A Tomb for the Lost Princess

Pacifica sighed and crossed her arms. “Great,” she snapped. “Now what?”

After reaching her home, she’d come to discover that Shannon and Raquel were out. She had no idea where they were.

“What’s the point in getting out of school early if I just sit here, waiting?” she complained aloud. Pacifica had the unfortunate habit of acting without thinking, and she was once again paying for it. She irritably brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear and stepped out onto the front lawn.

Before her squatted her arch nemesis.

“Desert Eagle?” she asked the hen. “Do you know where Shannon and Raquel went?”

Of course, the bird didn’t answer. She just glared at Pacifica with her sinister little eyes.

Pacifica glared back. “Don’t give me that look,” she warned. “You’ve got a lot of attitude for a bird with just one talent. Why don’t you do us all a favor and lay your stupid eggs?”

Pacifica turned her attention from the chicken to her empty home. “Whatever,” she huffed. “I’ll just… go for a walk, I guess.”

Having decided on her thoroughly unproductive course of action, Pacifica made her way to the back gate and swung it open. She had just closed it behind her when a voice called out.

“Hey, Pacifica!”

Pacifica looked over her shoulder. A middle-aged man of average height and weight trotted up to her, his steps quick and his face anxious.

Pacifica recognized him—-he was Miyutia’s father, Dan Wesson. Pacifica knew him from the many times he had brought his carpentry tools to the shop for repairs.

But something wasn’t right. “Mister Wesson?” Pacifica asked, squinting her eyes. “Are you okay? Your voice sounds funny.”

Wesson blinked. “Oh,” he said quickly. “I, uh… I have a cold.” He cleared his throat.

“That’s too bad—you should stay home and get some rest.”

“I wish I could, but I’m just so busy. Oh, and I’m sorry about your father.”

Pacifica looked away. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’m doing a lot better now.” Her father’s death still pained her, but the new developments with his letters were distracting her from the grief.

“Aren’t you a tough one? Yep, I suppose we all have to move on eventually.” He glanced at the store. “Do you know what you’re doing with the shop yet?”

Pacifica shrugged. “I guess my big brother’s taking over. But Father always did the inventory by himself, so we haven’t figured everything out yet.”

“I see. Well, I hope you can help me.” Wesson rubbed his chin. “I left a tool here to be repaired, but I’m afraid I need it back as soon as possible. I don’t mind if it’s not fixed yet.”

“Um… I don’t know where anything is in there, and Shannon and Raquel are out.”

“Are they?” Wesson asked as he raised his eyebrows. He gestured somewhere behind him. “I actually saw Shannon on my way here. He looked like he was in a hurry, so I didn’t say hi.”

Pacifica immediately grew interested. “You saw him? Where?”

“He was heading north on Richardson Street.”

Richardson Street had originally been built as the main road to the old Castle Franki. Once a heavily traveled thoroughfare, the street had eventually grown as deserted as the castle.

Pacifica groaned. “Why would he go there? Ugh.” She glanced up at Wesson. “Was my sister with him?”

“I can’t really say. I just caught a glimpse of him from a distance, you know.” Wesson rubbed his chin again. “I mean, I could help you go find him, if that would speed things up a bit.”

“Good idea.” Pacifica quickly locked the gate behind her. “It’s better than just waiting here.”

Wesson smiled, something sinister curling at the edges of his lips. “It is,” he agreed smoothly.

The assassins were somewhere in town. If they were professionals, Shannon and Raquel knew the men would avoid the school because it would be difficult to blend in there. If the palace wanted secrecy, the killers would wait until Pacifica finished her classes.

Unfortunately, she’d left school early today.

“She said she didn’t feel well,” Mrs. Ze explained, suspiciously eyeing the siblings’ outfits. Their cloaks couldn’t hide the combat gear underneath. Shannon’s hardened leather armor, although not as bulky as its metal counterpart, still made him look a few sizes larger, and both he and his sister wore long swords at their waists. If the teacher hadn’t known them, she would have thought them robbers or kidnappers.

“What do you mean she went home?!” Shannon shouted. The muscles in his neck tightened. “When?!”

The teacher shrunk back. “Well… before noon, I think. It wasn’t that long after class started.”

“Thank you,” Raquel said politely.

As Shannon spun to leave, Mrs. Ze called out to Raquel before the girl could follow suit.

“By the way, Miss Casull.” Mrs. Ze crossed her arms. “Pacifica’s scores in math have fallen lately. She needs to complete one unit a day, every day. It’s important for her to hear that from family members.”

Raquel nodded. “I’ll be sure to mention it to her,” she said gravely.

Shannon lost what little patience he had left. “NO PARENT-TEACHER CONFERENCES!” he roared as he gripped the back of Raquel’s neck and physically marched her toward the classroom door. “We’re leaving!”

Mrs. Ze jumped as he slammed the door shut behind them. Muttering to herself about common courtesy, she wondered what could have possibly rubbed Shannon the wrong way.

Pacifica was the one who decided to skip class, she thought ruefully. As if I could chain an orphaned girl to her seat.

Pacifica looked up at the deserted castle. “Ew,” she commented with disgust. “What would Shannon want in a creepy place like this?”

The building was old—almost six hundred years old, according to hearsay. It had been solidly designed and built, but it was choked with vines and the cracked stone walls were covered with moss. The castle, abandoned by the people it had been built to protect, looked and felt as dead as its former occupants.

“He’s not the one who came here for something,” Wesson called from behind.

Puzzled by the mocking tone in Wesson’s voice, Pacifica glanced over her shoulder. The carpenter smiled at her—a threatening, condescending smile.

She blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“I’m the one collecting, sweetheart.” His eyes glittered. “And I’m only interested in you.”

Ice shot through Pacifica’s veins. In an instant, everything became frightening clear.

“N-No,” she breathed as she stumbled back a step. “You’re not… this isn’t…”

Like Shannon, Pacifica didn’t completely believe the story of her origin. After all, she’d always lived the ordinary life of an ordinary shopkeeper’s daughter; who could honestly believe that she was some sort of poison to the world?

But as she stared at the carpenter, his form growing wavy right before her eyes, a horrible lump of sudden fear lodged itself right in her throat.

“M-Mister Wesson?” she croaked.

Wesson vanished completely, only to be replaced by a bigger, corpulent man. It was another use of the Utgard spell.

Big Shot smiled his greasy smile.

“Too naive to mistrust a soul,” he chided with a little shake of his head. “Or was my acting that good? Whatever the case, it’s true what they say—the cuter they are, the dumber they turn out.”

Pacifica swallowed hard and clenched her fists. “Who are you?” she asked as bravely as she could.

Big Shot gave an exaggerated bow. “Big Shot at your service, little one. I’m a professional eliminator, what the common folk call a hired killer.” His lips curled into a smirk. “I offed your daddy, Princess.”

