The Weary Protector

Shannon let out a long, annoyed sigh. What a hassle. He would have said that aloud, but even that would have been a hassle.

He’d tied his long black hair back into a simple ponytail and wore a long black cloak around his lithe body. Not because he was in mourning, and not because he was planning nighttime espionage, but because he didn’t want to make getting dressed in the morning more complicated than it had to be. He looked very dashing.

In certain circles he was known as Shannon Casull, the Guardian. It was a name spoken with reverence and fear.

In the year that had passed since leaving home, Shannon had earned his nickname by defeating the many assassins dispatched by the palace. Each time he and Raquel emerged victorious with their lives, their skill levels increased and their bravery grew.

Today, like many other days, he fought off a new group of attackers. But the assassin who was locked in a life-and-death battle with Shannon found the bored look on Shannon’s face highly demoralizing.

“Wh-What kind of man are you?” the assassin demanded.

Shannon snorted. “A man who missed his nap today.”

They fought on a side trail just off the main road. The maddeningly straight trail was crowded on both sides by thick brush—nobody in his right mind would travel that path after dusk, as it was the perfect place to end up ambushed. The two blades that crashed together reflected the sky’s dimming orange twilight.

“All right,” Shannon snapped. “I’ve had it with this.” He flicked his sword, knocking his opponent’s massive broadsword to the ground. The assassin instinctively turned to run for his weapon, but froze when Shannon’s blade pressed against the side of his neck.

Perhaps Shannon’s light, saber-like blade had an advantage over the clunky broadsword, but more than that, Shannon was fast. Very fast—and accurate.

The bearded opponent trembled as Shannon’s blade grazed alongside his throat. Swallowing carefully, the assassin still managed an indignant scowl.

“You conceited brat,” he spat out. “Don’t you realize what you’re doing? Even an uneducated peasant boy should know about the Oracle of Saint Grendel!”

Shannon ignored the comment. “Look,” he said darkly. “You came to kill a little girl, right? If you’ve come to kill, you’d better know the stakes.”

In contrast to Shannon’s worn-in, scuffed leather armor, the bearded man wore a clean set that had probably never seen a fight. His swordsmanship had been by the book, with movements clearly memorized long ago at fencing school. The man was no mercenary.

“Fool!” the assassin snapped. “You’re making a terrible—”

He stopped in mid-sentence as a red rivulet leaked onto Shannon’s blade. The man shot a panicked look around him. The other three members of his team lay on the ground nearby, two in hardened leather armor and the third in the embroidered blue robe of a sorcerer. When calculating the fighting strength of a unit, a sorcerer trained in attack spells was usually considered equivalent to ten soldiers.

Shannon had defeated them all.

The chests of the fallen men still moved with their breathing, so they obviously weren’t dead. Disabling multiple opponents without killing them—a feat that required unbelievable skill—only went to prove how dangerous Shannon was.

“What do you want to lose?” Shannon asked. “Your eyesight, your kneecaps, or your sword arm? Take your pick.”

“Listen to me! Don’t you realize that the girl—”

“All right; I’ll choose for you.”

“Wait!” the bearded man suddenly blurted out. The indignant expression on his face vanished when Shannon raised his sword.

Shannon paused. He raised an eyebrow.

The assassin swallowed hard, sending a few more droplets of his blood down his throat. “Surely you know of the Oracle of Saint Grendel from fifteen years ago?”

“No.” He shrugged.

The bearded man’s jaw dropped.

“Never heard… how could you not know of the prophecy?! Listen, that girl—”

“You already tried that one,” Shannon said as he raised his sword once more.

“No, wait!” Panic flashed across the bearded man’s face. Then, suddenly, his expression shifted from one of fear to one of relief. He broke out laughing.

“Ha ha ha!” he guffawed. “Now we’ve got you, you stupid brat!”

Shannon lowered his sword. He wondered if perhaps the man had lost his mind, but then recognized the look in the assassin’s eyes—the arrogant glimmer of one convinced of victory.

“Now what?” Shannon muttered.

“Look behind you!” With a large (albeit still shaky) grin, the bearded man pointed to the area behind Shannon. Shannon scowled and turned.

