Shadows Over Arcadia

-3 years ago-

I am Maribel Holloway, age 12, and one day, I will be an adventurer like my parents and their parents before them.

I sit at the simple wooden table in our one-room apartment in the commons of Cairndorn, staring at the door. The room is dimly lit by the faint glow of the small metal furnace and a single candle flickering in its iron holder. We don't usually use wood for the furnace or candles unless it's absolutely necessary, but today, I need their warmth and light to push back the creeping cold, and the suffocating loneliness.

My hands clutch the sides of my head as I will the door to open. Please, I beg silently. Please let them come home. I imagine my parents stepping through, their faces lit with triumphant smiles, their arms reaching out to pull me into a hug. I've kept the apartment warm and inviting for them, preparing soup that now sits cold in bowls at their places on the table. Everything is ready for their return.

But they're not here.

They were supposed to be back before dark, hours ago. My parents are adventurers, trained to hunt monsters, protect clients, and gather rare materials. Their quests often take them far from home, so I'm used to being alone for stretches of time. I've grown comfortable with the solitude, even proud of how independent I've become.

But this is different.

Though they often leave me behind, they've always returned when they said they would. If they were delayed, they'd send a messenger spell to let me know. That's what adventurers do.

This time, there's no message. No word. Just silence.

It terrifies me.

My mind races with possibilities, each worse than the last. What if they can't contact me? What if they've been hurt, or worse?

I know their job is dangerous. Every adventurer's is. Deep down, I've always understood that one day, they might not come home. But my parents aren't just any adventurers, they're A-rank, some of the best there are. I've seen them take down powerful monsters, seen their skill and strength firsthand.

Perhaps it was easy to convince myself they were untouchable or invincible.

Every passing minute is agony. I sit at the table, my fingers tangling nervously in my hair as I try to hold back the tears threatening to spill. My mind races with desperate reassurances. They're going to be okay. They have to be okay.

But what if they're not?

The thought claws at me, tightening my chest. What would I do? What could I do?

My spiraling panic is interrupted by the sound of the door handle turning. I freeze, my heart leaping with sudden hope. The door creaks open, and relief washes over me like a flood, so powerful it nearly knocks me over. A smile breaks across my face as excitement and joy bubble up.

"They're back!" I whisper to myself, jumping to my feet. My parents, my invincible, untouchable parents, are home, safe and sound, just like I knew they would be.

"Mom! Dad!" I call out, my voice filled with joy.

But then I stop, the words catching in my throat as confusion creeps in.

The light from the furnace illuminates their faces as they step into the room, or rather, as they are dragged into the room. My father leans heavily against the doorframe, supporting my mother, who sags in his arms. Her head is bowed, her hair falling over her face, hiding her expression. My father's free hand grips the door handle for support, his knuckles white with strain.

Something's wrong.

"Mom? Dad?" My voice trembles as I step closer.

Behind them, a third figure emerges from the darkness, a bearded man with weathered skin and eyes as hard as stone. He shoulders much of their weight, helping to guide them through the doorway. The stranger's rough appearance and unkind expression send a jolt of unease through me, but I can't tear my eyes away from my parents.

"What's going on?" I ask, the joy in my voice now replaced by worry.

The man doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he helps my parents to the bed, his breaths heavy and labored. When he finally lets them fall onto the mattress, it's not with malice but exhaustion, as if he's carried them a long distance.

"Sorry, kid," he says gruffly, straightening them on the bed. "Your parents had a bit of trouble."

I rush to their side, panic rising with every step. Up close, the truth hits me like a blow to the chest.

My mother's chest is slashed with deep, jagged wounds, parallel cuts as though from a massive set of claws. My father's injuries are on his right shoulder and arm, the fabric of his tunic soaked with blood. Their skin is pale, almost gray, and a sickly sheen of sweat glistens under the faint light of the furnace.