Pacifica went pale. “You… you killed…”

“Well, he did kill seven of my men, so I guess that makes us even. They were expendable, but they still cost me plenty.” Big Shot winked creepily. “Don’t take it so personally. You’re the Scrapped Princess—plenty of people want you dead, so it’s only natural there’d be some casualties of war.”

“No!” Pacifica shouted as she fought the chill overcoming her. “This whole thing is crazy! I didn’t do anything! Why should I have to die?!”

“Unfortunately, my dear, the choice between life and death isn’t always ours.” He shrugged. “My dead companions didn’t want to die. Neither did your father. And as long as you live, people will keep dying—your existence itself is a sin against Mauser.”

Pacifica’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She felt her knees go weak.

Big Shot’s greasy tone turned even greasier. “You’re scared,” he drawled. “I can see that. And who wouldn’t be? I’d be scared if I knew I could cause the deaths of more people I cared about. Like a friend, a loved one…” He raised an eyebrow. “Or a big brother or sister?”

Pacifica forced herself to breathe. People are dying because of me? she managed to think through the whirling fog in her mind. Father was killed… because of me?

Did that mean Miyutia was in danger? Were Shannon and Raquel? The very thought of her friends and family getting hurt for her sake turned Pacifica’s stomach.

“J-Just my being alive is doing this?” she unintentionally asked aloud.

Big Shot took a careful step forward. “That’s right,” he said, egging her on. “You should’ve never been born. You’re the Scrapped Princess, prophesied as the one to destroy the world.”

Pacifica gripped her shaking arms. She hadn’t thought much about the danger of being the Scrapped Princess. After mulling over her origin, she’d come to one conclusion: her parents had still raised her, so things couldn’t be that bad. If the Casulls had loved her, could she really be a curse?

But now her mother and father were gone. Not only that, but they were probably dead because of Pacifica’s very existence. And her brother and sister were in danger.

Pacifica’s fingertips turned white. She couldn’t lose Shannon and Raquel—they were everything to her.

“You can’t go on as Pacifica Casull,” Big Shot warned. “You’re the Scrapped Princess, an abandoned child and a living sin. But I can help you.” His voice, a little gentler now, took on a convincing lilt. “I’ve prepared a vessel to contain you. You’re not going to die in it; it’s just to hold you, since your existence still has a value. And I can help you get revenge against the royal family—the family that abandoned you in the first place.”

Pacifica took another shaky step back. Vessel? she wondered.

“Come on, little princess.” Big Shot, to match her movement, took another step forward. “I just told you I’m not going to kill you, so what are you afraid of? Take my offer while you can. The entire world’s after you, and not everyone’s as sweet as me.”

Pacifica swallowed. To a girl who had been forsaken and left with no future and no hope, Big Shot’s offer sounded almost worth taking. And if he took her away, all the people she loved in Manurhin would be out of danger. And yet… it would mean washing away the past fourteen years of her life. The love her family had shown her, the memories they’d shared… it would all fade away.

“N-No,” Pacifica blurted. She swallowed again, then quickly shook her head. “I-I’m not going.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Pacifica gritted her teeth. She’d been Pacifica Casull her entire life—she’d only been the Scrapped Princess for a day. She wasn’t going to throw everything away yet, whether her fate was sealed or not.

“Get… get away from me, you dirty pig.”

Big Shot sighed. “That’s too bad,” he said with a hum. “Your cooperation would’ve made things easier, but now I’ll have to use a mind-control spell on you.” He raised his hand in Pacifica’s direction. “A very strong one that can never be undone.”

Of the many types of mind-control spells, several were designed to last permanently. Such spells were imprinted onto the victim’s mind, and when such an internalized spell was used on someone who had no natural abilities in sorcery—or hadn’t been trained to defend against subconscious attacks—the spell could fuse with the victim’s mind irreversibly.

In the worst cases, the spirit was destroyed, leaving the victim an empty shell that would only respond to commands.

“Here we go,” Big Shot murmured as his lips curled into a smile.

“No!” Pacifica screamed. She bolted back in the direction of town, hoping to get to where someone could hear her.

But Big Shot was ready. “O Laevatein!” he called. “Wand of Fire, ignite!”

A ball of fire exploded in front of Pacifica, sending the screaming girl hurtling through the air. Big Shot, guessing Pacifica might try to escape, had readied the spell in advance. The thick growth of weeds cushioned Pacifica’s fall, but the impact still knocked the wind out of her. She lay gasping on the ground.

Big Shot licked his lips. “Where do you think you’re going?” he drawled as he advanced slowly, his gloating smile reminiscent of a sadistic predator’s. “The entire world is against you. There’s no one to protect you, no one to take you in. Pacifica Casull has become nothing more than the Scrapped Princess.” He laughed, his fat shaking with the movement. “What a sad story! Ha ha ha!”

Pacifica panted, trying desperately to catch her breath. “Th-that’s what you think,” she hissed as she staggered to her feet. She stumbled in the direction of the castle, one arm wrapped around her stomach.

Big Shot laughed again. “You idiot!” he called after her. “There’s no way out over there! ”

Pacifica knew that. She knew the killer could trap her on the grounds of the abandoned castle, but there was nowhere else to run. And she couldn’t take another moment of Big Shot’s disgusting arrogance.

“Come and get me,” she growled as she fled through the weeds and toward the crumbling fortress.

Sinner dreamed.

His daughter stood before him: sweet, precious Lynthia, the only person in the world who meant anything to him. She smiled at him, her young face radiant with joy. Her flaxen hair—inherited from her father—blew in the breeze, and her mother’s blue eyes sparkled in her lovely face. He reached out to hold his beloved child in his arms.

But before he could touch her, she suddenly vanished. He searched everywhere for her, panicking as he ran through a hostile landscape, but she was nowhere to be found.

He suddenly saw a figure in the far distance. He ran desperately toward it, hoping beyond hope… but it was an adult woman, with sharp blue eyes. Sinner’s traitorous wife. Sinner demanded she bring him to Lynthia, but the woman refused. He drew his sword, and in one smooth motion sliced off her head.

He suddenly noticed a small figure on the ground behind his wife’s corpse. It was his daughter; her hair was stringy and stuck to her forehead, her face deathly pale. Her eyes were closed, as if she slept, but no amount of shaking or yelling could rouse her. He knelt beside her, begging her to speak.

A man appeared. He was dressed as a doctor, and his voice was full of condemnation. “She’s dying, Sinner,” he boomed. “She’s dying because of you!”

Sinner jerked awake. Panting, his eyes flew around to take in his surroundings.

