The girl hiccupped. “I trusted him, even though it was hard. He was the only real friend I’d ever had. So hearing him call me a mutt… I just couldn’t forgive him.” She pushed her forehead against the gravel. “He wrote me a letter every day after that, but I threw them all into the fire. I couldn’t even bear to open them.”
An oppressive silence filled the space between Chris and the girl. He waited a moment, but when she said nothing, he tried to prompt her.
“Well?” he asked. “What’s the point of all this? What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t know,” the girl hiccupped again. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. It’s just… seeing that sad look in your eyes, I almost think…” She sniffed. “You look the way that boy made me feel.”
Chris, in a rare moment, could find no reason to smile. He let his eyes drop to the rocky canyon floor.
“Um…” He paused. “What, uh… happened after that?”
Winia turned, confused. “What did you just say?”
“What happened after that?” Chris made sure not to meet her eyes. “I’m just… curious.”
She hesitated a moment. “We never made up,” she said softly at last, her tone heavy with guilt. “He died from some sickness shortly after.”
“Oh.” Chris finally found himself able to craft his trademark smile. It was a small smile maybe, but he could manage it nonetheless. “Okay.”
The girl stared at him in disbelief. “ ‘Okay’?” she repeated.
Chris suddenly sensed a presence and got to his feet, happy that he didn’t have to answer her.
“It looks like your knight in shining armor’s here.” Chris winked at her and picked up his axe. “No matter who wins, you’ll be home before you know it.”
Chris turned to see a solitary figure stepping into the Valley of Glass. The mosaic of reflected moonlight painted him with shards of white.
“Let me rephrase that.” Chris glanced back at the girl and smiled. “Your knight in leather armor.”
Pacifica clenched her fists so hard her knuckles turned white. Hunched in her chair, she squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth.
They can’t die, she thought. They can’t.
She wanted to pray, but she couldn’t. If God really was Mauser, Pacifica wasn’t in any position to have her prayers answered. So she just hoped; she hoped with every fiber of her being that her friend and her brother would come home alive.
Yet again, Pacifica was painfully aware of her own powerlessness. She couldn’t fight, she couldn’t use magic, and running or hiding only worked to a certain point. She was useless and she was helpless, and everyone she loved was in danger because of her.
She couldn’t do anything. Anything. Anything except…
Pacifica jerked her head up and turned to a nearby bookshelf. A candlestick rested on top of it, its stub of a candle melted nearly to the base. The sharp blade that held the candle in place rose from the melted lumps like a sword piercing through flesh.
Pacifica swallowed and started to shake.
She was afraid to die—the mere thought of it made her quake with fear. But sometimes it seemed like an excellent solution, the fastest and most selfless way for her to end everyone’s troubles. Whenever she was alone, Pacifica did her best not to look at any sharp objects. She didn’t know if there would come a day when her fear of risking her family would override her fear of dying.
“Pacifica?”
Pacifica’s eyes fell on the door beside the bookshelf. It opened with a mild creak, and Raquel’s head appeared.
“Were you going to help me with dinner?” Raquel asked mildly.
“Right,” Pacifica murmured, lurching to her feet. “I… I promised I would.”
“Make dinner?” Raquel clarified.
“Make dinner,” Pacifica agreed.
Raquel smiled and opened the door wider in invitation.
Pacifica sighed. So she had to do what she always did, didn’t she? Just wait around and have faith.
She sometimes wondered if dying could be as hard as having faith.
As Pacifica passed through the doorway, Raquel leaned farther into the room. Pacifica barely heard the sound of Raquel pushing the candlestick to the farther end of the bookshelf.
Chris was like a shadow puppet in the night, impossibly light and strangely beautiful. The glass-like surface of the canyon’s walls had weathered over the years, and thus shattered at the slightest impact; fragments flew into the air, decorating the night with moonlit jewels.
“You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
Shannon ducked under Chris’ axe, then thrust his own blade. The two weapons met with a crash, deflected off each other, and continued in opposite directions. Chris followed the weight of his axe in a roundhouse attack, but Shannon arced up his sword in time to deflect.
Shannon barely had time to think. The blows he and Chris exchanged were powerful enough to kill a second or third-rate fighter, but neither of them could land a fatal slice. Shannon was equipped with attack magic, but Chris had greater flexibility and surprisingly superior physical strength. Both Shannon and his opponent were too afraid to try a bigger attack for fear of leaving themselves open for a counterstrike. They were getting nowhere fast.
“It’s your fault for not finishing me off,” Chris retorted as he sliced from below. Shannon slid his sword over the axe’s blade, then twisted hard to drag the axe up in a wide, harmless semicircle. When the weapons hit the top apex of the crescent, the two young men slammed against each other.
Chris smiled at Shannon over their grinding, locked weapons. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, Shannon Casull.”
Shannon scowled. “You’re right,” he replied irritably. “I’m starting to regret it.”
Chris chuckled. He pushed harder against his axe, and Shannon felt his hands shake.
“I-I spared your life,” Shannon said through gritted teeth. “Couldn’t you at least use it for a worthier cause?”
“Are you kidding? What’s worthier than saving the world from destruction?” Chris still smiled, but his cold eyes darkened. “I don’t understand you people. And all your hypocrisy is starting to piss me off.”
Shannon furrowed his eyebrows. “Hypocrisy?”
“Don’t you see it? You’re protecting someone who’s supposed to end the world, but you’ll risk your life to save a kidnapped acquaintance. Why bother when your princess is going to end her life anyway?”
Shannon didn’t answer, and his silence seemed to bother Chris.
“What the hell are you trying to accomplish? You don’t have the guts to kill anybody, and you won’t let anyone die, but you’ll protect the Scrapped Princess? And I don’t believe that crap about you killing her if you have to. You don’t have the courage for that, Shannon, and you know it.” Chris sneered uncharacteristically. “Is this just one giant exercise in self-gratification? You want to play the heroic big brother, no matter the cost!”
Shannon panted a moment, his fists trembling with the effort of keeping his sword locked. “Maybe,” he murmured at last.
Chris’ expression stiffened as he shoved against his battleaxe. The force of the blow knocked Shannon out of the weapon lock. He staggered back a few steps.
“I can’t stand your hypocrisy!” Chris cried as he swung his axe at Shannon. Shannon barely pulled out of the way, letting the axe graze his armor.
“You don’t have a plan, and you don’t have a moral high ground! It’s all crap and it makes me sick!” Chris raised his axe over his head, priming himself for a killing blow.
Shannon tightened his grip on his sword.
Winia was hallucinating. She had to be. The clashing of weapons filled her ears, but she couldn’t watch the battle. Her eyes were already locked on the something else.
An infant lay on the ground, curled and hugging its knees. It made no attempt to move out of the shadows that swallowed it—why would it, when it had been betrayed by the people it trusted the most? The child could believe nothing, trust no one, and feel no affection. Only a desperate loneliness remained in its heart.