"They were attacked by a Nightshade," the man explains grimly. "Its claws are venomous. Very venomous."

"They need healing! Or a potion!" I cry, turning to the man. My voice is frantic, but a flicker of hope sparks within me. Potions. Healing magic. It's not too late. This isn't the first time my parents have been injured, and they've always recovered. Always.

I cling to that thought, desperate for it to be true. They'll be okay. They have to be okay.

The man sighs, looking at me with a mixture of pity and regret. "Sorry, kid. I'm no healer, and I don't have any potions." His gaze flicks back to my parents, grim and resigned. "They paid me to get 'em home, but I can't do anything about the poison."

"Well, what do I do then?" I ask, panic clawing at my chest, tightening my throat.

The man shrugs helplessly. "I just happened across them in a bad way on the road into town," he explains. "Back then, they were still walkin' and talkin'. Offered me a silver to bring 'em home." His eyes shift to the floor, and his face twists with guilt. "Didn't think I'd be carryin' them before long. They're too far gone now. That Nightshade venom…" He trails off, shaking his head. "It'll make corpses of 'em, and there's nothing I can do."

His words hit me like a physical blow, sharp and heavy. My knees feel weak, and for a moment, the world around me tilts. But I won't accept it. I can't.

"NO!" I shout, my voice shaking with fury, as though I could scare away the despair that threatens to swallow me whole. "If I can get them a potion, they'll be fine!"

The man watches as I spin into action, refusing to let his words take root. Money! That's all I need. If I can find enough coin, I can buy the potions. I dash to the loose floorboard where Dad hides our savings. Dropping to my knees, I pry it open with trembling hands and pull out the small coin pouch inside.

It feels too light.

I open it, my heart plummeting as I see what's inside, ten copper coins and one silver.

Not enough.

The dread creeping down my spine tightens its grip, but I refuse to give in. They went on a quest. Dad must have taken most of the money with him. That's it. There's more. There has to be.

I rush to my father's side. He's still breathing, but just barely. His breaths are shallow and uneven, his chest barely rising and falling. His half-lidded eyes stare blankly at the ceiling. His skin is deathly pale, and blood stains his shirt, soaking through the fabric and spreading across the sheets.

"Dad," I whisper, my voice shaking. "I'm sorry." My hand reaches into his pocket, careful not to press against his injuries. "But I need your coin purse."

The fabric is wet with his blood. My stomach churns as I pull the pouch free, its contents soaked through with a sickening shade of red. My hands shake, but I force myself to open it.

Inside are five silver coins and eight copper.

That's six silver and eighteen copper altogether.

Still not enough.

My grip tightens around the bloodied pouches, and I clutch them to my chest. The man's voice startles me. I'd forgotten he was still standing in the doorway, watching me with the same sad, conflicted expression.

"How much do I need for potions?" I demand, desperation cracking my voice.

The man sighs heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "You'll need a curing potion each to counter the poison. Then one healing potion each for their injuries." He pauses, his expression darkening. "You'll need high-grade potions for what they've got. Those'll run you ten silvers apiece."

I do the math in my head, my voice breaking as I whisper, "Thirty-four more silver coins? I need forty silver in total?"

I've never even seen that much money in one place before. It might as well be a king's ransom. My stomach twists into knots as the weight of that number presses down on me.

"How do I get that much money?" I plead, looking at the man with wide, tear-filled eyes.

He hesitates, glancing away. "No honest way I can think of..."

"Please!" My voice rises, trembling with desperation. "There has to be a way!"

The man's sad eyes meet mine again, and he speaks softly, almost to himself. "I wish there was, kid. But the world ain't fair like that."

"Perhaps you can try selling some of their equipment?" the man offers as he steps toward the door. His tone is detached, as though the suggestion costs him nothing. "Might get you some coin that way. Good luck, kid."

He doesn't wait for a response, walking out into the night, leaving me behind with my dying parents and a shattered heart.