The man lay in a bed in his makeshift room at Castle Franki. He quickly checked to make sure his daughter was safely beside him; she lay there as she had in his dream, pale and thin and sadly unresponsive. Sinner sighed. Passing a hand over her hair, he slowly sat up.

Lynthia had been a lively and energetic child, quick to pout when things didn’t go her way, but faster to smile when life was kind. Sinner had raised her by himself. It had been difficult, but he loved her with all his heart.

For a while, he had loved Lynthia’s beautiful mother, too. But Sinner’s lifestyle had required him to often leave her side, and during his absences her heart began to stray. One day he returned home to find his wife gone. She didn’t leave so much as a note—only their infant daughter.

In a rage, he searched for the woman. It took him only a week to track her down and find her with a younger lover. Enraged at what he saw, he hacked them both to pieces.

He told Lynthia that her mother had died of an illness, hoping to shield the child from the harsh reality of her mother’s betrayal. He raised Lynthia with all the love he had. He would have gladly fought the entire world to protect her… but he couldn’t do battle with a disease, and it was a disease that was taking her away.

She had been only five years old at the onset of her worrisome symptoms. Sinner had brought her to a doctor, and the news had been like a knife to his heart—she was dying, and there was no way to stop it. But Sinner didn’t give up hope. He took her to another doctor, then another, but the answer was always the same. No physician could stop a disease built into her body. She had had it since birth; she had inherited it from her father.

Sinner, of course, was healthy despite the curse. Sometimes he wondered if Lynthia’s illness was punishment for all the murders he’d committed. He screamed at the heavens, begging whatever god or devil might be listening, to let him die in her place. Silence was his only answer.

And yet there was still a shred of hope. In his search for a cure, he had come across a spell that could be used to transfer a personality from one body to another. It had only been performed successfully a few times, and it was strictly forbidden on the continent because of the necessary destruction of the soul residing in the “new” body. But Sinner didn’t care much for rules, nor did he have qualms about killing. He would gladly go to hell if it meant saving his innocent daughter.

Sinner pushed his legs over the side of the bed. Soon he’d have the money to hire the sorcerers, he reminded himself as he slid his feet into his boots. Soon his daughter would open her eyes; soon she would call his name once again.

Sinner stood. He gazed down at the child in his bed, her tiny body very still. He paused, silent, before reaching for his cloak. Soon.

“Where the hell is she?!” Shannon slammed his fist against the side of his house. “Dammit, Pacifica!”

Shannon and Raquel had searched everywhere they could think of, but Pacifica was nowhere to be found. One of the neighbors had seen Pacifica leave the house with a man; unfortunately, this neighbor hadn’t seen whom the man was, or where the two had gone.

“Raquel, what about the Explorer spell?!”

“There’s no way I could pull off a wide-area search spell on my own,” Raquel replied with a shake of her head. She’d already tried every search spell she knew, but she’d had no luck finding Pacifica within their limited ranges. Explorer had a much larger range, but it required two sorcerers: one to cast the base spell, and one to amplify the first sorcerer’s energy. Raquel was quite powerful—as measured by the sorcerer’s capacity index, or SCI, she had three times the magic capability of an average sorcerer—but even with her level of power, there was only so much she could do by herself.

“I could help you,” Shannon suggested.

“A search spell has to be executed with a high degree of precision; you couldn’t manage it. Besides, we’re not even sure anything happened to Pacifica.”

“How can you act so calm?! ” he practically shrieked. “Aren’t you worried?!”

“Of course I’m worried,” Raquel retorted, sounding a little hurt. “That doesn’t make it any less true.”

Shannon sighed. Rubbing his eyes, he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

Raquel watched her brother thoughtfully. “Shannon,” she asked after a moment, “are you thinking about what Duke Franki said? You know, about—”

“Of course not!” He cut her off abruptly. “There’s nothing to think about!”

Shannon honestly hadn’t given the “choice” a second thought since they’d left the duke’s manor. He had to protect Pacifica. It didn’t matter if the world hated him for his decision, or even if it cost him his life. Pacifica was his sister—blood or no—and he wouldn’t abandon her.

He kicked the wall angrily.

“You two seem to have a real problem with violence toward buildings,” a woman’s voice called out.

The siblings turned.

Finebell walked calmly and gracefully through the open back door.

Shannon and Raquel immediately took a step back, shifting into fighting stances.

Finebell shook her head. “I didn’t come here for a battle—I was simply asked to make a delivery.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to Shannon. “It’s a bill for the damage at Franki Manor.”

Shannon stared at the paper like it had sprouted heads. “You’re kidding me!” he screamed. “At a time like this?!”

Finebell ignored his rage and turned to leave. After taking a few steps, she paused to glance back.

“By the way. We heard rumors recently about strange activity at the old Castle Franki, so last night our steward created a surveillance field around the perimeter. A little while ago, it detected three intruders—one of them a teenage girl.”

After saying her piece, Finebell left the house. Raquel and Shannon looked at each other in shock. Shannon ran to follow the duke’s bodyguard, but stopped at the sight of something leaning against the stone wall. It definitely hadn’t been there earlier.

Shannon picked up the item. It was a sword, larger than average and single-bladed; Shannon knew it as a tachi. Tied to the scabbard was a tag with the words IMPORTANT EVIDENCE written next to a stamp of the duke’s seal.

“This… this is Father’s,” Shannon breathed.

It was the sword Yuma had held in his last moments—the sword with which he’d defended his youngest daughter’s life. Gripping the weapon firmly, Shannon ran out onto the road.

“Hey!” he yelled at Finebell’s retreating form. “If you want to return something, do us all a favor and learn to be direct!”

Raquel chuckled. “Oh, Shannon,” she murmured. “If everyone were as direct as you, nobody would hear over the yelling.”

The inside of Castle Franki wasn’t nearly as run-down as its exterior. The building had been made of stone and brick to protect its occupants in times of war, so it had a reassuring sturdiness far beyond that of a house or manor. Of course, the walls were dirty and cracked, and all that remained of its rich furnishings were scraps of wood and fabric strewn across the floor, but its sheer size still conveyed the wealth and power of those who had built it.

“What a fitting place for a Scrapped Princess,” Big Shot called through the dead halls of the castle. His voice echoed so loudly that Pacifica couldn’t tell where it came from.

He probably doesn’t think I stand a chance because I’m a kid, she thought from her hiding spot behind a pillar. She hated to admit it, but the man was right—her father had taught her some basic self-defense techniques, but they would be useless against a hired killer who knew sorcery.

“You’d better take care, Highness,” Big Shot warned. “The castle’s crumbling. You never know when it might fall on you.”

Before the sound of his voice died out, a loud explosion rocked the castle. The deafening reverberation from Big Shot’s attack spell engulfed Pacifica, as chunks of stone rained down from the ceiling. She let out a panicked scream.

Big Shot turned in the sound’s direction.

