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 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.
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 Enhanced 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 said with a sigh, irritation flickering in his voice. "But perhaps you've confused us with a weaponsmith. We don't trade in weapons," he added sharply, pushing my foot out of the way of the door. "Come back when you have actual coin!"
The door slammed shut, leaving me staring at the unyielding wood, my heart sinking.
For a moment, the cold hopelessness crept in. Was this impossible? Who would buy weapons in the dead of night? The weaponsmiths weren't open, and few businesses were at this hour. I clutched the sword and wand tightly, trying to steady my resolve.
Then it hit me, the Adventurer's Guild.
Of course! It was open at all hours and filled with adventurers who needed good gear. More importantly, many of them had worked with my parents before. Mom and Dad had saved their lives countless times. Surely someone there would help, maybe they'd even donate potions or money. The hope ignited a fire in my chest, and I took off down the road.
I ran faster than I'd ever run before, the image of my parents dying in their bed burning in my mind. I was running out of time. My heart pounded, my lungs burned, but I didn't stop until I reached the guild.
The moment I wrenched the door open, I burst inside, gasping for air.
"HELP!" I shouted, my voice breaking.
The room was dimly lit but bustling, with a dozen or so adventurers scattered around tables, drinking and eating late into the night. Their heads turned toward me in confusion, some staring, others too drunk to comprehend.
"Please, someone help me!" I yelled again, breathless.
A woman with kind eyes, the guild attendant, left her desk and hurried toward me, concern etched across her face. Her gaze fell on my bloodied hands and clothes.
"Hold on, little lady," she said softly. "What's wrong? What happened?"
I turned 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 shifted with recognition, and she nodded. "Gareld and Tatania? Oh no…"
"Yes!" I exclaimed, 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 hesitated, sorrow deepening in her expression. "Are you their daughter? Maribel, right?"
I nodded frantically. "That's me! Please, you've got to help them!"
Her shoulders sagged, and she shook 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 reached into her own coin purse, pulling out a few copper coins.
I took the coins with trembling hands. "Thank you," I whispered, tears welling up.
"What about everyone else?" I asked, 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 averted their gazes, some pretending not to hear me, others staring into their drinks.
"Please, someone!" I begged, my voice trembling. "You know them! They've saved your lives before!"
The silence was crushing.
How could these people, who had worked with my parents for so long, abandon them like this? They were adventurers too, didn'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 was in trouble. How could they just stand by now and let them die?
"If you won't help them," I said, 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 scanned the room, searching for any flicker of recognition or willingness to help. For a moment, no one responded. The guild lady looked stricken, as though she wanted to help but didn't know how.
"I'll buy them, little lady," came a deep, gravelly voice.
I turned toward the speaker, a muscular man with wild blond hair and the stench of mead and sweat wafting from him as he approached. His eyes, sharp and predatory, scanned me up and down, never lingering on the weapons I held out. His unsettling grin made my stomach churn, but I forced myself to stand my ground. If he was willing to buy them, then maybe I could save my parents.
"But," he continued, smirking, "those things won't fetch more than 16 silver at best."
My heart sank. "Sir, these are high-quality weapons," I said, 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 chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound that made my skin crawl. "I'll do you a favor and give you 17 silver for both," he said, leaning closer. "And trust me, you won't find anyone else willing to pay more."
His confidence felt like a slap to the face, and the way his eyes lingered on me made every instinct scream at me to run. But I couldn't. My parents were dying. If I could just sell the weapons, I might be able to save them.
I glanced 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 whispered, my voice barely audible.
The thought struck me like a hammer: would I have to choose which one of them to save?
The idea made me dizzy with fear and guilt. How could I possibly choose? But if I didn't sell the weapons, I wouldn't have enough to save either of them.
"Fine," I said at last, my words breaking under the weight of my decision. "I'll sell them to you for 17 silver."
Tears blurred my vision as I held out the sword and wand to the man.
"Smart girl," he said, taking the weapons with a smug grin and slipping them into his belt. "The name's Bram, by the way."
He pulled a heavy coin purse from his belt and began counting out the silver coins. My breath hitched as I caught sight of how much was inside, far more than 17 silver. He had plenty to pay the full amount, but he didn't even consider it.
Bram dropped 17 silver coins into my bloody hands. The cold metal felt heavier than it should as I clutched them tightly and added them to my coin purse.
"Pleasure doing business with you," Bram said, his eyes still roaming over me in a way that made me feel smaller and more vulnerable than ever.
"You know, there is something else you could help me with," Bram said, a creepy smile spreading across his face. "If you do, I'll pay you another 17 silver."
A flicker of hope cut through the dread gnawing at my stomach. I ignored the unsettling feeling creeping up my spine. I need that money.
"Yes," I said quickly. "Whatever you need. I just need the money, and I need it fast."
"Good girl," he said, 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 interjected, her voice tight with concern. "I don't think you should go with him."
I turned 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 snapped, cutting her off. "He's the only one offering to help."
Her expression crumpled with guilt, but she said nothing more. I walked out, Bram holding the door open for me like some twisted gentleman.
The cold night air stung my face as I followed him down the street, deeper into the city's commons. My unease grew with every step, the streets growing darker and quieter as we moved further from the lit main roads.
"Sir," I asked hesitantly, "what help do you need from me exactly? I'm in a hurry."