Sell their equipment?

The thought hits me like a bolt of lightning. Of course! My parents' gear, they've spent years investing in the best tools of their trade. They're worth something. Maybe even enough to buy the potions.

I quickly move to my father's side, unbuckling his sword and scabbard from his belt. My hands shake as I grab my mother's wand from her waist, its phoenix crystal catching the dim light of the furnace.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Dad," I whisper through tears, clutching their prized possessions to my chest. "But I'm going to need these. I'll get the potions, I promise. And... and I'll help you on quests to make back the money. I'll buy you new ones, I swear."

My voice cracks as tears fall freely, blurring my vision.

I spare them one last look. They're barely breathing, their faces pale and drawn, their bodies motionless except for the weak rise and fall of their chests. They look... like death.

It's unbearable.

I turn away, the sight too painful to bear. I don't want to see them like this. I want to remember them alive, strong, invincible. I cling to the lie, desperate to believe they're only sick, that this is temporary.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

I tuck the coin pouch into my pocket, combining the bloody coins into one bag, and bolt out the door.

The cold night air bites at my skin as I sprint through the empty streets, the fog swirling around my feet. Activating my Enhance Speed spell, I race faster, the world blurring past me. The faint glow of lamps from the market street comes into view, their flickering light guiding me toward my destination.

At the crossroads, the grand silhouette of the apothecary looms. Its magical lamps cast an inviting glow, a beacon of hope against the darkness.

When I reach the door, I notice a small line of people huddled under blankets, their faces drawn with desperation, waiting for their own salvation. I ignore them, my need far greater, and pull the door open, only to be stopped by a man in a red-and-white uniform stepping into my path.

"Halt," he says sharply, his voice firm and unyielding.

"I've got money," I blurt out, holding up the blood-soaked coin pouch, my hand shaking from cold, panic, and exhaustion.

The guard's eyes narrow as he studies me, his skeptical gaze moving from my tear-streaked face to the bloody pouch and back again. He doesn't move, and I can see the calculation in his eyes. He's used to desperate people like me, commoners who don't have enough and come begging for miracles.

"How much coin did you bring, and what are you here to buy?" His tone is cold, almost dismissive.

My heart races. I know what he's thinking. He doesn't trust me. And why should he? I'm just a ragged street rat to him. But I can't let him turn me away.

"I need two high-grade healing potions and two poison cure potions that can counter Nightshade venom," I say, my voice trembling.

His face hardens, the skepticism deepening. I can almost hear his thoughts: That's more money than this kid could ever hope to have.

"I have six silver and eighteen copper coins," I begin, but the guard rolls his eyes and moves to shut the door.

"Wait!" I cry, blocking the door with my foot. Frantically, I hold up the sword and wand, thrusting them into the light. "I have these! High-quality weapons! I can trade them for the rest!"

The guard pauses, his gaze shifting to the items in my hands.

"This sword," I say quickly, holding it up, "is enchanted, two enchantments! It was forged by the best smith in Arcadia." I lift the blade higher, letting the light glint off its edge.

"And this wand," I continue, thrusting it forward, "was crafted with a phoenix's mana crystal at the Arcadian Academy of Magic. It's worth a fortune!"

I can feel my desperation pouring into my words, hoping against hope that he'll believe me, that he'll see the value in what I'm offering.

"Yes, those are fine weapons," the guard says with a sigh, irritation flickering in his voice. "But perhaps you've confused us with a weaponsmith. We don't trade in weapons," he adds sharply, pushing my foot out of the way of the door. "Come back when you have actual coin!"

The door slams shut, leaving me staring at the unyielding wood, my heart sinking.

For a moment, the cold hopelessness creeps in. Is this impossible? Who would buy weapons in the dead of night? The weaponsmiths aren't open, and few businesses are at this hour. I clutch the sword and wand tightly, trying to steady my resolve.

Then it hits me, the Adventurer's Guild.

