The Day Luna Pienna Lost Its Two Greatest Treasures

At the barracks, Piccaron and Princess Anastasia arrived at a run-down room — the last one still unoccupied.

“I’ll send for you when there’s a mission. Until then—“ Anastasia’s tone stayed brisk, “—you can train with the regular soldiers if you like, or wander the city, I don’t much care. Just be where you’re needed when I call for you. You’re here until this business with Elmar settles. Understood?”

With that, she left him alone.

“Not so much as a single silver coin, apparently.” Piccaron’s mouth curved into something sly. “Well. Let’s see if these hands still remember how they work.”

He made his way through the city — Fengari, the capital, he’d learn its name by day’s end — cataloguing potential marks as he went. The city was laid out in rings, each one wrapped around the next like the growth lines of a tree: a business district circling the outer edge where merchants and traders kept their stalls, a residential ring further in where ordinary families lived out their days, and at the very heart of it all, visible from nearly anywhere in the streets, the royal palace itself, its walls built from some pale, silver-veined stone that caught the light differently depending on the hour. He’d never seen a capital organized with this much deliberate order — streets swept clean, each zone bleeding into the next with none of the chaos he’d come to expect from cities this size. It made for easy pickings, if nothing else. Fewer blind corners meant fewer surprises.

There — one down. His fingers found an apple and lifted it clean without breaking stride. He kept walking, whistling to himself, though the apple alone did little to settle his appetite. He lifted a loaf of bread not long after, and by the time the sun began sinking, something else caught his eye entirely — Miriam tobacco. Grown in the Miriam highlands, the finest of the fine.

I have to have it, he told himself. No question about it.

He managed it, of course, though the effort left him wrung out afterward. He fell asleep on a public bench without meaning to, dead to the world.

The next morning found him in the palace gardens, rolling his stolen tobacco with something close to reverence. Only then did he realize he had no way to light it. Cursing under his breath — his ability was useless for producing flame on its own — he flagged down a passing soldier and asked, sheepishly, for a small spark of fire magic. Satisfied, he settled near the garden and let himself enjoy the smoke properly.

“The finest tobacco, is it?” The voice caught him off guard — he hadn’t noticed anyone approach. He turned, and the sight nearly made him choke.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. I thought smoking here was permitted.” Piccaron’s embarrassment was plain.

“It’s fine.” The queen’s voice was gentle. “Just mind the sparks. Wouldn’t want to burn down the garden.”

She settled onto the bench beside him without ceremony. Her attendants looked visibly startled.

“Miriam tobacco. My husband’s always been fond of it. Genuinely the finest there is.” Her tone carried real warmth.

Piccaron stubbed out his cigarette and let himself study her face for a moment longer than he should have.

“A southerner, aren’t you.” The words came from the queen herself.

Piccaron only allowed himself a small smile.

“No, Your Majesty.” His voice stayed soft. “Been there a couple times, though.”

The queen took in his appearance — the rougher edges he hadn’t quite managed to smooth over.

“Are you eating well? Sleeping well?” she asked.

“Very well, Your Majesty. Well enough that I’ve had to steal for food and sleep on park benches.” Piccaron caught himself mid-sentence, startled by his own honesty. Why had he told her the truth so easily?

Princess Anastasia and Carmila arrived just then.

“Mother—“ Anastasia’s voice caught. “You’re—“

“Anastasia. See that this young man is given proper coin and a decent place to stay.” The queen’s instruction was calm, final.

“But—“ Anastasia’s surprise was plain on her face. “Very well.”

“Young man. I have matters to attend to.” The queen rose . “Thank you for the company.”

“You!!” Carmila rounded on Piccaron the moment the queen was out of earshot.

“Leave it. This one’s on me — I never gave him a single coin.” Anastasia sighed. “Pathetic, honestly, that it had to come to theft.” At last, Piccaron could smoke without needing to borrow a flame from anyone.

“Might I be permitted to visit the library?” Piccaron asked.

“Oh — looking to study, are you?” Anastasia’s brow lifted. “Fine by me. Take Carmila with you. Aside from being part of my guard, she’s one of the library’s own researchers.”

Piccaron pulled several history books off the shelves. Luna Pienna was, in truth, a stranger’s country to him — Marauder had never once assigned him here, and never without reason. He needed context. He picked up a few texts on healing magic as well.

“Books on magic. Didn’t you say you couldn’t cast it yourself?” Carmila asked.

“I’m curious. This particular magic’s unusual.” Piccaron’s answer came almost cheerful.

“Hah.” Carmila let out a breath, half exasperated. She hadn’t quite decided what to make of him yet — a man who’d killed ten trained mercenaries in the street without breaking a sweat, then charmed the queen into feeding him within a day of arriving. That kind of ease unsettled her more than it should have. She kept half an eye on him as he worked, the way she might watch a blade left unsheathed on a table.

He started with the kingdom’s structure of governance, city planning, terrain, social customs — the basics. His eyes caught on a single line that stopped him cold.

On that day, Luna Pienna lost its two greatest treasures.

“What does this mean?” he asked Carmila.

“Twenty-four years ago.” Carmila’s voice dropped. “There was a great upheaval in Luna Pienna. Prince Fano turned traitor. He was eventually put down by General Anzio, but the betrayal left a wound that never fully closed. A sword forged by the moon fae — Minas — vanished that same night, along with a newborn prince whose very name only the royal family itself was ever told.”

Twenty-four years ago. The only name in that story that meant anything to him was Anzio — a name tangled up in his own past, somewhere.

“Twenty-four years ago.” Piccaron turned the number over. “That would make him Princess Anastasia’s younger brother?”

“That’s right. The royal family’s never stopped searching for him.” Carmila’s voice stayed even.

Something shifted in his thoughts — Anastasia, the king, both silver-haired, while the queen alone carried black hair. A southern noble house, most likely. Southern women always carried that same sharp, quick tongue. The thought passed as quickly as it came.

He turned to the book on healing magic, reading it closely now.

“Healing magic — it enters the body directly, doesn’t it?” he asked Carmila. “Is there a simple way to explain how that actually works?”

“The body has its own healing mechanisms, doesn’t it? A fever breaking on its own, a wound closing over time. But that process needs a trigger — medicine, a bandage, something. Healing magic works on roughly the same principle, just channeled through mana instead.” Carmila answered without looking up.

“What happens if a person’s body rejects another’s healing magic outright?”

“Healers are trained to gauge the severity of a wound and calibrate the mana output accordingly — too little, and healing crawls. Too much, and it can actually damage the area further. But a body that flatly rejects healing magic, refuses it entirely—“ Carmila paused, thinking. “I’ve never come across a case like that.” She looked up at him properly for the first time since they’d sat down. “Why ask something so specific? That’s not the kind of question people usually think to ask.”

“No reason.” Piccaron’s smile gave nothing away.

Carmila studied him a moment longer than the answer warranted. Something about the way he moved between questions — history, then healing, then straight back to the exact mechanics of magical rejection — didn’t read like idle curiosity. It read like someone assembling a puzzle one piece at a time, careful not to show anyone the picture until it was finished. She filed the thought away, unconvinced, and said nothing more of it.

Piccaron’s thoughts drifted elsewhere.

If I could find a way to inject myself directly into a body — take control of the mana already circulating within it, without needing an existing spell to hijack—

He wasn’t thinking about how to make his own body accept healing anymore. Something else had caught hold of him. An offensive technique. A final, decisive move — something that might actually let him stand against Hennesy.

Was it even possible? The idea felt, on its face, almost impossible.