The bearded man took advantage of the opportunity and quickly moved to attack Shannon from behind… until he froze. Something—his own survival instinct, perhaps—sensed a dangerous new emotion in Shannon, and he stopped cold.

A fiery, murderous rage radiated off of Shannon in waves. Knowing better than to provoke that, the bearded man shrunk back.

The Casull family’s carriage hadn’t changed much since the day they’d received it: despite the simple design of the wagon, inside it lay devices and gadgets that had saved Shannon and his sisters from harm many times. From the steel-reinforced shutters to the fire-resistant paint, to the armor-disguised-as-blankets on the horses, everything about the coach was military grade.

Raquel, standing beside the carriage and wearing the same black cloak and leather gloves as Shannon, looked even more like her brother when she matched him in garb. Beside her stood Pacifica, slightly taller than before, dressed in a unique combination of leather and fabric, and sporting a look of great distaste upon her face. Between the two girls stood a man dressed as a villager, whose most distinguishing characteristic was his lack of distinguishing characteristics—which was exactly why the daggers he held against each of the girls’ throats looked so out of place.

“Raquel,” Shannon said darkly.

“Huh?” came Raquel’s lazy reply.

“Nice job over there.”

“Throw down your sword,” the man called. Shannon could tell the words were no mere threat; the man had the emotionless voice of a calm professional for whom killing had become routine. Shannon sighed.

“Whatever,” he muttered as he stabbed his sword into the ground and took three steps back.

“No!” Pacifica shrieked, her desire to scream unhindered by the blade against her neck. “What are you doing, you moron ?! ”

Shannon rolled his eyes. Here it comes.

“This is so like you, Shannon! As soon as you start fighting, you forget all about guarding us. Now look at the mess we’re in!” Pacifica glared daggers at her older brother, the blue of her irises glittering with fury. “Then you have the nerve to act like it’s all such a big hassle! If everything annoys you so darn much, then stop breathing—you won’t have any hassles to worry about anymore! ”

“Pacifica,” Shannon snapped. “I mean, ‘Your Highness, we took this dangerous shortcut because you whined about how much you wanted to sleep indoors tonight.”

“And?” Pacifica clearly didn’t make the connection.

“And if Her Highness would consider her situation more carefully once in a blue moon, then her humble guards could protect her more effectively.”

“Silence! It’s too late for feigned subservience now— not after your long-standing arrogance!” She crossed her arms. “I should have you thrown in a dungeon, but I’m basically a nice person, so I’ll give you another chance. You have until the count of ten to write a short essay on how sorry you are.”

Shannon glared at her. Pacifica kept her gaze locked with his for a few moments, then, finally, she dropped her eyes to the ground. Her lips curled in a frown.

“Come again?” Shannon asked pointedly.

“Help,” Pacifica murmured.

Shannon shifted his gaze to Raquel, who’d watched the entire exchange with casual interest. “Give me a hand?” he asked.

Raquel raised one hand; her movement was so relaxed that the man with the dagger didn’t react at all. She pointed her long, pale fingers at the knife by her throat.

“Thunder Hammer, strike!” Crackling purple arcs of electricity shot from the space just in front of Raquel’s fingertips, piercing through the dagger and into the assassin. The man dropped like a stone. He quivered on the ground, his mouth open in shock and his hair standing on end.

Although he did lose the use of his legs for some time, the man was actually quite lucky—the real Mjolnir spell, a military attack spell used by Linevan royal troops, was strong enough to cause instant death. Raquel had reconstructed the top-secret spell from her mother’s notes and used her considerable skill to keep it from being lethal.

The bearded opponent’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “No,” he croaked. “That’s im-im-impos…”

“Impossible?” Shannon smirked without humor. “Is that what you’re trying to say ? ”

Raquel smiled. “Actually,” she said, as if happy to explain, “I used the repeating spell technique. You compress the activation procedure for one spell in an Emulator—which is separate from your own self—then you later recite a short spell that expands and triggers the main spell. The technique even lets someone who isn’t a sorcerer temporarily—”

“Raquel,” Shannon interrupted, “I’m pretty sure that’s enough.”

Raquel frowned at her brother. Shannon ignored her and went to pull his sword out of the ground.

“All right,” he said, turning back to the now-pale assassin. “Did you take that extra time to decide which body part you need the least?”

