A Fateful Choice

Sunday was a day of rest for most people in Manurhin, but not for the children of commoners. Sunday was the one day a week children were excused from work to attend the duke-sponsored school. Pacifica, whether she was in the proper state of mind to go or not, had a responsibility to show up.

“Hi, Pacifica,” chimed a pretty classmate, strolling into the classroom.

She had long, dark hair, tied back with a white ribbon; she brushed a stray strand behind her ear as she walked alongside Pacifica.

Pacifica didn’t bother looking up from the paper in her hand. “Hi,” she replied absently as she slumped deeper into her chair.

The classmate stopped. “Pacifica?” she asked as she bent down to get Pacifica’s attention. “Something wrong?”

Pacifica folded the sheet and glanced up. The classmate was Miyutia Wesson, Pacifica’s deskmate and her best friend at school—and possibly anywhere.

“Is it because of your father?” Miyutia asked.

“No. Er, well…” Pacifica frowned, then lowered her head onto her desk. “There’s that, too.” Pacifica kept her face buried in her arms for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Miyutia,” she ventured at last. “If I told you I wasn’t really Pacifica Casull, what would you do?”

“Huh?”

Pacifica peeked over her forearm. “Y’know—if I told you I was a… princess or something.”

Miyutia went silent for a moment. She gave her friend a skeptical look.

“Well,” Miyutia answered slowly, “I guess I would tell you to find some professional help for that broken brain of yours.”

Pacifica scowled. “Some friend you are.”

“I’m trying really hard to not laugh at you. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Miyutia!”

Miyutia held out her hands in defeat. “Fine, fine,” she said with a smile, swishing into her seat and patting Pacifica on the arm. “I’m sorry. So what’s really bothering you? Something in your father’s will about your adoption?”

Pacifica frowned again. “Yeah.”

“Come on, Pacifica. You always knew you were adopted, why get upset about it now?”

“It’s not that. It’s just…” True, the fact that she’d been adopted—something obvious to anyone who saw her siblings’ dark complexions next to Pacifica’s blonde hair and blue eyes—had never really troubled Pacifica. She was as much a part of the Casull family as she could be, and that was that.

Pacifica rested her head on her arms. “Since yesterday,” she began, “Shannon and Raquel have been acting kinda weird.”

“Well, yeah. Your father died, and they have to take over the family business.”

“I know that. But it’s more than that.”

Miyutia snapped her fingers. She smiled broadly at Pacifica, tapping her troubled friend right between the eyes. “I get it;” Miyutia declared. “You just miss the attention.”

Pacifica blinked. “Huh?”

“Your brother and sister are busy and you’re lonely. My little brother Andy’s the same way—when he doesn’t get constant attention, he sulks like a kicked kitten.” She smiled. “You’re doing the exact same thing, Pacifica. It’s actually kinda cute.’”

Pacifica’s jaw dropped. “Hey!” she cried. “What’s that supposed t-t-to… ? ”

“Ha! You’re stuttering—that means I’m right!”

Red in the face, Pacifica pushed herself up from her desk. “All right,” she snapped, cracking her knuckles. “That’s it!”

Miyutia threw up her hands in mock terror. “Help!” she cried. “I’m totally scared of Pacifica!”

The other students watched with mild, bored expressions. This wasn’t the first time the two girls had caused a ruckus before class.

Unfortunately, it was at that moment that the teacher walked in. “Pacifica!” she barked, slamming her paperwork on her desk. “Miyutia! If it’s all right with you two, I’d like to teach something today.”

The students snickered as Pacifica dropped back into her seat and Miyutia folded her hands in her lap.

“Yes’m,” the girls chimed in unison.

Harlington Road stretched out under a clear blue sky, its surrounding farmland picked clean by the recent wheat harvest. Harlington was one of seven main roads of Manurhin; to the north it led to a hilly area owned by Duke Franki (and technically off-limits to the public.) Unofficially, however, the locals enjoyed the land, as it was neither fenced in nor guarded—testament, perhaps, of the duke’s generous attitude toward the populace.

Shannon walked up the road, complaining to his sister. “ ‘Sneaking’ generally involves the cover of darkness, and a Sunday afternoon has little-to-no darkness.”

“This is more practical,” Raquel explained. “We can’t leave Pacifica home by herself at night, but she’s safe in school at the moment. And what does the time of day matter? We’re invisible now.”

Which, indeed, they were. Any passerby would have witnessed their conversation as dialogue between two disembodied voices—a possible catalyst for cardiac arrest.

