Several days had passed since the name Shina Mariposa once again shook the capital.
That morning's newspaper bore a glaring red headline:
"High-Ranking Terrorist Official Slain by Young Officer Shina Mariposa!"
Her name was once again on every page, whispered through the bustling markets, echoed in taverns, and murmured within government halls. From merchants to soldiers, people called her by many titles: The Ice Princess, The Empire's Blade, The Right Hand of Justice.
Yet far from the clamor of the city, Shina walked alone along a dirt path cutting through an open field of wild spring grass. The breeze carried the sweet scent of blooming flowers, and the pale blue sky hung low, lit softly by a gentle sun.
There was no uniform on her today—no badge, no insignia.
Instead, she wore a simple cream-colored long-sleeve shirt, a flowing skirt, and leather shoes dusted by the road. Dark sunglasses shaded her eyes, and her old brown beret—an accessory that had become iconic—cast a calm shadow over her unsmiling face. In one hand, she carried a large woven basket filled with food.
Her destination was a lone ivory-painted house standing in the middle of the field. Not a palace, nor a military outpost, but something warmer. Quieter. Alive.
A small orphanage—built with her own blood, sweat, and aching hands.
She stopped before the tall wooden door and knocked gently. From within, a young girl's voice rang out brightly:
"Just a second!"
The door creaked open, and two little girls with ribbon-tied hair rushed out, their eyes sparkling with joy.
"Princess!!" they shouted in unison, throwing their arms around Shina's waist.
Shina chuckled softly and returned their hug with tender ease.
"You're getting faster every time," she said, ruffling their hair.
Soon, more children appeared, one after another, like blooming flowers chasing sunlight. They crowded around her, beaming, calling her name, tugging at her hands, guessing aloud what food she had brought this time.
"Easy, everyone!" Shina laughed. "We'll eat together inside. I cooked it myself, you know."
The room soon brimmed with laughter, the aroma of food, and the clinking of cutlery. The children sat in a circle, listening intently as Shina told them about her latest journey to the northern territories.
She spoke not of battles or bloodshed, but of clear rivers, leaping deer, and skies that felt wider in the quiet lands far away.
Until—
The door creaked open once more—this time without a knock.
A woman entered with quiet steps, her presence steady and commanding. Her hair was tied neatly, and the long coat she wore still carried the scent of the outside.
Shina turned and smiled faintly.
"Sister," she said.
Lucy Mariposa stood still, taking in the scene before her.
Her younger sister, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by laughing children, their heads resting on her shoulders as if it were the safest place in the world.
A rare sight, especially for someone like Lucy, whose life had long been shaped by battlefield lines and unyielding orders.
She walked slowly forward and sat beside her.
"You look happy here," she said.
Shina glanced over and nodded.
"They remind me to keep smiling."
The children welcomed Lucy with no less affection, some even calling her Mama Mariposa, a title that always made Lucy blush.
In that modest room, two sisters—shaped by war, loss, and the search for meaning—sat side by side, surrounded by honest laughter and unconditional love.
They were not just soldiers of the Empire.
They were guardians of a future still worth protecting.
And on that day, amid the fields and the fading gold of sunset, there was no war.
No terrorist organizations.
Only two sisters, and a little family they had built with their own hands.
After a while, Lucy removed her coat and placed it across her lap, her eyes wandering across the room.
The children were finishing their meals, some already dozing off against one another's shoulders. The air was warm—like a dream that refused to end.
She leaned in slightly toward her sister.
"By the way, Shina… where's Aunt Yuni?" she asked, glancing toward the kitchen at the far end of the room.
Shina frowned gently.
"I haven't seen her since I got here. Usually, she comes out the moment she hears the children get loud."
Lucy nodded thoughtfully.
But before they could guess further, soft footsteps echoed from the kitchen. The faint aroma of fresh stew drifted in, followed by the sound of cloth sliding across the floor.
A middle-aged woman emerged from the doorway. Her hair was tied into a neat bun, with strands of silver peeking through her otherwise dark locks. She wore a faded gray house dress and a pristine white apron. Behind the tired lines of her eyes, a maternal warmth glowed—unchanging and enduring.
"Forgive me, Lady Shina. I was tending to little Lili—she got sick after sneaking too many cookies," she said, patting her hands dry with a cloth.
"She's asleep now, in her bed."
"Aunt Yuni!" Shina stood and walked over, her smile wide and warm.
They embraced—not just out of fondness, but out of deep, abiding trust.
"These children keep me busy as ever," Aunt Yuni chuckled softly.
"But when I see their faces light up the moment you walk in, all the fatigue disappears."
Lucy rose and approached slowly. Their eyes met—and Aunt Yuni's smile stretched even wider.
"Lucy… or should I say, Lady Mariposa now?"
Lucy laughed and returned the brief, affectionate hug from the woman who used to sneak her warm milk and quiet comfort back when she and Shina were little girls.
"How many years has it been since we greeted each other like this?"
"Since the world demanded you become warriors," Aunt Yuni said with a soft sigh.
"But to me, you'll always be the two stubborn little girls who fought over gingerbread in my kitchen."
The three of them laughed—and the children who hadn't gone off to bed giggled along, even if they didn't quite understand the joke.
Shina looked at them, her gaze lingering for a long moment.
And in that moment, with the evening sun casting warm light through the window—illuminating Lucy's face and Aunt Yuni's kind smile—Shina felt it again:
That maybe, just maybe, the world still had small corners where simple happiness could quietly grow, untouched by blood or war.
And this house, with all its imperfections, was one of those places.
{Chapter 19 end}