“Thank you,” he called cheerfully. “Now just stay where you are.”

Pacifica bit her lip and vowed to not repeat her mistake. Swallowing, she crept away from the voice as silently as she could. Another explosion rocked the castle, but she just clenched her fists and fought to keep her balance in the darkness.

Her mind raced. She had to find a way back to town—Big Shot was a professional killer, so he wouldn’t follow her into a crowded place. But how could she get out? All the doors and windows of the castle were boarded up tightly to keep out animals and vagrants. The walls were deteriorating, but not so badly that a petite person like Pacifica could smash through them. She was practically sealed in a giant dungeon.

The only brightness in her world—literally—was the sunlight that leaked through the window slats, providing barely enough light for Pacifica to pick her way through the dark.

I have to hide, she thought. I can wait until he passes me, then run for the front door.

Of course, that particular plan was risky, so she also contemplated just staying out of Big Shot’s reach until Shannon and Raquel came to save her. Shannon and Raquel will come, won’t they?

Pacifica’s heart sank. She was… she was the Scrapped Princess now. She couldn’t forget that. Everyone said she was going to destroy the world, and that world included Shannon and Raquel. Did that mean that when they helped her, it was like killing themselves?

Pacifica had never doubted her relationship with her older siblings. Maybe Shannon sighed when she said she needed him, and maybe Raquel wasn’t always paying attention, but when trouble reared its ugly head, they had always come to Pacifica’s rescue.

But what about now? Why would they help me now, if I’m only going to hurt people?

Her knees began to shake. She felt ashamed for expecting so much of them. She hated the idea of her brother and sister risking their lives for her sake… but at the same time, she couldn’t stand the thought of never seeing them again. She longed for them. She wanted them so badly it hurt.

Pacifica took a breath.

She still believed in them. How could she not, after all they’d always done for her? Even if her carefree life with her family was indeed over, she couldn’t accept that they’d betray her. She couldn’t and she wouldn’t.

I’m waiting for you, she silently warned her siblings. And if you don’t come, my ghost’ll haunt you for the rest of your lives. I’ll come into your bedrooms and spook you every night!

Using her defiant thoughts to keep her spirits up, Pacifica pressed on through the dim light.

The layout of the castle was complex, yet Pacifica had few escape routes: many of the passageways were boarded up, and she avoided small rooms in an effort to keep moving.

Unfortunately, she knew that Big Shot had probably also realized her predicament, and was likely getting sick pleasure out of chasing her into a corner. She shivered at the thought of him licking his greasy lips.

Just when she thought she’d reached a dead end, Pacifica noticed a white light shining at the end of a dim hallway. It was far brighter than the weak flickers coming through the gaps in the window boards.

An opening!

Like a drowning woman struggling for the water’s surface, Pacifica desperately made for the light. She barely managed to stay on her feet as she stumbled through the mysterious doorway. Panting and gripping her knees, Pacifica looked up.

She was in what looked like a large chapel. Mammoth stained-glass windows loomed on every wall, but most of the colored glass had been broken long ago. Other than a raised altar, there was nothing but a wide, flat floor in the spacious room.

A lone man bathed in fragmented colored light sat at that altar. He wore a blue- and white-striped cloak around his abnormally thin frame. He sat hunched away from Pacifica. Cradling something against his chest, he rocked gently back and forth.

Pacifica gasped.

“It’s the Scrapped Princess,” the man said without looking up. His voice was soft and chilling.

Pacifica felt panic grip her. “Wh-Who are you?” she squeaked, although she knew it was a stupid question. It was obvious that the man was somehow connected to Big Shot.

“Sinner,” he said evenly, “though there’s no need for you to remember that.” He rose as if weightless, and the light reached the bundle in his arms.

Pacifica didn’t realize what the bundle was at first. More accurately, an instinct deep inside her stopped her from trying to recognize the shape. But like a slow-acting poison, realization crept through her, filling her veins with ice. She squeezed shut her eyes and released a blood-curdling scream.

Sinner cradled the decomposing body of a small child.

Playtime’s over, Big Shot thought with a grin. He knew Pacifica’s scream meant she’d run into Sinner, and that meant he was one step closer to payday.

The thrill of victory giving him speed, Big Shot hurried along the corridor. He needed to get there before the girl said the wrong thing. The last thing Big Shot needed at that point was his prey getting sliced to ribbons by his insane colleague.

A blinding light suddenly flashed at his feet. Big Shot, his eyes wide, dove to the side.

An explosion of flame engulfed the spot where he’d been standing. The man rolled to safety, his cloak narrowly avoiding the far-reaching licks of the flame. Blinking against the blistering hot air, he stared at the fading sparks in surprise.

It was Laevatein—the same spell he’d used earlier— only far, far more powerful.

Big Shot scrambled to his feet and turned. He could just make out the form of a young woman standing in the shadows.

“Raquel Casull,” Big Shot called arrogantly. “You’re more than a little late.”

Raquel took a step forward. “And I’m guessing you’re the killer?” she asked. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you out.”

Big Shot sneered in response. “I don’t think you understand who you’re dealing with, girl. I’m a professional assassin, and a sorcerer who fought battles before you could wipe your—”

“People of the flames, dance!”

Big Shot’s rant was cut off as a fiery explosion tossed him into the air. He yelped.

Invisible hands dragged him into the air.

Raquel had cast Muspell, an active defense spell which was usually employed against a large group of attacking opponents.

Although the explosion it produced wasn’t commonly fatal, the physical pain it caused was punishment enough.

Big Shot gurgled a cry as his body slammed into the wall. After sliding to the floor, he clenched his fists and shakily tried to stand.

“Why, you little—”

“People of the flames, dance!”

This time several consecutive explosions tossed Big Shot back and forth, eliminating his chance to counterattack or even regain his footing.

“W-Wait!” he managed to shout as another string of spells hit him, one after the other. “Not a d-damn repeating spell!”

The recitation of spells was one of the basic foundations of sorcery—without spoken words, it was impossible to use magic. But a sorcerer in the middle of reciting a spell was vulnerable, sometimes fatally so. Since spells couldn’t be abbreviated, one of the first things sorcery researchers tried to discover was a way to speed up the spell recitation process.

The repeating spell was one of those methods. A sorcerer who wanted to cast a repeating spell had to first freeze a recited spell in a state just before activation and then compress that spell deep within the mind. The spell was then tied to a short phrase, so that when the magic was actually needed, only the phrase was necessary.

This allowed a sorcerer to launch a spell rapidly and repeatedly. It was an unorthodox technique that required great mental capacity; an unqualified sorcerer attempting a repeating spell—one unable to handle the overwhelming power of both the spell itself and the Emulator technique—ran the risk of destroying the conscious mind.