The man could only stare at the gleaming blade, his eyes wide with fear.

The coach continued down the narrow side road in near darkness, finally free of assassins. Raquel sat in the driver’s seat with Shannon by her side, her eyes on the faint lights of a town that flickered in the distance. It looked so deceptively peaceful.

Pacifica opened the cabin window and stuck her head out. “Shannon,” she piped up. “How much longer?”

“Can’t you see the town up ahead?” Shannon gestured to the lights. “We’re almost there.”

Pacifica reached out of the window, grabbed Shannon’s ear, and tugged it to her lips.

“You always say that!” she shrieked. “And you never mean it!”

“Let go!” Shannon shouted back. “And be quiet, would you?!” He grabbed the back of her neck with one hand and pinched her lips together with the other.

“So,” he asked through gritted teeth. “Any more demands, princess?”

“Shtop!” Pacifica flailed her arms. “Mmmgph! Mmgph! ”

“I don’t understand—you should learn to enunciate.”

Raquel frowned. “I want to play,” she said with a hint of envy.

Shannon gestured to his captive sister. “Give me a free hand and I’ll get you in on this.”

Pacifica decided to fight back. She stuck her finger in Shannon’s mouth and pulled.

“Rrraangph!” Shannon protested. He and Pacifica glared at each other, neither of them letting the other go.

“Germs,” Raquel calmly reminded them. “Your hands are filthy.”

Shannon spat out Pacifica’s finger and pushed her head back into the wagon. “All right,” he ordered. “That’s enough!” He rubbed his cheek with a hand. “My face will end up all stretched out.”

“Ha!” Pacifica mocked as she defiantly poked her head out again. Her lips had swollen a bit, her own war wound. “You’ll look like someone with premature-aging-lazy-face-itis. Instead of just acting like an old man, you’ll look like one, too! Old man Shannon! Old man Shannon!”

“Stop making up disease names.”

Raquel slowed down the carriage, tugging at Shannon’s sleeve as she did so. “Look,” she said as she pointed up the road.

In the middle of the path stood a lone boy. He seemed to be in his mid-teens, and wore a long cloak that covered him from neck to ankles. Raquel pulled on the reins and brought the coach to a stop. The boy walked over to them.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” he said, tilting his young face upward. “But I need your help.”

Pacifica peeked out of the carriage. The boy had soft chestnut hair and a dignified, almost aristocratic air. She noticed right away that he was also quite handsome.

Getting a closer look at Shannon and Pacifica, the boy turned to Raquel. “Are they sick?” he asked. “Their faces are swollen.”

“No!” shouted Pacifica.

“They were just showing affection,” Raquel stated, her face the picture of perfect innocence.

“Oh.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Hot.”

“NO!” Pacifica shouted even louder. “EW!” She made an exaggerated gagging motion, obnoxious enough to successfully bother everyone.

Despite the boy’s friendly banter, Shannon still found him suspicious. “What do you want?” Shannon asked brusquely.

The boy smiled. “Not much,” he said as he walked to Shannon’s side of the carriage. “I’d just like you to die.”

A clash of swords erupted in the night air.

Shannon and the boy pushed on their locked weapons, the metal scraping together loudly.

Both had drawn in a blur—Shannon, his father’s sword; the boy, a beautiful battleaxe. They each possessed blades of extraordinary craftmanship.

A battleaxe was a devastating weapon in skilled hands. Not only did it land a massive blow when the wielder took advantage of the blade’s centrifugal force, but it could be used with as much precision as a sword— if the wielder was properly trained.

The handle of the boy’s axe had actually been folded under his cloak; he’d deployed it in one smooth motion, using the momentum of his swing to unfold the axe to its full length. Not only did his movements speak to the amount of time he put into training, his deft handling of his weapon lacked the stiffness common to those with little combat experience. There was no doubt about it: the boy was an expert.

“Pacifica!” Shannon shouted. “Stay inside!” The alarm in his voice was clear, so Pacifica did as she was told. Raquel jumped off the coach in order to stay out of her brother’s way.

Shannon threw his weight against his opponent’s weapon. Rather than resisting, the boy stepped back to parry Shannon’s strike. Shannon used the opportunity to jump down from his restrictive position on the carriage.