“I know that.” Shannon paused. “I just thought this sort of operation would be more… thrilling.”

“This way is easier. Don’t you like to be at ease?”

Shannon threw out his invisible hands. “Right,” he said quickly. “Forget what I said. I want this the easy way.”

The spell that masked the siblings was the military magic illusion technique Utgard, a spell that enveloped the conjurer in a 360-degree illusion to allow him or her to blend in with any surroundings. Raquel used Utgard in its most basic form; a sorcerer could also combine the technique with more magic to actually appear as someone else.

If an Utgard spell was generated with too much force, the wall of illusion could block the conjurer’s view of the outside world—in other words, a sorcerer had to use the right amount of energy to allow outside light to penetrate the cloak of illusion, while simultaneously keeping light from leaking out. The technique operated on the same principles as a glass window that reflected images. Consequently, the technique’s weakness was that the illusion could have visible spots if the conjurer was hit with bright light at the wrong angle, or passed between two areas of different light intensities. Raquel needed to stay focused.

Using the spell at all made Shannon uncomfortable. “This still doesn’t feel right,” he murmured. “Stealth needs ducking, alertness, panic—that sort of thing. I’m worried the spell’s going to make me lazy and cause a stupid mistake.”

“You worry too much,” Raquel said.

“And you don’t worry enough.” Shannon crossed his arms. “Considering we shared our mother’s womb for so long, you’d think we’d have more in common.”

“That would be boring.”

But safer, Shannon thought. Raquel could be unpredictable; he was never completely sure what she was thinking.

A child passing by stopped and gaped, certain that he’d heard voices. But only two things met his bewildered eyes: the wide road and the painfully bland country scenery.

“Think about it,” Raquel went on. “Imagine spending every day with someone who was exactly like you. After a while, it would get depressing.”

“I guess, but—”

“You can learn new and exciting things from people who have different opinions.”

Shannon paused for a moment. Raquel’s voice was as relaxed as it usually was, free of pretensions but very self-assured. He liked that about her.

“You know what?” he said at last.

“Hm?”

“Sometimes you… inspire me.”

“Do I really?”

Although Shannon couldn’t see her, he still felt her smile.

Time to change the subject.

“Anyway,” Shannon said with a cough. “We should, uh, be close to Franki Manor by now. Be sure to stay sharp.”

“Sharp it is,” Raquel chimed, her voice warm.

You’re the Scrapped Princess. Those were the last words in Yuma’s letter to Pacifica.

He’d outlined (earlier in the note) that Pacifica’s older siblings could be pestered for more information, but the several times Pacifica had gone to Shannon and Raquel, the siblings had simply changed the subject and left Pacifica in the dark.

Pacifica slumped back in her chair and ignored her teacher’s droning voice; she had far more important things to think about. The girl took a mental inventory. Everyone had heard of the Scrapped Princess… but beyond the name, legends and rumors came in all the colors of the rainbow.

The most common elements of the Scrapped Princess tale were the following:

Long, long ago, Queen Elmyr of the Linevan Kingdom gave birth to fraternal twins, a boy and a girl. The 5111^th Oracle of Saint Grendel declared the infant girl evil, so the Court had her killed and then pretended she’d never existed. The End.

Less common embellishments included the rumor that the princess was the incarnation of a mighty demon that had fought Mauser in the Battle of Creation, or that the priests who had heard the Scrapped Princess prophecy had been killed. Of course, it was also said by some that the princess was covered with scales and had deathly stinky feet.

I really don’t like that last one, Pacifica thought with a scowl. It was stupid to assume such a thing before smelling the feet in question.

All in all, Pacifica wasn’t too worked up over a fifteen-year-old prophecy. After all, the 5111^th Oracle of Saint Grendel would have been before Pacifica’s birth, and every mention of the Scrapped Princess had been stricken from public record. All that remained were rumors, and who could really worry about rumors?

On the other hand, devout Mauserists considered the name “Scrapped Princess” blasphemous, and even a fair number of non-Mauserists believed that the Scrapped Princess really had been the incarnation of a demon. After all, in the five thousand-plus years since the first Oracle of Saint Grendel, she was the only person a prophecy had specifically ordered exterminated.

“Great,” Pacifica murmured under her breath. “I wish I’d never found Father’s letter.”

The teacher’s voice jolted her out of her daydream. “Pacifica Casull, I asked you to read the next part.”

Pacifica nearly jumped out of her chair. “Er, yes!” she called as she quickly flipped through her book.

