect even the quietest interloper, so why hadn’t he noticed Pacifica until then? I guess that letter jarred me more than I thought.

Pacifica held a piece of paper in her right hand, the shocked look on her face implying that said paper was a separate letter from their father. Pacifica had always known she’d been adopted, but not that she was…

“Pacifica,” Shannon said as calmly as he could. As if drawn by his call, Pacifica managed to take a cautious step toward him.

Shannon thought of a million things he could say to console her, but the jumble of words in his mind faded before he could choose. Nothing he could say would change reality—and the wrong words would only make things worse.

He swallowed. “P-Pacifica…”

Pacifica’s lips parted. She paused a moment, then let out a shrill cry. “That’s Princess Pacifica to you!”

Shannon chastised himself for being foolish enough to worry, even the slightest, about his little sister.

A few moments later, when things had settled, Shannon walked alone into his parents’ former bedroom. Even after ten years, the place still felt exactly the same as when his mother had been alive. Intellectually, Shannon knew there was no reason to keep the room as it was—his parents, obviously, no longer needed a place to sleep—but, emotionally, leaving the place intact allowed the room to serve as a sort of shrine to their memory.

He opened the cabinet doors to reveal several wicker-work boxes. Their faded color showed their age; the fine layer of dust on each lid indicated that the boxes had been untouched for some time, and had somehow escaped Raquel’s cleaning spree.

“Father,” Shannon murmured as he opened the first box, “consider this my inheritance. Or a going-away present—whatever sounds better to you.”

His fingers brushed over the dust, and for a moment he was reminded of his own mortality.

Dull-colored armor and gear rested in the boxes, packed with almost ceremonial care. The supplies were evidence of what the husband and wife had been, long before they became shopkeepers. Perhaps a lingering fondness for that lost life had moved the Casulls to keep the strange items for so long.

Shannon unearthed hardened leather armor and related gear, several knives and daggers, gloves and boots reinforced with metal rods, and utility belts for carrying various weapons and equipment. Unfortunately, there were no signs of the most important items: swords, spears, and hatchets. Had his parents disposed of them, or were the weapons stored elsewhere?

“Whatever.” Shannon sighed. “I can get some decent weapons from the warehouse, I guess.” He began to place pieces of armor out on the floor, then suddenly stopped in surprise.

Before him rested a complete set of Brigadier Model Zero multipurpose hardened leather armor. Having helped out his father for so long, Shannon knew a lot about arms and armor, but he’d never actually seen a Brigadier Model Zero before. The style had first been adopted by the Linevan Kingdom in Continental Year 5110 for its most elite troops, and although the armor looked simple, it was incredibly intricate in design. But the fact that it took more than ten times longer to craft than ordinary armor led to the Brigadier Model Zero’s quick discontinuation.

“I could sell this and buy ten sets of new armor,” Shannon contemplated aloud, thinking, quite naturally, like the son of a weapons dealer. An insignia embossed in one of the shoulder pads caught his eye.

The Valkyrie.

“Father was in the Mortal Storm?” Shannon shook his head. “That explains his giant arms.” Shannon knew only bits and pieces of his foreign father’s past, mostly because his father had never liked taking about it.

“And did you know that Mother was a member of the Jade Squadron?”

Shannon had already sensed Raquel’s presence behind him and answered without turning, “I had no idea they were such elite soldiers, back in their day.”

A bittersweet smile on her face, Raquel knelt beside her brother and opened another box. Its contents included a green robe, various accessories, and daggers. The robe was embroidered with intricate patterns and the words Jade Squadron across the breast.

Shannon knew the Jade Squadron was comprised of the palace sorcerers, the most proficient practitioners of magic in the kingdom. Both Shannon and Raquel had learned the basics of magic from their mother, although Shannon had shown a complete lack of aptitude and had stopped his lessons without mastering a single technique.

“I know how you feel,” Raquel said quietly. “They acted so silly around us.” She ran her fingers across the embroidery. “She was ranked ninth in the squadron.”

Shannon frowned. “I don’t know. After seeing all this gear… I guess what Father wrote about the Scrapped Princess is true.”

Raquel turned to her brother with an incredulous glare. “You thought Father was lying?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve fallen for one of Father’s pranks? Unlike you, I only believe what I see.” He scratched the back of his neck. “All of a sudden, I hear that my sister’s some long-lost princess, that her life’s in danger, and that I’ve been promoted to assassin-killing duty. I think I’ve earned my grain of salt, thanks.”

Shannon paused. “Anyway,” he said after a moment, “do you think Duke Franki knows about this?”

“I don’t know. But like you said, he seems to know something.”

“Maybe we should pay him a visit.”

“No, no.” Raquel pursed her lips disapprovingly. “We can’t just waltz in and ask for an audience with the duke. Besides, he’s obviously hiding something, so why would he tell us what he knows?”

“I wasn’t talking about the front door, Raquel,” Shannon explained dryly. “I was planning on doing some sneaking.”

Raquel stared at her brother for a moment, surprised, then broke into a wide smile. She ruffled his hair. “You look just like Father when you talk like that,” she said fondly.

“Do me a favor and never say that again.”