“Not bad,” the boy remarked, his smile never leaving his face. “You sensed that I was an enemy before I even attacked.”

“Of course I did,” Shannon said flatly. “You were too pleasant.”

The boy chuckled. “Is that right?”

“Who are you?”

“Tactician Christopher Armalite. I’m with the Royal Special Forces Battalion Five, also known as Adamant Arrow. You can call me Chris.”

Chris looked like a perfectly ordinary boy—save for his eyes. They were clear, ice blue, and very, very piercing.

Shannon felt a chill run down his spine. This ones a cold-blooded killer.

“I almost forgot,” the boy said, ignoring Shannon’s seething glare. “Before I kill you, I wanted to ask if you met up with a group led by a bearded man.”

“You’re with them?”

“Technically, no. I was ordered to work with them, but they set out before I got to the rendezvous point.”

Shannon spat. “When I left them,” he replied darkly, “they were lying at the side of the road with their newly-broken bones. You’re telling me you care?”

“About those stupid, decrepit knights? No. There’s no point in living after losing a battle.”

First knights, then a tactician in the Royal Special Forces. The news worried Shannon; it meant the palace had given up on hired killers and was finally sending its own troops. Mercenaries had no official ties and therefore wouldn’t incriminate the palace, but if royal troops were on their way, it meant the palace was desperate enough to stop caring about accountability.

The palace was most likely eager to eliminate the Casull siblings before word of the Scrapped Princess leaked out. Not only did it mean an increased number of organized men against Pacifica, but the palace had several elite troops at their disposal—such as the unmatched Anvar Knights and several Special Forces units. Shannon wasn’t exactly sure how skilled the Special Forces were, but if the boy in front of him was any indication, they were at least as good as the rumors claimed.

“Although,” Chris added after a moment, “it would’ve been easier for me if you had killed them.”

“It would’ve been easier for me, too,” Shannon snapped. “So are you going to fight or not?”

“Actually, I think I’m going to have to call it quits. I should check up on the knights—my superiors would give me hell if I didn’t and something happened to them.”

Without waiting for a reply, Chris jumped backward, folding his axe with a flick of his arm. By the time he’d landed, the axe had already disappeared back inside his long cloak.

He turned to leave, then suddenly looked back.

“One last thing,” he said. “Why are you protecting the girl?”

Shannon and Raquel glanced back at the coach. They couldn’t see Pacifica, but they were sure she could hear them.

“You know about the prophecy, don’t you?” Chris twirled his fingers in the air. “She’ll be the cause of calamity. Piles of corpses, rivers of blood… What do you gain by protecting someone whom everyone would be happy to see dead?”

Chris stopped talking just in time to catch the knife thrown at his face. Shannon hadn’t aimed to kill, but he’d still launched it with all the force of his anger.

The boy playfully tossed the knife in a high arc behind him. The weapon spun around and around before vanishing into the darkness.

“Why are you so angry? You must be used to hearing that by now.”

Shannon glared and lowered his throwing arm. It didn’t matter how often people said it—it still hurt every time.

Chris shrugged. “So be it,” he said with an enigmatic smile. He turned on his heels and walked away.

Raquel held up her hands for an attack spell, but quickly decided against it. Not only was it cowardly, but Chris could probably avoid it.

Shannon sighed as he and his sister watched Chris disappear. “I guess they’re sending out the real fighters now,” he murmured.

Raquel nodded silently.

The siblings didn’t stay at an inn that night. They couldn’t get permission to enter the town armed, and Shannon refused to waltz in without a weapon when Special Forces troops could be lurking around. Instead, the three of them decided to camp on the town’s outskirts—a decision that predictably drew more whining from Pacifica.

“I can’t believe we’re stuck outside again,” the girl moaned as she unrolled her sleeping bag. She gave the bedroll a swift kick to drive her point home.

Raquel’s voice drifted over from behind the coach. “Supper will be ready in a minute, you two.”

Shannon’s lips twisted. He knew that Raquel’s cooking had a one-in-three chance of coming out a complete disaster… not because she was a bad cook, but because she always tried to use sorcery in her cooking.

“I hope it came out okay,” Raquel wondered aloud, doing nothing to ease his fears.