Big Shot stared at Raquel in disbelief. “Even among military sorcerers,” he blurted, “only one in fifty can do that. How can an amateur—?”

“People of the flames, dance!”

“Aaah!”

“People of the flames, dance!”

“Wait—ow ow ow!”

“People of the flames—”

“I said wait!” Big Shot screamed as he struggled to lift his battered body. “You can’t do this! It’s not fair!”

“Not fair?” Raquel repeated, looking somewhat hurt by the accusation.

Big Shot gritted his teeth as he panted. “You’ve been toying with me this entire time! Just because you have more mental capacity than me, you think you can show off like this?!”

“I’m not showing off,” Raquel replied earnestly. She paused a moment, then clenched both her fists in an impressive display of resolve. “All right—then I’ll fight you with all my ability, if that’s what you want.” She nodded, pleased with her decision.

Big Shot realized he’d made a tactical error. “Wh-What? I didn’t mean—”

“I’ll use a certain-death technique this time. Vaporizing you in one hit is the most serious I can be, so will that do, Mister Murderer?”

“N-No, wait!” Big Shot stammered, but Raquel had already made up her mind.

“Actually,” she admitted with a small grin, “I always wanted to try this one.” She raised her hand. “Grade 1 military attack technique, Thor!”

Big Shot’s desperate screams echoed through the crumbling hallway.

Pacifica gripped the doorframe for support. “That’s a c-corpse,” she gasped as goosebumps shot up all over her.

It wasn’t the body itself that scared her—she’d been to a number of funerals, and she was no stranger to leaving flowers in open caskets.

But the body Sinner held was rotting, its skin so decomposed in parts that the white of bone broke through. It seemed to be a young girl, based on the filthy white blouse and reddish-brown skirt. Her flaxen hair—the only part of her to retain a bit of its original beauty—hung sadly from her shrunken head.

“Who… is that?” Pacific whispered.

“What are you afraid of?” Sinner turned to Pacifica, but he didn’t look at her. His eyes focused on something far off in the distance.

Pacifica swallowed the bile in her throat. “I’m not afraid,” she blurted unconvincingly.

Sinner’s eyes moved from whatever he stared at to the body in his arms. “This is my daughter,” he murmured. “Lynthia.” He brushed a hand lovingly over the corpse’s face. “She’s sick. To cure her, I need advanced sorcery, and I need money to make that happen. I have no quarrel with you, but you must be sacrificed to save her.”

Pacifica went pale. Sinner didn’t hold a sick child, but one who had obviously died a long time ago. As Sinner’s cloudy eyes focused on Pacifica, she suddenly understood.

The man was crazy.

Pacifica tried to keep herself from running back into the comforting, non-insane arms of Big Shot. If Big Shot sounded like a good idea, she was really starting to panic.

Maybe you can reason with this Sinner guy, she told herself. He said he doesn’t have anything against you, right? Hoping beyond hope that it was possible to reason with someone out of his mind, she calmed her voice and took a deep breath.

“Um… maybe you should rethink that plan,” she said carefully. “I’m sorry, but your daughter has died.”

“You lie.” Sinner’s gloomy voice took on shades of anger. “Lynthia is my daughter. I must protect her. You’re lying because you want to take her from me.”

Pacifica held out her hands. “I-I just said that—

“You’ll never have her.” Sinner gently laid the body on the altar and started toward Pacifica. His eyes bright with madness, he hissed, “I’ll kill you first! I’ll kill you if you try to touch my baby girl.”

He raised an arm and abruptly jerked it down. Something silvery flashed out of his sleeve. Driven by instinct, Pacifica dove to the side.

The silver flash sliced through the air just beside her head, sending a few sheared pieces of hair skyward and hitting her hairclip with a sharp-toned ping. The clip clattered to the floor and Pacifica’s long hair flowed down onto her shoulders.

Sprawling on the floor, Pacifica stared at the hairclip in amazement. The metal accessory had been severed in half, as if cut with a fine-toothed saw.

A chainlike object had emerged from Sinner’s sleeve. Upon closer inspection, it proved to be a string of small, round blades connected with steel wire. Each blade was as wide as a child’s hand and had dangerous serrated edges. The weapon flexed like a whip in Sinner’s skilled hands.

“This time,” he said darkly, “I’ll cut more than hair.” Sinner jerked back the weapon. As if time were moving in reverse, the whip flew back into the handle Sinner held, and the round blades stacked up like plates. The compacted state of the weapon was small enough for him to conceal it in his clothing.

Pacifica could only stare in disbelief. Her legs, deadened by terror, absolutely refused to move.

I’m going to die, her brain spun. She’d barely avoided Sinner’s first attack—the next time he tried, she’d be sliced to pieces. I’m… I’m going to die.

The fear overwhelmed her, freezing her legs and eliminating any chance of flight. But with that paralysis came a strange sort of calm, a resignation that washed through her mind and deadened her senses.

Fine. Perhaps dying is for the best.

If she died, then Raquel and Shannon wouldn’t be in danger—and the world would be spared her poisonous existence.

And yet… was she really ready for the end?

The blades of death snaked out again.

In that instant, a thousand conflicting thoughts raced through Pacifica’s brain. If she died, the struggle would be over—but so would her life as Pacific Casull. She’d never see her friends again; she’d never cook supper with Raquel, or fight with Shannon over chores. She’d be gone, like Father. Nothing more than ash and memories.

Sinner jerked back his arm, the bladed weapon whipping out behind him.

NO! Pacifica didn’t want to die—every fiber of her being suddenly begged for life. She choked, as her voice finally ripped out of her throat.

“SHANNON!” she screamed. “HELP!”

From outside the main window, a voice answered, “Hold your horses!”

Shannon, the blue sky behind him, suddenly came crashing through what was left of the stained glass window. Shards of colored glass scattered across the floor as he drew a knife and launched it at Sinner. The deadly blade whipped through the air.

Caught off guard, Sinner narrowly avoided the knife. His string of blades whipped back to smash harmlessly into a wall behind him.

Shannon flew over Sinner’s head and landed in front of Pacifica. A rope swayed back and forth just outside the shattered window, testament to Shannon’s daring rappel from the roof. He quickly turned to Sinner, leaving his little sister to stare at his back.

“Sh-Shannon?” Pacifica breathed, her eyes wide with disbelief. He’d actually heard her?

Shannon sighed, his eyes locked on his opponent. “A simple ‘thank you’ would be fine,” he muttered. “Although I’ll also accept, ‘That was the most fantastic entrance I’ve ever seen.’ ”

Pacifica was so glad to hear Shannon complaining that she almost broke down into sobs. Resisting the urge to cling to him, she took a few deep breaths, then shakily pushed herself to her feet. “Wh-What took you so long?” she asked, sounding indignant. “Because of you, my hairclip’s ruined.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got here as fast as I could.”

