Ersia: Raven Dawn

“A super royalty who also works as a medevist?” Viena tilted her head, brows drawn in wonder. “But I thought Papa said royalty mostly spends their time meeting important people and making deals.”

“Well, that bears some truth to a degree—” Laura began, but then blinked, her fan pausing mid-tap. “Wait… how did you know I’m also a medevist?”

Once again, Viena had caught her off guard — and this time, Laura couldn’t help but let a small smile tug at her lips.

“Your hands,” Viena replied matter-of-factly. “They’re rough. And even though you tried to hide it with perfume, I can still catch traces of blue rasmun and apple cider on your fingers.”

Laura’s eyes narrowed with interest. “Well now… couldn’t that just mean I’m a chef? A very famous chef, at that?”

“I thought of that too,” Viena admitted, tapping her chin. “But it didn’t take long to settle on medevist once I noticed your eyes. When you stared at me, I stared back, you know?”

Viena pointed between her own deep blue eyes and Laura’s sharp gaze.

“Oh?” Laura’s voice curled, amused. “Do tell.”

“Your right eye,” Viena said plainly. “I’m pretty sure it’s partially blind. Papa told me excessive use of Arnazolla ointment can cause that — the iris darkens, the pupil fades a bit. Exactly like yours.”

Laura gave a rich, full laugh — deeper this time, genuine and warm. Then, lowering herself slightly, she rested her chin in her palm and regarded Viena with open fondness. The girl reminded her of herself at that age — confident, sharp-eyed, fearless.

A flicker of old memories stirred in her chest.

“Well… what can I say? You’re correct.”

“Right?! Right?!” Viena beamed, bouncing slightly. “Maybe I could be a medevist too someday?”

“Hmm, perhaps.” Laura’s grin tilted. “But it was Erucite, not Arnazolla. Different brew — side effect’s worse. Renders the eyeball immobile for a while. Technically, I can still blink, though.”

Both Lisabelle and Viena gasped, realization dawning fast — from the start, Laura hadn’t once glanced sideways. She’d moved her entire head whenever shifting her gaze.

Laura chuckled, reaching into her pocket.

She fished out a handful of coins and gave them a quick jingle before glancing at Lisabelle.

“I like you two,” she said simply, pouring the coins into Lisabelle’s pouch. “Consider this a capital boost — to help with the bet’s limit.”

Lisabelle’s eyes widened. Viena audibly gasped.

“Wow! That’s a lot of coins! Is betting really that expensive?” Viena's eyes glitter.

“Of course,” Laura replied breezily. “But don’t let it go to your head, kid. Let’s see how much you can make with that, shall we?”

". . . You're not going to take this back, right?" Lisabelle grasped her pouch.

Laura gave a mock-offended gasp, hand flying to her chest.

“Now why would you think so low of me? Those coins are yours. Use them as you please. Honestly—”

Her smile crooked. “It’d be even better if you used them for something smarter than betting.”

After a pause, Lisabelle finally accepted, tucking the pouch safely away.

Then, squaring her shoulders, she extended her hand with a small, confident smile.

“Guess we’ll grab every penny we can. Nice to meet you, Laura. I’m Lisabelle Arbona.”

This time, Laura froze. The name struck her like a silent bell.

For a heartbeat, her mind drifted — memories sharpening in vivid clarity.

“So it’s you,” Laura murmured, clasping the handshake firmly.

“Graham’s granddaughter.”

“You know my grandpa?!”

Laura’s laugh softened. “Silly girl. The real question is — which noble doesn’t?”

She shrugged off her fur coat and flipped it open, revealing the finely stitched trademark on the inner lining — an intricate, elegant monogram of A and C: Arbon Company.

“My father commissioned this coat years ago. But since Mother found it too bold for her tastes, it’s been mine ever since. Your grandfather’s personal design.”

She held the coat closer, wordlessly inviting Lisabelle to touch.

Lisabelle’s fingers brushed the fabric and she gasped softly.

It was heavenly soft, yet impossibly sturdy — and cool as the breath of early spring.

“It’s chilly… how?”

“Touch the buttons, sweetheart,” Laura prompted, her voice gentling.

Lisabelle obeyed — and her breath caught.

“T-This is… a metagraph?”

Laura’s grin grew proud. “Genius, wasn’t he?”

Viena, not wanting to be left out, pressed her fingers to the buttons too. A shiver of coolness ran up her arms.