“We’ll see,” Shannon murmured.

He took some comfort in the thought that Raquel already had an Asgard sensor spell deployed, and thus probably had no energy to use magic on the food. Once cast, Asgard lasted a full day and alerted its creator if anyone tried to approach. It normally took at least three sorcerers to cast the Asgard sensor—three sorcerers, or one very talented Raquel.

Remembering why she had needed to cast the spell in the first place, Shannon picked up his sword and lurched to his feet. Spell or no, sorcery wasn’t infallible; he still wanted to take a look around before supper.

It was quiet around the campsite. Shannon, tired from the events of the day, was thankful for the respite. He rested his sheathed sword on his shoulder as he walked.

Sorcery, he thought with mild interest. I remember studying sorcery.

As a sorcerer, Shannon had an abundance of magical power—more than his sister did, his mother had told him. But sorcery wasn’t about power. Rather than generating energy, sorcerers merely manipulated the hidden rules that ran the tangible world in order to cause particular outcomes. The process was analogous to placing one’s hand in a river to affect the flow.

Technically speaking, the term “magical power” referred to a person’s mental capacity for invoking a spell. A greater mental capacity allowed a sorcerer to better invoke complicated, powerful spells or multiple spells simultaneously.

Among sorcerers, it was universally accepted that mental capacity was fixed at birth and couldn’t be increased with training or practice, although nobody was quite certain whether capacity was something inherited from parents, or gained at birth by chance.

If mental capacity was a measure of sorcery talent, then Shannon had it in spades. What he lacked was the ability to control that—he didn’t have the instinct or intuition for invoking a spell in his mind and moderating its generation and effect.

Simply put, he lacked the skill needed to make use of his considerable talent. Shannon rubbed his eyes.

Whatever, he thought. So Father made me the swordsman, and Mother made Raquel the sorcerer.

Raquel had started mimicking her mother and invoking spells by age three; she clearly had enough skill for both of them.

Shannon suddenly stopped, his boots kicking up a small cloud of dust around his toes. He furrowed his eyebrows.

Pacifica stood before him. She wore a light shawl around her shoulders and had a vaguely expectant look on her face.

“Pacifica?” Shannon asked. “What are you doing out here?”

Pacifica averted her eyes. “Uh, nothing,” she murmured, although she had obviously been waiting for him. She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it again and frowned.

For a girl who usually screamed out what she wanted before considering the consequences, this behavior was highly unusual. Shannon waited.

Pacifica let out a breath. “I was just… I was just thinking about what that guy said earlier. Y’know— about how a lot of people would be happy if I died.” She spoke calmly and directly, which somehow made it worse. She sighed and gazed up at the sky.

Shannon didn’t say anything. He knew Pacifica was past wanting to hear reassuring lies from him.

“If I’d never been born,” Pacifica pointed out, “you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Shannon took a step in the direction of the camp, shifting slightly to the right to leave room on the path for her. She scuttled up to walk by his side.

“Besides.” Pacifica kicked up her own little cloud of dust. “The guy who wants me dead is the king—my real father, right?”

Shannon glanced at her profile as the two strolled toward camp. It took him a moment to search for the right words.

“Maybe,” he said quietly, “maybe it’s all just… some kind of mistake.”

“A mistake?”

“Priests are human beings. They’re not perfect. Or maybe the others misheard what they said. Maybe even gods makes mistakes.”

Pacifica smiled weakly. She swallowed.

“Shannon?” she asked in a beseeching, almost childish voice. “Do you, um, believe in me?”

Shannon stopped.

Pacifica turned and looked into his eyes; Shannon’s weariness reflected back at him in the intense blue of her gaze.

“Believe in you?” he repeated.

“I mean, is there something about me—anything— that you believe in?”

Shannon sighed. Belief was a difficult concept— despite all the good it symbolized, he also knew it could be used to rationalize selfishness or deny reality. The ghostly image of Sinner cradling his daughter’s corpse still haunted Shannon.

“I don’t know,” he admitted at last. “It’s tough to believe in anything.”

“Oh.” Pacifica paused. She smiled. “Um, thanks. I feel better now.”

Shannon furrowed his eyebrows at her again. “That made you feel better?”