“Chapter four,” Miyutia whispered from across the aisle. “Fifth paragraph.”

Pacifica shot Miyutia a grateful glance before reading from her textbook in a fairly steady voice.

In the Linevan Kingdom, the duke of a city or province normally resided in a castle built at the territory’s most strategically important location, in order to protect the nobility in times of war. But for Manurhin—a rural, walled city, almost certain to never see battle—a fortress was almost amusingly superfluous. The castle of Manurhin, used by the duke’s predecessors, had been abandoned when Duke Franki took power. He instead resided in a modest manor on a hill, set apart from the local council’s administrative hall.

A particularly odious guest, sitting in said manor’s simple reception room, looked disdainfully around him.

“This place is pretty plain,” he pointed out. “It might suit a dying old man, but not the intrepid Duke Franki, former commander of the Royal Third Western Brigade Road Blockers.” As if he found something amusing, the man snickered, causing his corpulent form to jiggle a bit. The edges of his mouth stretched into a sneer as his repulsive tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

“What is it that you want?” Duke Franki asked from the other side of the table. Behind the duke stood his female attendant, her body stationary as a rock. “Mister… ‘Big Shot,’ did you say? You came to my home unannounced—was it only to besmirch the good name of Franki Manor?”

“There’s no need to be angry,” Big Shot assured him insincerely. “Forgive my bad manners. I was educated at Wildy’s; I didn’t have time to learn etiquette there.” He shrugged his shoulders. He thought the gesture looked regal, but the effect was simply crude.

A silent companion sat beside Big Shot, his tall, thin build in stark contrast to the portly slob’s. The other man seemed roughly in his late thirties, with long, dark, disheveled hair and hollow eyes. He looked gravely ill, both physically and mentally. He’d made no attempt to remove the dark red cloak from his shoulders.

“I wanted to ask you about something I’ve been looking into,” Big Shot told the duke. “About six days ago, a man died, as you know.” Big Shot cast a knowing glance upward.

Duke Franki and the woman remained silent, their expressions betraying nothing.

“I think his name was Yuma Casull,” Big Shot added. “He was a foul old man of about fifty. Did you know him?”

Another pause. “He was an acquaintance,” Duke Franki murmured at last, suspicion lining his voice.

Big Shot licked his lips again and leaned forward against the table. “And just where did he pick up his… skills, might I ask?”

The duke narrowed his eyes. “So it was you,” he growled. “His body bore several blade wounds. We told the public his death was accidental, but he was very obviously murdered.”

Big Shot smiled calmly, a hint of pride in his eyes. “Observant of you, Your Grace. I had a group of experienced killers with me, but he felled seven of them without breaking a sweat. He was more than just a weapons dealer, that’s for sure.”

“And why do you feel the need to ask questions about the dead? ”

Big Shot grinned. “I just want to know who I killed. Out of respect, you could say. But honestly, Your Grace, the job was suspicious in the first place. Three million cetme to kill one kid, on the condition I don’t ask questions ? ”

Big Shot stretched his mouth into a weak, ugly smile. “I can pin someone as Court material from the way they talk. And the brat’s father turns out to be a master swordsman. I had two combat sorcerers with me, but he still managed to kill everyone, except for us two.” Big Shot gestured to the man sitting beside him.

“Your suspicions are of no concern to me,” the duke said flatly. “I am under no obligation to reveal anything to the likes of you.”

“I thought you might say that. So I have a proposition, Your Grace.” Big Shot’s beady eyes squinted with mischief. “Tell me what I want to know, and we’ll exterminate the girl and leave town immediately. Otherwise…” He shrugged slightly. “We might have to start knocking off some law-abiding taxpayers.”

The duke’s attendant took an abrupt step forward, her right hand sliding into a pocket under her cloak. The man sitting beside Big Shot jumped up and reached both hands behind his hips.

“Stand down, Finebell,” Duke Franki commanded.

Finebell hesitated slightly before complying with her master’s command. She looked less than pleased at having to do so.

Big Shot glanced up at his companion. “Easy, Sinner,” he said carefully. Although Big Shot was clearly not in charge of the taller man, Sinner nonetheless sat back down in his chair.

Big Shot let out a breath. “Fine,” he said, tiredly waving a hand. “I take back what I said. Your lady friend here seems pretty formidable, and we already have a good idea who the snotnose-in-question is. Sinner may not look it, but he’s good at detective work.”

