“I lost again,” she moaned.
“Good effort,” her brother offered as he looked down at her. Pacifica responded with a malevolent glare.
“A defeated warrior needs no praise!” she snapped.
“You should take any praise you can get.” Shannon raised his eyes from the crawling Pacifica to the creature that had defeated her. “You must be the only person in the world who would risk life and limb for an omelet.”
Desert Eagle clucked contemptuously. The brute of a chicken was no ordinary fowl. Desert Eagle was notorious throughout the neighborhood for stopping short only at murder to protect her eggs. She’d permanently traumatized a number of trespassing animals.
Tears of frustration welled up in Pacifica’s eyes. “But Desert Eagle’s eggs are the best!” she complained. “They give me the strength of ten men!”
“But are they worth dying for?” Shannon watched the hen strut back to her eggs with an almost regal air.
Pacifica clenched her fists and glared at the winter sky. “I’ll show that bird who’s boss tomorrow,” she vowed. “Just watch me—I’ll do it!”
“Right.” Shannon bent over to give his sister a hand up. “Just call it quits for today, would you? I need some help.”
Pacifica took the offered hand. “Help?” she repeated meekly. She knew what he needed, but she’d been dreading it for days.
Shannon sighed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I can’t do the funeral by myself.”
A crowd of townspeople watched as flames slowly engulfed the wooden coffin. The cremation was all there was to the funeral—no ceremony, no priest reciting prayers, nothing religious in the slightest. The fire reached farther and farther skyward, scattering sparks into the atmosphere before eventually fading. Perhaps comparing the flames to the transient nature of life was overly sentimental, but such were Shannon’s thoughts as he silently watched his father’s body turn to ash.
The simplicity of it all had been Yuma Casull’s wish. In the Linevan Kingdom, a funeral normally included ceremonies prescribed by the official Mauser faith. But Shannon’s father had wanted no such thing, for some reason.
His eyes fixed on the embers, Shannon called out softly to Pacifica. “Hey.”
“What?” she replied as she rubbed her nose along her sleeve. Her mourning clothes didn’t fit her very well.
“It’s… it’s okay to cry.”
“Father said he didn’t want anything depressing at his funeral,” she murmured. “Don’t worry about me.” Besides, she almost added. I’ve already cried enough. She and Shannon both knew that.
“It’s weird, though,” she admitted quietly. “I feel… different from how I thought I would.”
The last of the coffin and its contents dissipated into dust and smoke, giving the funeral a simple and quiet ending, typical of Yuma’s native land. The crowd began to disperse.
Judging from the turnout, Yuma Casull had been widely loved and respected—neighbors, friends, and even adventurers and peddlers passing through had gathered in the town square for his cremation. Yuma’s children were surprised at the large number in attendance, but one guest in particular was most unexpected.
“Is that the duke?” asked a voice in the crowd.
Shannon turned to see a figure at the edge of the square. It was a man around fifty years of age, with a stern, dignified face and quiet eyes. He was dressed in black mourning clothes similar to those worn by everyone else, but even the simplicity of his garb couldn’t hide his stateliness and elegance. A black-clothed woman stood in silent attendance beside him.
Shannon knew the man from official events in town: Luigis Franki, Duke of Manurhin. Shannon found himself wondering what “difficulties” of the aristocratic lifestyle had given the duke his worry lines. Like his father, Shannon had an irreverent attitude toward people of status.
Shannon and Raquel glanced at each other. They knew the duke’s reputation for being a kind and benevolent ruler, but why would a nobleman personally attend the funeral of a commoner?
Duke Franki slowly walked over to the Casull siblings and a very confused-looking Pacifica. Even she knew that an aristocrat venturing outdoors normally brought several imposing bodyguards, but the small woman with the duke didn’t look like a bodyguard at all. Her age was difficult to guess, but she seemed to be in her mid-twenties, with flaxen hair, cut short as a young boy’s, and cold detachment written across her sharp features.
Shannon noticed that her upper body didn’t move much when she walked, which meant one thing: she knew how to fight.
“You are the family of Yuma Casull?” the woman asked with crisp politeness. Her mouth smiled, but her gray eyes did not. “As I’m sure you know, this is the duke of Manurhin, His Grace Luigis Franki.”
The three siblings dropped to one knee in deference. The duke waved them up and smiled, the sternness in his face suddenly melting away.
“Let’s omit the formalities, my dear,” he told his attendant. “I’m here unannounced. I knew your father personally,” the duke explained, his voice quieting. “I’ve come to pay my respects—not as Duke, but as an acquaintance.”
Pacifica’s eyes widened. Father knew the duke? “Thank you, Your Grace,” Shannon replied evenly.
Neither his words nor his tone betrayed his inner trepidation. “I’m sure Father would have been pleased.”
“Yes.” The duke cleared his throat, then went on in a friendly but careful tone. “And, ah, what are your plans at this point?”
“Plans?” Shannon glanced at his sisters. “We haven’t talked about that yet, but I suppose I’ll take over Father’s store.”
“I see.” The duke lowered his gaze. When he looked back up at the siblings, he spoke rather abruptly. “And did your father leave a will?”
Shannon’s eyebrows furrowed. “Well… Father died suddenly, in an accident.” Shannon had been told so by the City Guard; he hadn’t actually seen his father die.
“Of course, but your father was a man who planned ahead. Widower that he was, I assume he left some sort of written instructions for his children in the event of some misfortune.”
The siblings looked confused, so the duke quickly held out his hands. “Although it’s none of my business,” he added. “I just thought that perhaps he… left a message for me.”
The black-clad attendant inserted herself between the duke and the siblings, cutting off the conservation.
“Your Grace,” she said briskly. “You must be going. Important duties await.”
The duke let out a breath. “Is it that late already?” he murmured. “Well, then, I must take my leave.”
The duke turned on his heels and walked smartly away, his attendant in perfect lockstep. Shannon almost called after them, but decided against it.
The man was a duke; no matter how puzzled, Shannon was in no position to question Duke Franki’s curiosity.
Pacifica voiced her siblings’ silent concerns. “Weird,” she muttered. “What was that all about?”
As the old expression went: “A crowd is the best place to hide.” A heavy, middle-aged man proved the cliche to be true as he stood among the mourners, his tongue darting in and out to moisten his reptilian-like lips.
“Is that the duke?” he grunted.
Wesson, the local carpenter, stood directly in front of the man. He turned to face him. “Excuse me?”
“The duke.” The man pointed. “Look.”