“Well, yeah.” The girl brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I like it when you’re honest with me. You didn’t lie just to cheer me up.”

She cast her eyes downward. “I know I can trust you,” she added quietly. “If you end up having to kill me, I’ll know there was no other way.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Shannon snapped. Inwardly, however, he was struck by her courage. He knew that faith wasn’t an easy thing, particularly when lives were on the line.

“You know,” Shannon murmured, “you might make a really good princess.”

Pacifica blushed slightly. “You really think so?”

If not for the prophecy, she would have led a royal life. Shannon probably would have never met her.

“Uh, Shannon?” Pacifica asked after a moment.

“What?”

“Please… take care of me.”

Shannon let out a breath. “Sure,” he answered, his words weary but very clear. “That I can do.”

“I’d like to argue that.”

Shannon whipped around, pushing his sister behind him as he did so. He scowled, resentment and frustration etched across his face.

Tactician Christopher Armalight stood in the darkness behind them. Shannon wondered how long the bastard had been standing there.

A large circle in the pattern of a honeycomb, full of small hexagons, rested in the back of Raquel’s mind. It was the data screen she maintained while Asgard was deployed. When someone entered into the detection area, the corresponding hexagonal cell flashed. She could then zoom in on that cell to determine the person’s height, weight, stride, and pulse. If she had preprogrammed the data for a specific person, the spell could automatically warn her when that person approached.

But there was a catch. Asgard was a “resident” spell that constantly used some of its sorcerer’s mental capacity while activated. Incoming information was still processed (even if the spell-caster was unaware of it) and hence the burden of the spell was usually shared among three or more sorcerers. Any fewer than that and a sorcerer risked diminished mental capacity or even falling unconscious. Raquel had reduced the spell’s mental burden by eliminating unnecessary processes and prioritizing the rest, but even using her modified version was only possible because of her tremendous mental capacity.

And she cooked supper while she was at it. Raquel strained slightly as she lifted the iron pot of stew onto the rack over the fire.

“Phew,” she breathed, dusting her hands. She shifted her gaze to the small fire and furrowed her brow. The flames weren’t nearly as tall as she wanted them to be.

“Maybe I should use a spell,” she wondered aloud. “But then I’d have to deactivate Asgard…” She threw a bit more kindling on the fire and sighed sadly.

Raquel often resorted to sorcery to solve everyday problems, but that was common for skilled sorcerers— they had to live, eat, and breathe sorcery before it could become second nature.

She had thoroughly memorized basic spells very early in her training, and had learned how to amplify, compress, and otherwise control those spells at will. That had opened the door to the world of complex, powerful spells, most notably military attack spells and special spells. Only rare Grade 1 sorcerers had the level of control necessary for using such advanced magic.

Yet with all her talent, the fire was still tiny. It mocked her with its meager flames.

I won’t let it get to me, she thought firmly as she rummaged through the satchel of spice bottles. I’ll just focus on the stew, that’s all. She pulled out a bottle and examined it in the near-darkness.

“Is this the salt?” she asked no one in particular.

Raquel suddenly froze. The Asgard screen popped up in her mind, one of the cells flashing red; someone whose data she’d inputted had entered the detection area. The red cell lay directly next to two other cells that flashed white.

“Shannon,” she breathed out. “Pacifica!” She jumped to her feet, letting the satchel and its contents spill to the ground. Bottles rolled in every direction.

She quickly glanced at the mess she’d made. I’ll clean those up later, she promised as she ran into the darkness.

Shannon made the first move.

He took a short step in and lightly crossed his sword with Chris’ battleaxe. He wasn’t hoping to accomplish anything—it was just a test. With barely a sound, the axe mirrored the movement of Shannon’s sword and parried it aside.

He’s good, Shannon thought. Most of Shannon’s opponents reflexively tried to push back when his weapon struck theirs. A master wouldn’t waste energy needlessly resisting an opponent’s movements; he would match his own movements to the attack, parrying the weapon and transitioning into a counterattack. It required split-second judgment and an intuition developed through rigorous training and a lot of combat experience.

Shannon knew he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. He stepped back and set his sword in the ready position.