Big Shot pulled a bundle of papers from his pocket. Both the duke and Finebell noticed the dark red stain on one end; it wasn’t hard to guess what Big Shot meant by “detective work.”

“Yuma Casull’s youngest daughter…” Big Shot raised an eyebrow, “she wouldn’t happen to be the Scrapped Princess, would she?”

Duke Franki remained silent, so Finebell answered for him.

“The Scrapped Princess is a myth,” she said evenly. “If she ever existed at all, she died fourteen years ago.”

Big Shot’s eyes darkened, and his lips curled into a sneer. “Thanks for the recitation,” he growled. “But I wasn’t talking to you, girlie—I was talking to your master.”

“You will not speak to my attendant that way,” interrupted the duke as his hand flashed toward Finebell. He held down her left hand, which gripped what looked like the handle of a bladed weapon.

Big Shot let out a breath. “Sorry,” he said without a hint of sincerity.

“I’ve nothing more to say to you. Leave here at once.”

Big Shot stood. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he drawled as he gave a dramatic bow. Sinner floated up from his chair like a weightless specter.

“Let’s go, Sinner—it looks like we’re no longer welcome. And the young lady won’t drop her rude scowl.” Big Shot nodded at the duke. “Thanks for your time, Duke Franki. I hope nothing messy has to happen between us.”

With that, the two men turned and left the room. Duke Franki and Finebell kept their eyes fixed on the killers until a servant closed the door.

The object of her hatred gone, Finebell released the grip on her weapon and visibly calmed. “What are you going to do?” she asked quietly of her duke.

“There’s nothing to do, I’m afraid.” Duke Franki shook his head. “We’ve seen nothing and we know nothing.”

“Your Grace?”

“It’s unfortunate for Yuma’s children, but I don’t regard the Oracle of Saint Grendel as lightly as Yuma did. Cutting short the life of a child, as regrettable as that is, is nothing compared to what could happen if the events of the prophecy come to pass.”

Finebell let the matter drop. Duke Franki was, after all, the ruler of Manurhin, and with that authority came an obligation to protect the people—even if it meant taking actions that went against his own conscience. If he could save two townspeople by allowing one to die, he would unflinchingly order that single death and take full responsibility for it. It was that strength of will that Finebell admired most about the man.

A knock came at the door. “Enter,” said the duke.

The door opened slightly, and the duke’s steward— a middle-aged man, who managed the duke’s other servants—poked his head in. He was the kind of professional who would treat a multi-headed monster with the utmost courtesy, if that monster were a guest of the house.

“Your Grace,” he called calmly, “we have apprehended two intruders.”

Duke Franki furrowed his eyebrows. “Intruders?” he repeated.

“How many times do we have to go through this before you learn, Raquel?!”

“I’m sorry,” Raquel replied. “Are you mad?”

“I’m not mad, just try thinking before you act.”

Shannon’s body was bound from neck to ankles with an almost ridiculous amount of rope. Raquel lay beside him, her body similarly cocooned in restraints. The trussed-up siblings were sprawled uncomfortably in the middle of the duke’s courtyard.

“But Shannon,” Raquel argued with the barest tinge of a whine, “I generated the Utgard spell in all four directions—front, back, left, and right. I was thinking, honest.”

Shannon sighed. “Not about the top.”

A properly executed Utgard spell hid the caster from all angles, but she’d forgotten about the bird’s eye view. Raquel had never been formally trained as a sorcerer— most of the spells she knew had been pieced together from her mother’s notes.

Although she was stringent about testing her spells to make sure they worked, the fact that she was self-taught meant there was always the risk of her overlooking something.

Shannon shifted his tired gaze from Raquel to the four young women in front of him. Each wore a white bonnet, a frilly apron, and a blue dress… as well as a long sword at the waist.

Raquel and Shannon had been full of confidence earlier that afternoon. Then, while striding fearlessly into Franki Manor, they’d been spotted by a maid hanging sheets on a second-story balcony.

“I see you’ve discovered that my maids also serve as guards,” called a voice. Shannon and Raquel craned their necks to see Duke Franki and Finebell, their steps matching as they entered the manor’s courtyard.

Shannon dropped his gaze. “Uh, thanks for coming yesterday,” he mumbled.

“Of course,” the duke replied graciously, out of habit. A moment later he remembered to whom he spoke.

“ ‘Thanks’?” he repeated sharply. “Don’t be glib with me, boy. I’ll not tolerate such insolence from someone caught sneaking into my home.”

