A day without Contract

The child cried, though no sound came with it. None of the usual tantrums a kid that age throws. At an age this small, he’d been handed a truth too heavy to carry.

“Did you steal me away from my parents?” His voice shook.

“They never cared about you. I’ve raised you since the day you were born, up to now. I gave you your life. That life belongs to me.” The man’s voice carried no cruelty in it — just certainty.

“Piccaron. This sword—“ the man went on, “—is your life. And that necklace around your neck is your past. Guard them both well.” It was Marauder’s voice.

Piccaron woke with a crushing weight in his chest. A few tears had already slipped free before he knew it. He scanned the room he was in, searching for his old sword. It sat within reach, to his right. His hand went next to the necklace at his throat.

“Oh — you’re awake.” A middle-aged man appeared and set down a glass of water beside him.

“No liquor? Cigarettes?” Piccaron’s voice was rough after he drained the glass.

“Cigarettes, sure. Liquor—“ the man shook his head, “—gave that up a long time ago.”

“Which kingdom am I in?” Piccaron’s voice had gone soft.

“Luna Pienna. You’ve been out cold a full week. Me and my little girl found you in the river, out fishing.”

“Piccaron.” He offered the name warmly.

“Piccaron. Like the bird?”

“That’s right.”

“Jonas. I’m a tailor by trade. And you?”

The question caught him off guard. Who was he now, exactly? A mercenary? His guild didn’t exist anymore. Without a contract to his name, he had no answer for who he actually was.

“Ah — about that sword of yours. The bandage wrapped around it’s torn through. Want a replacement? Here.” Jonas offered it with a small smile, asking nothing about the silence that followed. Seeing how drained Piccaron looked, he left him alone in the room.

The tears came again, quiet, with no expression to carry them.

A month passed. Piccaron stayed on, helping Jonas and his little girl with the heavy work around the house. His strength came back slow, and the labor felt almost like training in disguise. He split wood, hauled loads, swept the yard, went fishing with Jonas some mornings, played with his daughter in the afternoons.

“Uncle Piccaron, will you teach me swordfighting?” the girl asked one day.

“No.” Piccaron’s grin was easy. “I’ll teach you how to fish instead. Your father’s hopeless at it.”

“Hey — I caught myself a big one just now.” Jonas pointed straight at Piccaron, and the three of them broke into laughter. Their little household grew fuller still when Jonas’s wife finally returned from a long stretch of business travel. That evening, the four of them grilled the morning’s catch together.

On the thirty-first, the end of the month, Piccaron went with Jonas to the capital of the Kingdom of Luna Pienna. Jonas meant to sell some of his work there — his craft was fine enough that Piccaron wanted to come along, just to keep an eye on him. He’d run more missions across the Bleu Weiss region than he could count, but never once inside this particular capital. He took in the city as they walked — polished, orderly, peaceful in a way that felt almost foreign. Something in him went still, just looking at it.

Piccaron waited outside while Jonas went into the shop. Then something caught his attention — a group of ten, moving with the unmistakable bearing of high-tier mercenaries, already stirring up trouble in the street. His pulse quickened despite himself, and he stepped in to confront them.

“Pelican? The Pelican mercenary company.” His eyes narrowed. They were based out of Elmar. That alone made this dangerous — what business could bring them all the way to Luna Pienna?

The first man swung at him. Piccaron ducked low, drove a fist into his jaw, and lifted the man’s own sword off him before he hit the ground. He still carried his old blade at his hip, wrapped and untouched — he had no intention of drawing it.

The disarmed man lunged to reclaim his weapon, and Piccaron’s borrowed blade found his throat before he got close. The rest came at him together after that. Their swordwork wasn’t something to take lightly — real skill in every one of them — but by the end, Piccaron had put down all ten.

“They needed killing.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Word getting out that I’m here would’ve been worse.”

“Damn it, this wound still hasn’t healed.” He winced, pain flashing across his face.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” A voice cut through — sharp, cultured, unmistakably nobility. Behind the woman who’d spoken stood a short-haired woman of striking beauty, a young man who carried himself like a prodigy from some military house, and an awkward-looking man clutching a mage’s staff.

“Ah — apologies.” Piccaron moved to hide the blood on his blade, and the small motion was enough to raise the short-haired woman’s eyebrow.

“Care to explain yourself?” the noblewoman asked.

“Mercenaries. Trying to stir up trouble. This was self-defense, nothing more.” Piccaron’s tone stayed even.

Neither she nor her companions looked remotely convinced.

“You’ve got the look of a southerner. You’re not from around here.” The young prodigy’s eyes were hard.

“Come on.” Piccaron let out a tired breath.

“Max!” the noblewoman shouted, but too late — the prodigy, Max, had already lunged. Piccaron deflected the strike and answered with a counter that sent Max sprawling backward. Quick as anything, the noblewoman’s team closed ranks, catching Max and locking Piccaron into a binding formation.

“The Musk Blade Formation?” Piccaron’s tone stayed almost pleasant. “Now that’s interesting.”

“How do you know that technique’s name?” the short-haired woman demanded.

A moment later, Piccaron angled his blade against the formation meant to hold him in place — and turned it inside out. The lock reversed on itself entirely, and his sword found its way to the noblewoman’s own throat. He smiled, small and easy, stepping free of the formation as he did.

“My apologies, Your Highness.”

The princess said nothing.

“The Musk Blade Formation puts the noble at the center — meant to be the safest position in the whole arrangement.” Piccaron’s voice was almost instructive. “Funny thing is, that makes her the one in the most danger, not the least.”

“You’ve killed men in the capital and attacked Princess Anastasia’s own guard. There’s no defense left for you.” The short-haired woman’s voice was cold.

“Wait, Carmila.” Princess Anastasia held up a hand.

Anastasia studied the scene with careful eyes. Breaking free of the Musk Blade Formation was no small feat — whoever this man was, he warranted caution before anything else.

“Oh? Carmila, is it? Go ahead, then. Take me in.” Piccaron let his blade fall to the ground and offered both wrists freely.

“Sweetheart, I surrender.” His grin didn’t waver.

“You’ve got no shame! Die!!” Max, still burning with fury, hurled a blast of elemental fire — and the flame slipped past his control entirely, arcing wild toward the city itself.

“Max!! Damn it!! Edric, help me put that out!!” Anastasia’s scream tore through the chaos as she turned to her mage.

It looked too late. The uncontrolled blaze curved suddenly toward a small girl standing nearby. The princess and her team went rigid with panic.

Piccaron was already moving. He slipped free of Carmila’s binding cuffs in the same motion, closed the distance, and caught the wild flame in his hand — twisting Max’s fire into the shape of a small phoenix, drifting harmless in the air.

“Little one. You like phoenixes?” His voice had gone gentle.

The girl clapped her hands, delighted, watching the tiny bird of flame dance above her. A moment later it dissolved into the sky. Anastasia and her entire team stood frozen, utterly stunned.

“I surrender.” Piccaron’s voice turned cold again. “But I want a fair hearing before the king. I need the chance to explain myself.”

Jonas, stepping out of the shop just in time to see Piccaron led away by the crown’s guard, only smiled and lifted a hand in a small wave.