“That’s fast? You didn’t have to climb the roof.”

He snorted. “Then the next time I rescue Her Highness,” he snapped, “I’ll walk up to the front door and knock!”

Pacifica was glad that Shannon had his back to her. That way, he couldn’t see the tears welling up in her eyes. He hadn’t abandoned her. And if Shannon had come, Pacifica guessed that Raquel was elsewhere, taking care of Big Shot. Her brother and sister still wanted her.

I don’t have to die, she thought. I’m Pacifica Casull, and I can stay Pacifica Casull. It’s okay to live… right?

Of course, there was no answer to that question— but as she watched Shannon draw his blade to protect her, she couldn’t help but feel substantially better.

“Gosh, Mister Hit Man, you should see the look on your face.”

Big Shot stumbled down the hallway, hotly pursued by Raquel’s Thor spell. Thor was a semi-autonomous Class 1 military pursuit spell that automatically followed whatever target was programmed into it. Raquel smiled, pleased that her spell had worked properly, and watched Big Shot as he floundered away in panic.

The Thor spell was designed to take the shape of a humanoid giant, twice a normal man’s height and covered in rippling muscles. The human appearance was only for show, since Thor was actually made up of lightning manipulated by sorcery. Upon contact with its target, Thor could emit an electrical force equivalent to dozens of lightning bolts

Raquel had mildly altered the spell from its original design: the electric giant skipped after Big Shot like a pleased puppy. The sight of the muscular warrior grinning broadly as it hopped was enough to make anyone doubt his own sanity.

“I thought his pursuit speed would be a little faster,” Raquel mused, “but I’m sure he’ll catch up soon enough. Plus, he’s so cute!”

Big Shot couldn’t be bothered by the ridiculous display—he was too busy trying not to die. He might be a powerful wizard, but he wasn’t exactly athletic.

“Still,” Raquel commented, touching her chin with a finger. “I guess I should adjust the semi-autonomous pursuit routine. Huh, Mister Hired Killer?”

Sinner’s sword sliced down from above Shannon’s head. Faster than his opponent, Shannon arced his own blade up and easily met Sinner’s thrust.

Yet the instant he blocked, Sinner’s sword segmented beyond the point where it contacted with Shannon’s weapon and whipped up for the back of Shannon’s head. Shannon heaved hard against the still-solid part of Sinner’s sword and ducked. The flying blades wrapped around empty air instead of around Shannon’s neck.

He and Sinner leapt apart. Shannon’s eyes followed the blade whip as Sinner yanked it back into its solid form.

“So he’s got a Dark Sword,” Shannon muttered as he absently rubbed a cut on his cheek. He’d avoided most of the blow, but not the tip; without his hardened leather armor, his right shoulder would have been sliced open.

Unlike ordinary swords, a Dark Sword was a weapon customized for non-traditional fighting. Dark Swords were found mainly in the hands of mercenaries from rural provinces and existed in nearly infinite varieties. To someone trained only to fight against traditional swordsmanship, a Dark Sword could be unpredictable and deadly—the very reason they were created in the first place.

Since Dark Swords were generally used to catch an opponent off guard, their weakness was that once their trickery was unmasked, it reduced their effectiveness. Unfortunately, Shannon could see that Sinner was fully aware of his weapon’s advantages and drawbacks, and that losing the element of surprise wasn’t going to hold the man back much.

Great, Shannon thought bitterly. Shannon’s own sword was so rare that it could have been considered a type of Dark Sword, but Sinner had the definite advantage with his extended reach. At least when Sinner’s weapon was fully extended, he was left vulnerable—that was when Shannon needed to strike. The only question was whether or not Shannon could get within range and still manage to keep his limbs.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” Shannon called across the chapel.

“You want to hurt Lynthia.” Sinner’s voice was stone.

“Who?”

“You want to take Lynthia from me, but I won’t let you. I won’t let you.”

The extended Dark Sword whipped sideways. Shannon jumped out of the swinging weapon’s path, but the tip of the blade bounced off the floor and came at him from another direction. Shannon barely managed to avoid being beheaded. As he jerked away, the weapon skimmed the side of his head, taking a bit of his scalp with it. He quickly retreated.

Pacifica ran to his side. “Shannon!” she cried.

“Stay back.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “Is that a corpse on the altar?”

“She was his daughter—I think she died of some disease. But the guy’s crazy, Shannon! He thinks she’s still alive!”

Shannon could already tell from Sinner’s eyes that there was something seriously wrong with the man. The way Sinner stood in front of that corpse with his sword ready left little room for speculation: Shannon didn’t doubt that Sinner honestly wanted to protect the girl.

“Shannon?” Pacifica asked quickly. “Do you think you can beat him?”

“If you go and hide until it’s over. I can’t protect you and fight him at the same time.”

He heard Pacifica start to protest. “I can’t just—”

“Leave me? Sure you can.”

Pacifica stomped a foot in frustration. She hesitated another moment, then turned and fled the chapel.

Sinner remained still, so Shannon just stared at him until he was sure Pacifica had gone.

“Now,” he said evenly as he shifted his feet. “You’ve got my full attention, so let’s try this again.”

In response, Sinner rushed forward with his compacted Dark Sword; Shannon ran to meet him. When Sinner slashed at Shannon from the side, Shannon twisted his body and swung his own weapon. A painful metallic clang echoed throughout the chapel. As before, the Dark Sword segmented and bent wildly at the point of impact.

Perfect, Shannon thought. He swung his sword in a large arc. The Dark Sword changed directions just before striking him and instead wound around and around Shannon’s blade before coming to a stop.

Sinner’s thin eyebrows shot up. “What?” he barked, but it was already too late.

Shannon plunged his blade down to pin it (and thus Sinner’s weapon) into the floor. Shannon clenched both fists, causing the metal rods in his leather gloves to bulge up, and swung back for a final punch.

Sinner just smiled. He lithely whipped down his left arm and released another Dark Sword from its sleeve.

Shannon tried to rear back, but couldn’t overcome his own momentum. His metal-reinforced fist slammed into the new blade; the Dark Sword burst into a whip and wrapped itself around his arm and up his shoulder.

“First,” Sinner said darkly, “I’ll take an arm.”

To allow freedom of movement, only a small percentage of Shannon’s arms were covered with armor. Whether Sinner ripped off the entire limb or just slashed it to ribbons, Shannon had a bad feeling he was going to bleed to death.

Sinner sneered. “A good assassin is always ambidextrous. You’re good, but you’re inexperienced.”

“I’ll remember that for next time,” Shannon muttered as he carefully slid his free hand to his waist. He slipped his index finger into a small metal ring and jerked. His right shoulder guard flipped up, exposing a small cylinder aimed right at Sinner.