“Humility was never my strong point,” Shannon admitted with (predictably) little humility.

Duke Franki glared at his two captives. “What exactly were you trying to do here? You could have forced your way past my guards—why did you surrender so easily?”

Shannon decided against answering. Both he and Raquel knew how to size up an opponent—a skill taught by their father—and from their analysis of the situation, they could have beaten the maids. But the four women weren’t so incapable that the siblings could disarm them without injuring them, and Duke Franki hadn’t yet proven himself an enemy. They chose surrender over the possibility of harming innocents.

“You two certainly are daring,” the duke said. “As one would expect of Yuma’s children. But I demand an answer: why did you come here?”

The duke held out a hand, palm-up. Finebell removed a knife from her cloak and placed it in the duke’s hand. Shannon recognized the knife as a custom-made stiletto—a weapon designed for stabbing, often favored by assassins.

The duke stepped toward the bound pair. Shannon flinched as the blade approached his prone body.

In one swift motion, the duke cut through the ropes binding Shannon. As Duke Franki moved to free Raquel, Shannon shrugged off the ropes and got to his feet; the tips of four swords immediately came to rest a hair’s breadth away from his neck.

Shannon raised his hands. “I won’t try anything.”

Duke Franki nodded at the maids. The young women promptly whisked their weapons back into their scabbards.

“I just wanted to ask you a few things,” Shannon told the duke as he worked the kinks out of his neck.

Duke Franki helped Raquel shake off her ropes and glanced up at Shannon. “You wish to continue our conversation about your father, I assume.”

Shannon nodded. “Father was… murdered, wasn’t he? ”

The duke sighed. “I knew you would find out eventually,” he murmured. “I take it he left some sort of will? ”

“A dirty one, yes.” Shannon rolled his eyes.

The duke half-smiled in sympathy and motioned toward the manor.

“Why don’t we continue this discussion inside?” he offered. “I’ll have the servants make tea.”

Mrs. Ze, Pacifica’s third-period math teacher, rapped her pointer loudly against the chalkboard.

“Pacifica!” she snapped. “Would you please pay attention? ”

Pacifica didn’t seem to hear her. The preoccupied girl continued to stare out the window.

For a moment, Mrs. Ze felt her blood boil, but she forced herself to remain calm, since, as a schoolteacher, she’d long ago learned the virtue of patience.

Mrs. Ze had always thought of Pacifica as one of the most polite and well-behaved of her thirty-odd students; the girl had never once ignored her or acted in such a contrary manner until today. Of course, Mrs. Ze reminded herself, the girl’s father died six days ago. Concluding that Pacifica was still grieving in her own way, Mrs. Ze let the matter slide.

Pacifica murmured something under her breath. Mrs. Ze only heard something along the lines of “Shannon and Raquel,” so she ignored it and turned back to her chalkboard.

“As I was saying—”

“Missus Ze!” Pacifica chose that moment to shoot her hand into the air.

Mrs. Ze swallowed hard to suppress her aggravation. “Yes, Pacifica?” she answered as pleasantly as she could manage.

“I feel really bad, so I’m going home. Okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Pacifica stuffed her books into her school bag and walked briskly out of the classroom. The class, along with a confused Mrs. Ze, could only watch the girl go in stunned silence.

Mrs. Ze cleared her throat. She was the sort of woman who would normally drag a fleeing student back to class, but a fleeing, mourning student? In addition, she didn’t want to interrupt her lecture—the parents were already complaining about how far behind the official lesson plan she was.

The teacher sighed in resignation and turned back to the board. “Right, as I was saying…”

After leaving Franki Manor, Big Shot and Sinner proceeded to the east side of town, where Pacifica’s school stood. The two had made themselves very familiar with the route she took to and from home.

“Let’s see,” Big Shot mused as he pulled a map of Manurhin from his bundle of papers. “She’ll pass through a relatively deserted area right here,” he poked a thick finger at the map, “beyond this group of houses. No one will see anything there.”

“We’re going to take her alive?” Sinner asked. His voice, when he used it, was soft and ominous.

Indeed, the two professionals didn’t need an out-of-the-way place to kill a single girl. They could dispatch her and make it look like an accident in a crowd if necessary.

“That brat is too valuable to kill,” Big Shot answered with a sly grin. “She has to be the Scrapped Princess—even her age is right. The royal family would be scandalized if the public ever learned she’s alive, and I’m sure they’ll pay through the nose for our silence.”