Of course! It is open at all hours and filled with adventurers who need good gear. More importantly, many of them have worked with my parents before. Mom and Dad had saved their lives countless times. Surely someone there will help, maybe they will even donate potions or money. The hope ignites a fire in my chest, and I take off down the road.

I run faster than I have ever run before, the image of my parents dying in their bed burning in my mind. I am running out of time. My heart pounds, my lungs burn, but I don't stop until I reach the guild.

I wrench the door open and burst inside, gasping for air.

"HELP!" I shout, my voice breaking.

The room is dimly lit but bustling, with a dozen or so adventurers scattered around tables, drinking and eating late into the night. Their heads turn toward me in confusion, some staring, others too drunk to comprehend.

"Please, someone help me!" I yell again, breathless.

A woman with kind eyes, the guild attendant, left her desk and hurries toward me, concern etched across her face. Her gaze falls to my bloodied hands and clothes.

"Hold on, little lady," she says softly. "What's wrong? What happened?"

I turn to her, my voice cracking with desperation. "It's my parents, Gareld and Tatania Holloway! They've been poisoned by a Nightshade! Please, they're dying!"

Her face shifts with recognition, and she nods. "Gareld and Tatania? Oh no…"

"Yes!" I exclaim, hope surging. "You know them! They're A-rank adventurers, they've worked with all of you for years! Please, they need your help!"

The guild attendant hesitates, sorrow deepening in her expression. "Are you their daughter? Maribel, right?"

I nod frantically. "That's me! Please, you've got to help them!"

Her shoulders sag, and she shakes her head. "I'm so sorry, Maribel. The guild doesn't have potions, and I can't give out guild funds. I… I wish I could do more." She reaches into her own coin purse, pulling out a few copper coins.

I take the coins with trembling hands. "Thank you," I whisper, tears welling up.

"What about everyone else?" I ask, turning to the adventurers at the tables, my voice rising with desperation. "Please! They're your friends! You've worked with them for years!"

They avert their gazes, some pretending not to hear me, others staring into their drinks.

"Please, someone!" I beg, my voice trembling. "You know them! They've saved your lives before!"

The silence is crushing.

How could these people, who had worked with my parents for so long, abandon them like this? They are adventurers too, don't they realize this could be them someday? My parents had saved so many of them before, always willing to lend a hand when someone is in trouble. How could they just stand by now and let them die?

"If you won't help them," I say, my voice cracking under the weight of my desperation, "then would anyone be willing to buy my father's sword or my mom's wand? They're high quality; they're worth at least 34 silver coins!"

I scan the room, searching for any flicker of recognition or willingness to help. For a moment, no one responds. The guild lady looks stricken, as though she wants to help but doesn't know how.

"I'll buy them, little lady," comes a deep, gravelly voice.

I turn toward the speaker, a muscular man with wild black hair and the stench of mead and sweat wafting from him as he approaches. His eyes, sharp and predatory, scan me up and down, never lingering on the weapons I hold out. His unsettling grin makes my stomach churn, but I forces myself to stand my ground. If he is willing to buy them, then maybe I can save my parents.

"But," he continues, smirking, "those things won't fetch more than 16 silver at best."

My heart sinks. "Sir, these are high-quality weapons," I say, my voice trembling but insistent. "They cost over 40 silver when they bought them. They're worth at least 34 silver, and that's how much I need to save them. Not a copper less."

He chuckles, a low, unpleasant sound that made my skin crawl. "I'll do you a favor and give you 17 silver for both," he says, leaning closer. "And trust me, you won't find anyone else willing to pay more."

His confidence feels like a slap to the face, and the way his eyes linger on me makes every instinct scream at me to run. But I can't. My parents are dying. If I can just sell the weapons, I might be able to save them.

I glance down, trying to hold back the tears welling in my eyes. "But that'll only be enough to buy potions for one of my parents," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

The thought strikes me like a hammer: would I have to choose which one of them to save?