Chris lunged inward, swinging the axe unexpectedly at Shannon’s feet. The strange angle of the attack took Shannon by surprise and he was unable to get out of the way; instead, Shannon quickly thrust his sword’s tip into the ground to block the axe.

The force of the blow pushed Shannon back a step. This kid’s stronger than me, he thought as he re-gripped his weapon. As he and Chris circled, sizing each other up, Shannon wondered where the hell Chris stored all his power—the younger warrior was Pacifica’s size.

“That’s a nice sword,” Chris commented, sounding genuinely impressed. “That blow would’ve broken most blades.”

“It’s a keepsake of my father’s. I couldn’t let anyone destroy it that easily.” In the back of his mind, however, Shannon knew that a few more swings of that axe could very well snap his heirloom.

“Then this next one’s for real.” Chris took three steps. The moment he was within striking distance, he swung his weapon with unbelievable speed, parallel to the ground and as high as his head.

Shannon ducked. Without missing a beat, Chris twisted the axe to bring it down diagonally at Shannon, and Shannon barely managed to jerk back and keep his skull intact. While he was off-balance, the axe switched directions again. This time Shannon dodged a fraction too late and the battleaxe left a long cut on his arm.

Chris fought aggressively—always attacking, never hesitating, his axe tirelessly changing directions to make his attacks difficult to block.

Ordinarily an opponent was vulnerable for an instant when his strike was parried, but Chris never left himself open. No matter what tactics he tried, Shannon couldn’t find an opportunity to attack.

And he was starting to get cut. None of his wounds were serious, but each time he failed to dodge, he was left with another parting gift.

“Shannon!” Pacifica cried after a particularly nasty slice to his forearm. Shannon regained his footing as blood rolled down his wrist.

“Stay back!” Shannon ordered as he dodged another swipe. He let his gaze quickly snap to Pacifica; she still stood well away from the fight, her fists clenched and her eyes wide with fear. “You take one step closer and you will never sleep indoors again! ”

As the axe came at him once more, Shannon suddenly ducked under the blade and swung at the axe handle. His sword slammed over Chris’ hand, locking up under the blade; for the first time since they’d started fighting, the axe remained motionless.

Chris raised his eyebrows. “Not bad,” he remarked. “But your technique’s a little restrained.”

“Shut the hell up,” Shannon growled.

“Tell me… Shannon, was it? Have you ever killed someone?”

Shannon glared.

“I’ll bet you haven’t.”

“Don’t make me tell you to shut up again!”

More than strength, skill, or speed, that was the biggest difference between the two warriors.

Shannon had been in many life-and-death battles, but he had never killed any of his opponents. True, it was a testament to his skill that he could defeat an armed enemy without killing him, but his unwillingness to take life still meant a constant, slight hesitation to his technique. Shannon could never fight all-out, for fear of striking that fatal blow. Against a master like Chris, he couldn’t afford that hesitation.

The two young men stared at each other over their interlocked weapons.

“I still don’t get it,” Chris remarked.

“Don’t get what?”

“Why are you going through all this to protect that girl? What do you gain from it?”

“She’s my sister.”

“Not a blood sister.”

Shannon clenched his teeth. “Why does everyone say that? It doesn’t matter—in fact, it makes it even more important that I protect her.” Pacifica had been abandoned by her real family; if Shannon didn’t look after her, who would ?

“But what if protecting her means the deaths of thousands of people? She may destroy the world, you know.”

Over the past year, Shannon had grown to hate those words. He hated the thought of killing people, hated that he still couldn’t be sure he was doing the right thing. But he remembered what Pacifica had said to him:

If you end up having to kill me, I’ll know there was no other way.

“Then… then I’ll kill her,” Shannon said darkly. “If that’s the case, I’ll kill her. But I won’t let anyone else do it. I’m the only one who has the right.”

“It isn’t a question of rights,” Chris said with a wry smile. He twisted the axe in his hands. “This is about strength.”

The shaft suddenly folded into thirds. The pressure Shannon had been putting on Chris’ weapon turned into forward momentum, propelling his stomach into Chris’ raised knee. With a gasp, Shannon fell, landing hard on the ground as his sword clattered beside him.

Chris calmly unfolded his axe to full length again, his ice eyes locked on the floored warrior before him.

“Shannon!” Pacifica screamed.