He licked his thin lips. “I also hear that a group of army officers and high-ranking bureaucrats are hatching a plot to take over the kingdom and make the royal family nothing but figureheads. I’m sure those bastards would pay even more for the girl.”

“They’ll kill the girl and us,” Sinner warned.

“Don’t worry so much.” Big Shot rolled up the map. “We just need to play our cards right.”

“You mean to betray our client.”

“What do you care?” Big Shot asked with a snort. “Don’t you need the money for dear Lynthia’s—”

Big Shot suddenly leapt to the side, barely avoiding a silver flash that sliced through the spot where he’d been standing. He caught only a fleeting glimpse of the steel blade as Sinner returned it to its scabbard.

“Don’t you ever speak my daughter’s name again,” Sinner hissed through clenched teeth.

Big Shot held up his hands. “N-Now, now,” he said as cold sweat leaked through his pores. “There’s no need to get testy.” He knew the sword stroke hadn’t meant to kill, but there had been genuine rage behind it. And Big Shot had once seen Sinner dismember a man for telling a crude joke about sweet little Lynthia.

Big Shot cleared his throat. “Just hear me out,” he explained. “You, er, need the money, and it won’t be cheap to hire—five, was it?—five sorcerers. And Grade 1 sorcerers; those bastards cost an arm and a leg.”

Sinner glared at him with clouded eyes. Anyone could see the dangerously twisted mind lurking behind those eyes.

Big Shot smiled. “Of course, considering what great friends we are, I’ll gladly act as one of those sorcerers, but that still leaves four. Four Grade 1 sorcerers to perform that kind of operation in secret. You’re talking a million cetme apiece. Even without sharing our three million with those morons who got themselves killed, you still won’t have anywhere near enough.”

Despite the “friends” comment, Big Shot’s sneering tone betrayed his true feelings for Sinner (or lack thereof). To Big Shot, other people existed only for him to use, and he knew he could get Sinner to do anything just by invoking Lynthia’s cause.

“Besides,” Big Shot added with a greasy smirk, “you can never have too much money, right?”

But Sinner’s attention was elsewhere. “Big Shot,” he murmured. “Be quiet and look.”

Big Shot turned to follow Sinner’s steely black gaze. His own eyes widened.

The blonde hair tied neatly back… The petite frame… The shining blue eyes, like shimmering pieces of perfect sky.

The girl who marched down the other side of the street was unmistakably Pacifica Casull. Big Shot and Sinner had stalked her for quite some time—the action had alerted Yuma to their presence and cost them their allies in the first place.

“What’s she doing here now?” Big Shot breathed out. “This couldn’t be a trap, could it?”

“There’s no sign of a lookout or bodyguard.” Sinner’s eyes darted up and down the street.

Big Shot swallowed. “All right,” he whispered. “Then let’s get moving. We can hide behind those houses over there.”

“Good.”

The two men changed direction and headed toward their target. Pacifica, determination thinning the pretty line of her mouth, continued to stride confidently toward her home.

“Was someone just here?” Raquel asked.

The duke, taking his seat across the table from the siblings, furrowed his brow. The maids had departed at his signal, leaving Finebell to silently prepare the tea (and guard Duke Franki, of course).

“How did you know that?”

“The air’s a little warm,” Raquel explained. “An empty room is cold in the winter, but less so when people stay in it.”

“Impressive.” The duke fixed his eyes on Raquel and her brother. “I did have other guests. They left just before you arrived.” He paused for a moment, returning to his original train of thought. “Regardless, you wanted to talk about your father?”

Shannon and Raquel nodded.

“Forgive me for being blunt, but there’s no way for me to soften this blow.” Duke Franki took a breath. “Yes, your father was murdered. The man who did it was a professional killer who calls himself Big Shot. He and his companion sat in this very room a few moments ago.”

Shannon’s expression hardened into one of cold fury. Without a word he shot up and bunched his fists, his eyes burning with a murderous rage.

“What?” he hissed.

Raquel, still in her chair, rested a hand on her brother’s arm. She led him back down to his seat.

“Duke Franki,” Raquel said in a tone that lacked her usual cheeriness. “Does that mean you’re on the same side as those killers?”

Duke Franki kept his eyes locked with Raquel’s for a moment, then sighed and looked away.

“You may not believe me,” he murmured, “but no. I did, however, receive a letter ten days ago—a letter bearing the official seal of the Royal Chamberlain, and one that even the two killers know nothing about. It instructed me to not hinder those men in any way.”

Raquel sat in stunned silence. Shannon simply continued to glare daggers.