The idea makes me dizzy with fear and guilt. How could I possibly choose? But if I don't sell the weapons, I won't have enough to save either of them.

"Fine," I say at last, my words breaking under the weight of my decision. "I'll sell them to you for 17 silver."

Tears blur my vision as I hold out the sword and wand to the man.

"Smart girl," he says, taking the weapons with a smug grin and slipping them into his belt. "The name's Bram, by the way."

He pulls a heavy coin purse from his belt and begins counting out the silver coins. My breath hitches as I catch sight of how much is inside, far more than 17 silver. He has plenty to pay the full amount, but he didn't even consider it.

Bram drops 17 silver coins into my bloody hands. The cold metal feels heavier than it should as I clutch them tightly and add them to my coin purse.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Bram says, his eyes still roaming over me in a way that makes me feel smaller and more vulnerable than ever.

"You know, there is something else you could help me with," Bram says, a creepy smile spreading across his face. "If you do, I'll pay you another 17 silver."

A flicker of hope cuts through the dread gnawing at my stomach. I ignore the unsettling feeling creeping up my spine. I need that money.

"Yes," I say quickly. "Whatever you need. I just need the money, and I need it fast."

"Good girl," he says, gesturing toward the door. "Come with me. I only need your help for a short time, and then I'll pay you the rest."

"Wait," the guild lady interjects, her voice tight with concern. "I don't think you should go with him."

I turn back to her, bitterness flaring in my voice. "Why? Are you going to give me the money to save my parents?"

"I... no, but—"

"Then I have no choice," I snap, cutting her off. "He's the only one offering to help."

Her expression crumples with guilt, but she says nothing more. I walk out, Bram holding the door open for me like some twisted gentleman.

The cold night air stings my face as I follow him down the street, deeper into the city's commons. My unease grows with every step, the streets growing darker and quieter as we move further from the lit main roads.

"Sir," I ask hesitantly, "what help do you need from me exactly? I'm in a hurry."

Bram glances back at me with that same unsettling smile. "You'll see when we get there. But you're right, let's pick up the pace."

Without warning, he grabs my hand and pulls me forward, walking faster.

At first, it feels like he is simply leading me. But when I try to pull my hand away, his grip tightens painfully, and my heart sinks. He isn't letting go. A wave of panic surges through me, my instincts screaming to fight or run. But I shove it down.

If I run, I lose the money. And if I lose the money... my parents will die.

We arrive at an old inn on the edge of the commons, a dilapidated building that caters to the poorest travelers. The wooden structure looms over the street, its faded sign creaking in the cold wind. There is no decoration, no warmth, just a dark, grim place.

Bram doesn't stop at the front desk. He leads me straight to the staircase, dragging me along as my pulse pounds in my ears.

"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice trembling.

Bram doesn't answer. His silence is worse than any words he could have said. The uneasy pit in my stomach twists into full-blown fear.

Up the stairs and down a dingy, dimly lit hallway lined with doors, Bram drags me along until he stops abruptly at one. He pulls an old iron key from his pocket, unlocks the door, and shoves it open. Without warning, he pushes me roughly inside. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I fall.

The room is stifling and suffocatingly filthy. A dirty, threadbare bed sits prominently in the center, its crumpled sheets stained and reeking of sweat and other things I don't want to name. The floor is littered with piles of discarded clothing and trash, and the corners are dark with grime.

It isn't a home. It is a predator's den.

The door clanks shut behind me, the lock snapping into place. My stomach twists as I catch sight of a few women's garments scattered among the mess, like the bones leaves behind by a beast.

"Relax," Bram says with a twisted smile, his shadow looming over me as he moves closer.

I take a step back, my legs shaking beneath me. "What... what do you need me to do?" I ask, my voice trembling, still desperately clinging to the hope that this isn't what it so clearly is.

But his expression gives me the answer before he says a word.