Bram glanced 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 grabbed my hand and pulled me forward, walking faster.
At first, it felt like he was simply leading me. But when I tried to pull my hand away, his grip tightened painfully, and my heart sank. He wasn't letting go. A wave of panic surged through me, my instincts screaming to fight or run. But I shoved it down.
If I run, I lose the money. And if I lose the money... my parents will die.
We arrived at an old inn on the edge of the commons, a dilapidated building that catered to the poorest travelers. The wooden structure loomed over the street, its faded sign creaking in the cold wind. There was no decoration, no warmth—just a dark, grim place.
Bram didn't stop at the front desk. He led me straight to the staircase, dragging me along as my pulse pounded in my ears.
"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice trembling.
Bram didn't answer. His silence was worse than any words he could have said. The uneasy pit in my stomach twisted into full-blown fear.
Up the stairs and down a dingy, dimly lit hallway lined with doors, Bram dragged me along until he stopped abruptly at one. He pulled an old iron key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and shoved it open. Without warning, he pushed me roughly inside. I stumbled forward, barely catching myself before I fell.
The room was stifling and suffocatingly filthy. A dirty, threadbare bed sat prominently in the center, its crumpled sheets stained and reeking of sweat and other things I didn't want to name. The floor was littered with piles of discarded clothing and trash, and the corners were dark with grime.
It wasn't a home. It was a predator's den.
The door clanked shut behind me, the lock snapping into place. My stomach twisted as I caught sight of a few women's garments scattered among the mess, like the bones left behind by a beast.
"Relax," Bram said with a twisted smile, his shadow looming over me as he moved closer.
I took a step back, my legs shaking beneath me. "What... what do you need me to do?" I asked, my voice trembling, still desperately clinging to the hope that this wasn't what it so clearly was.
But his expression gave me the answer before he said a word.
"Don't make this difficult," he growled, advancing.
The next hour was a blur, a nightmare I couldn't escape. I tried to fight. I screamed, I begged, I pleaded. But he was too strong, his fists and words silencing me until I couldn't speak anymore.
I felt myself retreat, shutting down piece by piece, until I was nothing but a shell. I couldn't cry, couldn't scream anymore. I lay there, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling, willing myself to survive. Just survive.
When it was over, I stumbled out of the inn, barely aware of my surroundings. My clothes were torn, my body aching, blood and essence trickling down my inner thigh and my soul felt hollow. The heavy weight of 17 silver coins in my pouch was the cruelest reminder of what I'd just endured.
I hated myself more than I'd ever hated anyone.
This is my fault. The thought latched on and wouldn't let go.
I am broken, ruined, worthless. Who could ever love me now?
But even as shame and self-loathing threatened to drown me, one thought cut through the fog: I have to save them.
I couldn't fall apart. Not yet. Not while they needed me.
I limped through the cold streets of Cairndorn, the apothecary's lights burning like a distant beacon. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to keep moving. I could fall apart later. I could hate myself later.
For now, I had a mission. And I wouldn't fail them.
When I reached the apothecary, I slammed my blood-soaked coin purse onto the counter and demanded the potions. The clerk eyed me warily but counted the money, nodded, and handed over the four vials. The potions shimmered faintly in their glass containers, lifesaving medicine that I had paid more than just coin to obtain. My parents' salvation was in my hands, but the cost—it was so much more than I could have imagined.
Without wasting a second, I turned and sprinted back toward home, pushing my body beyond its limits. My Enhance Speed spell burned through my mana reserves as I ran faster than I'd ever thought possible. My chest heaved, my legs ached, and the cold night air bit into my skin, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was getting these potions to my parents in time.
When I reached 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 shouted, my voice cracking with desperation.
I stopped mid-step. The furnace was cold, the candle extinguished, leaving only the dim, pale glow of moonlight filtering through the window. My father's face was faintly visible in the light, his expression still, his eyes closed.
The room reeked. A sickening, unmistakable odor.
"No... no, no, no," I whispered, trembling as I stepped forward. The air felt heavy, suffocating. I dropped to my knees beside their bed.
"Mom? Dad?" I choked out, my voice a thin wisp of hope clinging to denial.
I opened a potion, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped it. Pulling out the stopper, I tipped the vial to my father's lips. The liquid glowed faintly green as it slid into his mouth, illuminating his face in a soft, ethereal light.
But nothing happened.
The potion pooled uselessly in his mouth before dribbling down his chin.
"No, please, no!" I sobbed, scrambling for another potion. This time, I turned to my mother. I poured the healing elixir into her mouth, praying it would work.
Nothing.
Potions can't heal the dead.
I collapsed to the floor, the empty bottles rolling from my trembling hands. I stared at their lifeless faces, at the faint sheen of dried blood on their wounds, at the hollow stillness that filled the room.
It all felt unreal. Like some cruel nightmare I couldn't wake from.
Tears streamed down my face as I cried out to no one. "I was too late... I was too late..."
I don't know how long I sat there, curled on the floor beside them, clutching their cold hands as though holding on to them could bring them back.
Hours passed, or maybe minutes, I couldn't tell. Eventually, the tears stopped, leaving a hollow ache in their place.
I looked at the empty potion bottles beside me, their once precious contents now meaningless. The fortune I had paid, the cost I had 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.