“What I’m about to tell you I learned from my own personal sources, so you need not believe it all. But will you at least stay and listen? Your sister is safe at school—I doubt those men would attempt to force their way into such a place.”

Raquel thought for a moment, then nodded. The duke folded his hands on the table.

“Approximately one month ago, a lady of the Court was investigated by palace officials for stealing money from the royal treasury to pay off her husband’s debts. Soon after her arrest, the Jade Squadron conducted an interrogation, using mind-scanning sorcery to gain evidence of the crime. While searching her memories, however, they happened upon one that shook the foundations of our entire world.”

The duke paused. “Fourteen years ago,” he said slowly, “this lady of the Court was instructed by the queen to transfer an infant girl out of the palace and into the arms of a waiting couple. But this was no ordinary infant—she was the queen’s newly born daughter, a princess.”

“The Scrapped Princess,” Raquel offered.

The duke nodded. “The uncovering of this secret triggered a series of punishments throughout the palace. After all, the official records state that the infant princess was killed long ago by the palace guards—the Anvar Knights—and that the Jade Squadron burned the body to ashes, sealed it in an urn, and cast it into the Valley of Glass.”

The cruelty of the execution slowed the duke’s words. Even mass-murderers weren’t disposed of in such a manner.

“When this woman’s memories revealed that the Scrapped Princess had actually lived, everyone who had overseen her death was punished in secrecy, including the leaders of the Anvar Knights and the Jade Squadron. Some were merely dismissed from the Court; others were stripped of their titles and executed. Altogether, over sixty people were punished because of the scandal.

“Needless to say, the head conspirator, Queen Elmyr, couldn’t be put to death. She’s been confined to a home on the palace grounds under the terms of house arrest. Furthermore, the Royal Chamberlain has decided to have the central figure in the whole affair—the princess— assassinated before the matter becomes public.”

The duke at last went silent. Raquel, one hand still gently gripping Shannon’s elbow, cleared her throat. “Duke Franki,” she asked, “did you know about this all along?”

The duke scowled bitterly. “I have seen nothing and heard nothing,” he said mockingly. Then his expression softened slightly.

“Such ignorance was necessary to allow your family to settle in this city. As a member of the aristocracy of the Linevan Kingdom, I couldn’t knowingly help anyone harboring the Scrapped Princess… but your father saved my life back in my Road Blocker days, so I accepted Pacifica’s forged residency records as my way of returning the favor.”

Raquel glanced at her brother. They’d both just heard the duke admit to treason.

“To be honest,” the duke said evenly, “I’m not as skeptical as your parents were about the Oracle of Saint Grendel. History shows that the predictions have been wrong only twice. Twice, out of more than five thousand prophecies. That translates into almost infallible accuracy.”

Every year, the prophecy of Saint Grendel was revealed at Saint Grendel’s Cathedral, the main center of the kingdom’s official Mauserism faith. Five priests entered five special chambers to hear the Holy Words spoken by the god Mauser, though no one—not even the High Priest himself—knew how or from where the Holy Words were transmitted. Of course, the “words” of Mauser were completely unlike those spoken by man.

The Holy Words were implanted into the priests’ minds simultaneously, and these priests, also known as oracles, translated the Holy Words into human speech. After receiving said Holy Words, the oracles conferred in a separate room to decide on a single version to present to the public.

The ceremony occurred every year without change until the 5111^th Oracle of Saint Grendel. For the first time in recorded history, the priests failed to emerge from the chambers at the appointed time and the crowd that had gathered was forced to wait. When the screaming began, and the five doors opened to reveal their dying occupants, the priests barely managed to deliver the prophecy:

The infant girl must be destroyed. Of the twin children whom the queen shall bear, thou shalt kill the female. Ten and six years from the day of her birth she will bring forth the Day of Destiny and destroy the world; she will demolish order and usher in chaos. She is evil. Thou shalt destroy her.

Naturally, the palace was thrown into pandemonium, and a fierce debate erupted over the veracity of the prophecy. King Balterik Linevan and his wife, the newly pregnant Queen Elmyr, resisted violently. It was the first time in history that the prophecy had ever ordered the people to do something—some opposed the Oracle on the basis of its unique nature, whereas others claimed the order was proof of a grave danger facing the world.

Nevertheless, the prophecies had proven themselves true too many times for anyone to ignore. Before the palace could agree on an official course of action, Queen Elmyr gave birth to twins—a boy and a girl, just as the Oracle had predicted.