"Don't make this difficult," he growls, advancing.

"The next hour is a blur, a nightmare I can't escape. I try to fight. I scream, I beg, I plead. But he is too strong, his fists and words silencing me until I can't speak anymore."

I feel myself retreat, shutting down piece by piece, until I am nothing but a shell. I can't cry, can't scream anymore. I lie there, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling, willing myself to survive. Just survive.

When it is over, I stumble out of the inn, barely aware of my surroundings. My clothes are torn, my body aching, blood and essence trickling down my inner thigh, and my soul feels hollow. The heavy weight of 17 silver coins in my pouch is the cruelest reminder of what I've just endured.

I hate myself more than I've ever hated anyone.

This is my fault. The thought latches on and won't let go.

I am broken, ruined, worthless. Who could ever love me now?

But even as shame and self-loathing threaten to drown me, one thought cuts through the fog: I have to save them.

I can't fall apart. Not yet. Not while they need me.

I limp through the cold streets of Cairndorn, the apothecary's lights burning like a distant beacon. I clench my fists, forcing myself to keep moving. I could fall apart later. I could hate myself later.

For now, I have a mission. And I won't fail them.

When I reach the apothecary, I slam my blood-soaked coin purse onto the counter and demand the potions. The clerk eyes me warily but counts the money, nods, and hands over the four vials. The potions shimmer faintly in their glass containers, lifesaving medicine that I had paid more than just coin to obtain. My parents' salvation is in my hands, but the cost, it is so much more than I could have imagined.

Without wasting a second, I turn and sprint back toward home, pushing my body beyond its limits. My Enhance Speed spell burns through my mana reserves as I run faster than I've ever thought possible. My chest heaves, my legs ache, and the cold night air bites into my skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is getting these potions to my parents in time.

When I reach the apartment, I burst through the door, the warmth of our little home a stark contrast to the biting chill outside.

"Mom, Dad! I have the potions! You're going to be all right!" I shout, my voice cracking with desperation.

I stop mid-step. The furnace is cold, the candle extinguished, leaving only the dim, pale glow of moonlight filtering through the window. My father's face is faintly visible in the light, his expression still, his eyes closed.

The room reeks. A sickening, unmistakable odor.

"No... no, no, no," I whisper, trembling as I step forward. The air feels heavy, suffocating. I drop to my knees beside their bed.

"Mom? Dad?" I choke out, my voice a thin wisp of hope clinging to denial.

I open a potion, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop it. Pulling out the stopper, I tip the vial to my father's lips. The liquid glows faintly green as it slides into his mouth, illuminating his face in a soft, ethereal light.

But nothing happens.

The potion pools uselessly in his mouth before dribbling down his chin.

"No, please, no!" I sob, scrambling for another potion. This time, I turn to my mother. I pour the healing elixir into her mouth, praying it will work.

Nothing.

Potions can't heal the dead.

I collapse to the floor, the empty bottles rolling from my trembling hands. I stare at their lifeless faces, at the faint sheen of dried blood on their wounds. A hollow stillness fills the room.

It all feels unreal. Like some cruel nightmare I can't wake from.

Tears stream down my face as I cry out to no one. "I was too late... I was too late..."

I sit there, I don't know how long, curled on the floor beside them, clutching their cold hands as though holding on to them could bring them back.

Hours pass, or maybe minutes; I can't tell. Eventually, the tears stop, leaving a hollow ache in their place.

I look at the empty potion bottles beside me, their once precious contents now meaningless. The fortune I paid, the cost I endured, all for nothing.

That night, I lost everything.

My parents. My home. My innocence.

Even myself.

The girl I had been, the girl who laughed with her parents, who dreamed of becoming a great adventurer like them, died alongside them that night. What was left was a shell. A bitter, broken thing too stubborn to give up, too angry at those who had taken everything from me, and too envious of those who had never had to suffer like I had.