Dark cloak swishing, Raquel jumped in front of her sister. The sorcerer raised a palm at Chris and rapidly began her incantation.

“O, thou with whom we have entered this pact, lend us thy great power now!”

Chris spun around and prepared to dodge the attack, but there was no need. The landscape failed to explode.

“I guess it didn’t work.” Chris shrugged. “Too bad. Although maybe it’s for the best—using sorcery in close-quarters combat isn’t a good idea. You could have missed me and hit your brother.”

Chris was right: traditional offensive sorcery was considered most effective against distant targets or as cover fire for attacking troops. But Raquel, of course, had a history of succeeding with unorthodox sorcery techniques.

“Shannon!” Pacifica cried again, panic raising the pitch of her voice. She tried to run to him, but Raquel caught her.

“Let me go!” Pacifica shrieked.

“You’ll be killed, Pacifica.”

“But Shannon—”

Raquel held Pacifica to her with surprising strength. Pacifica struggled, but couldn’t escape Raquel’s grip.

“Let me go!” Pacifica screamed. “Raquel, LET ME GO!” With a frantic look in her eyes, Pacifica shouted at Chris as he raised his axe over Shannon.

“Please, wait!” she cried. “I’m the one you want! If I die, then no one else will have to, right? So just kill me!”

I want to die as Pacifica Casull, she thought desperately. If I’m going to die, let me die for the family that’s always protected me!

“D-Don’t be stupid,” croaked a hoarse voice. Shannon, still on his knees with an arm wrapped around his stomach, glared at her through his dark bangs. “If you keep talking like that, I’ll smack you.”

“But Shannon—”

“You’re not going to die.” Shannon’s tone left no room for discussion. “We’ll protect you.”

It was what they had sworn to do. It was what gave them strength.

“Repeating spell!” Shannon suddenly yelled. “Activate! Emulator, deploy! Main spell, activate!”

Chris flashed a perplexed look. He wasn’t trained as a sorcerer, but he could tell something strange was going on.

Just then, a powerful energy surged from below.

“Dammit!” Chris hissed. He instinctively coiled his body and jumped back, but it was too late.

Twin spirals of white energy erupted from the ground. The explosive torrent shooting skyward threw the boy high into the air, spinning him like a tossed toy. Chris landed hard on his back.

Shannon may have been hopeless when it came to controlling spells, but his enormous mental capacity still allowed him to store them. He had launched Ragnarok, a Grade 1 military attack spell generally used for large-scale military actions.

Sprawled on the ground, Chris fought to breathe. “So,” he gasped. “You had … a little… trick up your sleeve.”

Shannon snorted and struggled to his feet. He could see that Chris’ clothes were shredded, and that the boy bled from numerous wounds caused by his landing and the impacting heat of Ragnarok—but Chris would clearly live.

Shannon’s lack of precision had weakened the spell, and Chris’ own last-second dodge had kept him from sustaining lethal injuries.

“You’re pretty tough,” Shannon muttered as he retrieved his sword. Inwardly, he was relieved that he hadn’t killed the boy.

“And you’re not a s-sorcerer. So how did you do that?”

“I have the ability, but my control’s pretty bad. I had Raquel imprint the spell into my mind so I could launch it like a sorcerer would.” Shannon shook his head. “But it’s only temporary—I can’t launch spells at any time like a real sorcerer.”

It had been a risky gamble. An unskilled sorcerer launching Ragnarok could have easily ended in disaster. Shannon had been saving the spell for an emergency like this.

Chris gave a weak grin. “I guess I lost this one,” he murmured, looking strangely relieved. His ice-blue eyes rose to Shannon.

“Go ahead. Finish me off.”

Shannon shifted the grip on his sword. He knew that if he didn’t kill Chris, he’d just have to face the boy again someday. And Shannon wasn’t confident that he could defeat Chris again—surprising Chris with sorcery was a trick that would only work once. Killing the boy was the smart thing to do.

Killing. Smart. Two things that Shannon didn’t particularly associate with himself.

Shannon let out a breath. “Forget it,” he muttered, returning his sword to its scabbard. “It’s too much of a hassle.”

As Chris looked on in disbelief, Shannon turned and walked to his sisters’ welcoming arms.