Sinner gave a start. “What the—?”

He tried to pull in his Dark Sword, but Shannon shoved up against him and pinned the segmented weapon between them. With a pop, a small dart fired from the cylinder and plunged into Sinner’s shoulder.

Sinner grunted and loosened his grip. Shannon took the opportunity to clench his free fist and slam it onto Sinner’s fingers, causing the second Dark Sword to hit the floor with a clang. The sword slithered off of Shannon’s arm as he stepped back.

“Here’s some advice for you,” Shannon offered as he shook his numb arm. “When you’ve got the upper hand, don’t lose it by giving a lecture.”

Sinner looked at his own shoulder, then at Shannon’s armor. “A hidden weapon,” he murmured, as if that fact weren’t obvious.

“Yeah, this armor is full of good stuff. Spring-loaded darts and the like.”

The dart was only powerful enough for a point-blank surprise attack, but sometimes that was all it took to turn the tables on an opponent. Such tricks were never employed by traditional swordsmen, who only believed in crossing blades; darts were more the fare of reconnaissance troops, Special Forces, and mercenaries trained in multiple weapons and concerned with survival above all else.

Sinner yanked the barbed dart from his shoulder. A thin stream of scarlet blood spilled out.

Shannon took another step back. “I’m not usually one to pull that sort of thing,” he explained, “but I don’t have time to worry about formality right now. This is your chance to back off—it’s not worth risking your life over this if your daughter’s already dead.”

Ferocious anger visibly welled up inside the haggard man. His crazed eyes burned with a new fury; his fingertips twitched by his sides.

Shannon felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

Sinner screamed and charged at Shannon with nothing more than his fingernails. Shannon easily dodged, so Sinner spun to the sword embedded in the floor and ripped the tightly coiled Dark Sword off of Shannon’s blade.

His hands bloody, he dragged the chainlike weapon across the floor as he turned back to Shannon. “Yaaaa!”

Sinner remained glued to the floor as he wailed at the top of his lungs. Shannon listened to the sound reverberate through the chapel and wondered whether it was a battle cry or a cry of anguish. Unless it was a prayer?

“That’s right!” Shannon yelled. “Your daughter’s dead! Nothing you can do will change that!” The words were hard for him to say—he didn’t enjoy dragging a crazy man back to the thing that had made him snap— but Shannon wanted to at least try to reason his way out of the fight. He somehow doubted that was going to happen.

Sinner let out another shriek, then charged straight for Shannon. The older man frantically swung his sword without any semblance of his former strategy. Shannon easily avoided the attacks.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked as he dodged Sinner’s whips. “You’re soiling her memory with your own cowardice. Give her a proper burial and stop defiling her body!”

“SILENCE!” Sinner screamed at the top of his lungs.

With a maddened cry, he lifted his sword over his head and swung it down on Shannon. Shannon slipped to the side and let the Dark Sword race down to the altar. Unfortunately, both he and Sinner had been too late to realize the consequences.

The fully extended blade came down onto the little body resting there. Bits of mummified flesh flew into the air as, with a soft crunch, the corpse of the young girl split in half with heartbreaking ease.

A hellish silence fell over the room. Sinner, his face as white as a ghost’s, dropped the handle of his blade. The Dark Sword clattered to the ground.

“No…” Sinner breathed. “NO!” Shaking crazily, he staggered away from the corpse as if he were in a trance.

When he looked down at his bloody hands, his wide eyes filled with unbridled fear.

Sinner’s face contorted into a twisted image of guilt and panic. He stumbled back toward his daughter’s body, so oblivious to Shannon that he physically brushed past the younger man.

“My Lynthia,” Sinner mumbled as he knelt down by the corpse. “I’m so sorry, my precious Lynthia… will you forgive me? Here, let’s take care of that.”

Sinner gently pushed the two halves of the body together. Shannon looked away and tried not to be sick.

“There, that’s better. See? You’re all better now, Lynthia. Open your eyes, my sweet.”

Dark, empty sockets were all that stared back at Sinner. He murmured more promises of love as he brushed back the corpse’s hair, but then, as if confused, he stopped.

“Th-That’s strange,” he whispered. “You don’t have any eyes, Lynthia. How long have you not had any… ? ”

Sinner shakily got to his feet, realization dawning in his eyes. “How could I have missed that?” he asked no one. “Your… your sweet eyes are gone. Where did they…?”

Shannon didn’t want to watch, but he turned back when he heard Sinner drag his blade up from the floor. The older man stacked the Dark Sword with shaking hands and pointed the tip at his neck.

“Oh, Lynthia!” Sinner cried as he threw back his head. “Forgive me!”

Closing his eyes, Sinner plunged the Dark Sword into his throat. The tip of the sword pushed through the back of his neck with a gory squelching sound.

Shannon’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He watched as Sinner crumpled to the floor, twitched several times, then finally went still. A dark pool of blood leaked from under the assassin and soaked his dingy cloak scarlet.

Shannon swallowed. “I’m… sure she forgives you,” he whispered, his eyebrows furrowing. It wasn’t much, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Shannon slowly retrieved his sword. What am I doing? he wondered as he glanced back at Sinner’s body. The man had lost his mind over his daughter’s death—rather than accept his loss, he’d dragged out her last living moments and ruined his life. And yet… Shannon couldn’t help but feel like he might be doing the same thing. He was trying to protect a girl who was prophesized to destroy the world.

Am I just as crazy? he thought as he slid his sword into its sheath. Am I going to ruin my life and die like him?

Shannon let out a shaky breath. He dragged Sinner’s body over to Lynthia’s so the two could lie together. As the young warrior straightened again, he made a conscious decision to avoid Sinner’s fate. Whatever the future held, he would never let love drive him away from reality.

He sighed. Not if I can help it, he added silently, his shoulders slumping with the thought.

“If you’re going to kill me,” Big Shot panted from his position on the floor, “then just kill me! I’ve had enough of this!”

In response, the electric giant skipped cheerfully toward the killer. Big Shot closed his eyes and braced himself.

The giant suddenly tripped over a loose brick. Hitting the floor with a thud, a few small electrical discharges fizzled in the air before the Thor apparition vanished into nothing.

“Whoops,” Raquel said, raising a hand to her mouth.

Big Shot was stupefied. “A… a dud?” he croaked, his beady eyes wide. His gaze flew to Raquel, but she only looked away.

“That’s strange,” she mumbled. “I wonder why?”

A normal Thor apparition would use only a tiny part of its power to destroy an insignificant brick. It would never trip over something so small, nor discharge all of its destructive power and disappear before reaching its target. Big Shot glared daggers at Raquel as he stood. “You!” he snarled. “You… you NUTCASE!”

Startled, Raquel took a step back. “People make mistakes.”