The birth of twins was considered reason enough to believe the prophecy. Before the baby girl could be named or even held once by her father, she was supposedly destroyed.

The incident was erased from all official records, and the public was told that the queen gave birth to a single child, Prince Forcis. Even the prophecy itself was rewritten to sound innocuous. Rumors, of course, still persisted and spread, and the legend of the tragic Scrapped Princess became a staple throughout the kingdom.

“I do pity your sister,” the duke admitted as he took a cup of tea from Finebell. “But in view of the prophecies’ proven accuracy, I cannot blame those who wish her dead. That’s why I’ve decided to remain neutral in the matter.”

“Of course,” Shannon said through clenched teeth as he rose to his feet. “Thank you… for… the information.”

He made for the door. Raquel got up to follow, but the duke stopped them with a question. “Do you realize the future you’ve chosen for yourselves? ”

Shannon didn’t bother turning. “Excuse me?” he asked darkly.

“You still have another option—you can leave Pacifica to her fate.”

Shannon looked over his shoulder, his eyes glittering with fury. “You want me to…” He trailed off, ground his teeth, and tried again. “You want me to let those bastards kill my little sister?”

“She’s not your real sister.” The duke’s voice quieted a bit as he said, “You and Raquel are about to throw away your lives for her, and your only rewards will be misfortune and death. The palace will pursue her relentlessly. The Oracle will prove true when the very existence of your sister results in the deaths of many—hired killers, you, even innocent civilians. Do you honestly think Pacifica will be happy, surrounded by the corpses of those who died so she could live?”

Shannon and Raquel said nothing.

A hesitant look flashed across Duke Franki’s face, as if guilt momentarily gripped him. “If Pacifica Casull dies,” he murmured, “the entire problem will be settled.”

Shannon couldn’t take it. He spun around and rushed at the duke, his sword ripped out of his sheath before he took the first step.

“Finebell!” Duke Franki commanded. “Stop!”

Finebell froze, her raised stiletto—aimed at Shannon—poised in her ready hand. Raquel stood a short distance away, her palm pointed directly at the woman. It was clear what would happen if Finebell interfered.

Shannon crossed the room in three quick strides and pushed his blade against the duke’s neck. “What kind of a man are you?” Shannon hissed.

Duke Franki stared directly into Shannon’s hate-filled eyes. “If mankind could live according to ideals,” he said flatly, “there would be no wars. Children would not starve, and the old would die with dignity. But we don’t live in a perfect world—we’re constantly forced to make choices, sometimes between evils. So, I ask you again, Shannon Casull, is what you are about to do worth the harm it may cause?”

Shannon spat on the floor. “Worth isn’t the point.”

“It’s precisely the point.”

“You son of a—”

Shannon was interrupted by rapid footsteps from the hallway. The commotion had apparently alerted the guards.

“Shannon!” Raquel shouted as she ran for a nearby wall. Shannon deliberated a moment, his shaking blade still kissing the duke’s skin, before finally pulling back. He sprinted to Raquel’s side just as she finished chanting a spell.

“Power of Gungnir, release!”

A shockwave spell burst from Raquel’s palms, punching a hole in the wall. The Gungnir spell, a Class 1 attack, was designed to destroy any defense—or in Raquel’s case, any wall that stood between her and freedom.

In the ensuing cloud of dust, Raquel and Shannon ducked through the hole and ran outside.

“Thanks for the tea!” Raquel called over her shoulder as she and her brother fled.

A group of armed servants poured into the room.

They were led by the duke’s steward. All members of the duke’s staff had at least some weapons training, and roughly half of them were ex-soldiers who had served under the man in the Road Blockers.

“They’re getting away!” the steward barked. “Altair, Batille, deploy to the right! Colleen, Deliah, go left, down the passageway! Everyone else—”

“Let them go,” the duke ordered.

The servants all stopped what they were doing, while Duke Franki watched the fleeing siblings shrink into the distance.

“But, Your Grace—”

“I was once young and reckless, too,” the duke said listlessly. “Although I paid a heavy price for that.”

The steward, Finebell, and the older servants lowered their eyes. They knew to what the duke referred.

“They’re capable of accepting the consequences of their actions. Let them do as they wish. Besides, I don’t want you getting hurt. They’re the children of Yuma and Carol Casull, after all.”

Duke Franki slowly stood. As he looked around the room, his gaze fell on the damaged wall.

His mouth curved into a frown. “Reckless indeed,” he muttered. “I rather liked that wall.”