“You gave me quite a workout,” Big Shot spat out with a half-crazed grimace. “Do you always test your spells out on your worthy opponents? ”

“Well, look at it this way: you probably lost some weight.” Raquel smiled nervously.

Big Shot held out his palms. “That’s it!” he roared. “Prepare to die!”

A loud clunk cut him off, and Big Shot pitched forward. He hit the floor with his mouth agape, his fingertips twitching and his eyes rolled back.

Behind him, holding a brick in one hand, stood Pacifica.

“Pacifica!” Raquel exclaimed, pressing her palms together in gratitude. “You came to rescue me!”

Pacifica gave her an exasperated look. “Rescue you?” she repeated. “I thought you and Shannon were here to rescue me! ”

“Well, if you want to get technical about it.”

With a disgusted look on her face, Pacifica threw the brick at the unconscious Big Shot; it struck the portly killer directly in the stomach. He emitted a faint croaking sound but otherwise didn’t stir, so the two girls paid him no more attention.

“Have you seen Shannon?” Raquel asked.

Pacifica nodded quickly, gripping her sister’s arm. “He was fighting the other guy—the really creepy one. Raquel, you have to go help him! We have to do something! ”

“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” Raquel commented as she looked over Pacifica’s head.

Pacifica turned. Shannon emerged from the depths of the dark hallway, his steps slow and his eyelids droopy.

“Shannon!” they both called.

He waved unenthusiastically, thus proving he was fine.

Something tapped Miyutia’s bedroom window lightly.

The girl stirred in her bed, intending to turn right over and go back to sleep. She was just about to drift off when the sound occurred again, then a third time. She sat up in bed and groggily rubbed her eyes.

“What’s that?” she mumbled. Miyutia stalked over to her shutters and opened them. Tiny snowflakes drifted down from the night sky; it was the year’s first snowfall.

She stuck her head out of the window for a better look at the pretty view of Manurhin blanketed in white.

“Wow,” she murmured.

She looked down to see a familiar face. “Pacifica?”

“Hey,” Pacifica answered with a shy wave. “Sorry for bothering you in the middle of the night.”

“That’s… okay. What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to ask you something.” Pacifica cleared her throat. “Do you remember what I said in class, Miyutia? About what you’d do if I wasn’t really Pacifica Casull?” She swallowed. “I just want to, um, know—if that was true, would you still be my friend?”

“What kind of stup—” Miyutia stopped herself midsentence when she saw the look on Pacifica’s face. After a moment’s pause, she started over. “Uh, I guess so. If your name was different, you’d still be you. If you grew up somewhere else as a completely different person, and if the two of us met, I’m sure we’d be friends.”

“Really?” Pacifica’s face brightened.

Miyutia sighed. “Look, Pacifica. I don’t know what this is all about, but you’ll catch a cold if you stay out there. I’ll go open the front door.”

“N-No,” Pacifica said quickly. “That’s okay—I have to go.”

“Oh. All right.” Miyutia waved. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Pacifica said, forcing herself to smile.

“I’ll see you on Sunday,” Miyutia added.

When Pacifica didn’t answer, Miyutia assumed that her friend hadn’t heard her. Leaning sleepily against her windowsill, Miyutia watched as Pacifica disappeared, her slight body lost behind a white curtain of gently falling snow.

The snow accumulated slowly, symbolic of the long winter ahead. Everything fell under that veneer of white—everything, good and bad.

Shannon watched from the city gate as the layer of white blanketed the familiar landmarks of his home.

Nearby, Raquel bowed to Finebell. The duke’s bodyguard had brought a carriage and planned to see the Casulls off.

The carriage was small, unadorned, and painted completely black. It was a standard passenger wagon, drawn by four horses.

The vehicle consisted of a small cabin, a driver’s seat, and a separate luggage compartment. It also housed some considerable military extras, unseen to the casual observer.

“Thank you so much for everything,” Raquel said, bowing to Finebell once again.

“I’m only following orders.” The only thing that belied Finebell’s chilly attitude was the live chicken she held protectively against her chest—Desert Eagle, whose feathers were puffed up against the nighttime cold.

“Why didn’t Duke Franki come?” Raquel asked.

“He may not look it, but His Grace is quite sentimental. He strongly dislikes saying goodbye.” Finebell shrugged. “You probably haven’t noticed, but to a childless man like him, you make him feel a parent.”

“Right,” Shannon muttered. “What parent kicks his own kids out of town?”

“Shannon! ”

Finebell shot him a look. “It seems His Grace isn’t the only one who hates goodbyes.”

Shannon ignored her.

“But I’m not just talking about you,” she continued. “To him, all of the townspeople are his children. It’s for the sake of the others that he asked you to leave. Can you understand that?”

Shannon nodded and glanced down at the fowl that Finebell held against her chest. “Are you really going to keep that bird?”

“Why not? She’s sweet.” Finebell gently petted the chicken. The fearsome Desert Eagle seemed strangely calm in Finebell’s arms.

“To each his own. But I wouldn’t go near her eggs without a—”

“She’s back,” Raquel interrupted.

Shannon and Finebell looked up to see Pacifica walk through the city gate. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and an invisible sadness rounded out the usual square of her shoulders.

Shannon eyed her carefully. “Did you do what you wanted to do?” he asked, his tone more inquisitive than the words.

She looked up with a small smile. “Mm,” she replied. “Thanks.”

Ignoring the snow on the ground, Finebell knelt before Pacifica. “Your Highness,” she said.

Pacifica shook her head. “Just call me Pacifica, please.”

“Very well, Pacifica. I bear a message from the duke.” She cleared her throat. “ ‘Do not think yourself unfortunate, for you have something others only dream of. Treasure what you have, and don’t be ashamed to feel pride.’ ”

Pacifica wrinkled her face. “Uh… okay?”

“You’ll understand some day.”

Pacifica looked to the chicken in Finebell’s arms.

“Well, Desert Eagle, I guess this is goodbye.”

The chicken jumped into the air and fluttered to the ground with a cluck. The bird lowered itself for a moment, then stood and stepped aside. A single white egg lay in a depression in the snow.

Pacifica and Finebell looked at each other. Surely the chicken didn’t understand what was going on?

“Desert Eagle,” Pacifica breathed as she picked up the egg. “Is this a going-away present?”

“All right,” Shannon said impatiently. “Let’s go.”

Pacifica climbed into the cabin, and Raquel took her place on the driver’s bench next to Shannon. With a light crack of the whip, the horses began to trot.

Finebell and Desert Eagle watched the carriage pass by. Without glancing back, Shannon made a last request of Finebell. “Tell the duke we’re grateful.”

She nodded. “I will,” she murmured as the carriage rattled through the gate.

With that, Shannon, Raquel, and Pacifica left their peaceful lives behind them, and set out into the unknown.