“Wow…”

Lisabelle stepped back slowly, lips trembling at the edges. A warm haze settled in her eyes.

She remembered — hazily, but vividly — her grandfather’s workshop, the laughter, the scraps of silk and fur, his voice mulling over designs and dreaming aloud.

"Are you crying?" Viena's voice was teasing, but soft.

"C-Crying? Don’t be stupid!" Lisabelle barked, voice cracking. She turned on her heel, wiping at her face roughly with her sleeve. "It's dust! There are too many filthy carriages out here, obviously!"

Laura, still smiling, drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it over gently.

“Oh — and don’t get ideas,” she added lightly, slipping her coat back on. “You’re not getting the coat, no matter how much you blubber. It’s priceless.”

“N-NO ONE ASKED FOR IT! AND I’M NOT BLUBBERING!” Lisabelle snapped louder, blotting her eyes furiously.

"Hmm. But you can have this instead. It hardly fits my shine anymore anyway."

"WELL, THANK YOU THEN!!" Lisabelle barked, face flushed with embarrassment as Laura gave her the handkerchief.

The three of them teased and bickered for a while longer, their laughter folding into the noisy bustle of Rosmayne’s streets. Before long, Goldun trudged back toward them, his arms crossed and his brow pinched in mild irritation. Yet no true malice touched his eyes; his patience with Laura’s caprices had long since calcified into habit.

“Well," Laura sighed, snapping her fan closed with a soft click, "as much as I'd love to waste more hours with you two rascals, I’m running behind schedule. I’ll have to take my leave.”

She adjusted the fall of her coat, her smile settling into something quieter—almost fond.

“You may squabble and disagree as much as you like, but make sure to be there when your sister needs you. Be kind to each other, won’t you? Two is always better than one.”

At the word sister, Viena glanced sideways at Lisabelle, her brows lifting with unspoken question. Surely Lisabelle would correct that…?

But Lisabelle only shrugged. “Yeah. Don’t need you to tell me that,” she muttered, her tone rough-edged but warm beneath. “You take care of yourself too, Laura. There’s more folk than usual out this year. A flashy noblewoman with heavy pockets strutting down these roads is basically a banquet for assholes.”

Laura grinned and, without warning, ruffled both girls’ hair in one sweeping gesture. Then, with a flourish of her fan, she disappeared into the river of passersby.

The two girls stood there a moment, watching the purple blur of her figure fade into the crowd.

It wasn’t long before Lisabelle noticed Viena glancing at her again. Not just once—but furtive, sidelong looks, as though weighing something in her mind.

“What?” Lisabelle asked, her voice sharp with suspicion. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Huh? N-Nothing….”

“Don’t lie. If you’ve got something to say, spit it out already. It’s weird when a chatterbox like you suddenly clams up.”

Viena chewed her lip, hesitating. Then, softly:

“Why didn’t you tell Laura that I was just a guest at your house?”

Lisabelle didn’t answer right away. Her boots clicked steadily against the cobbles as she walked on, her gaze fixed ahead. Then—without ceremony—she reached down and took Viena’s hand.

“Because it doesn’t feel that way anymore.”

The words were quiet, almost careless—but their weight hung in the air between them. For a few heartbeats, neither girl spoke.

Lisabelle’s face flushed scarlet. She yanked her hand back and scrubbed fiercely at her head, scowling.

“Ugh. Stupid question. I’m disappointed! Nobody cares about labels like that anymore, got it?”

“S-Sorry?” Viena blinked, confused by the sudden snap.

“That’s why I’ll ask something better!” Lisabelle declared abruptly, spinning to face her with a defiant tilt of her chin. “Are you hungry, Vivi?”

Viena blinked once—and then her whole face lit up.

“Oh yes! Do you know the best food in town?”

Lisabelle smirked, the earlier awkwardness melting from her like morning fog. Her hand slid to her hip with effortless confidence.

“Of course I do. Just follow me—I’ll have you drooling all over the road by sunset.”

And so they did. The two girls wandered Rosmayne’s winding streets together, darting between stalls, snatching up skewers of grilled fish, sweet almond tarts, spiced pears dusted with sugar. Coins trickled steadily from Laura’s generous gift, but neither of them seemed to mind.

The laughter, the stories, the warm press of a friend at one’s side—

—those were worth far more than gold.

“Goldun.”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Have you heard of a medevist named Ran?”

Goldun scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Why? Is he special?”

"Apparently he is supposed to be remarkably skilled."

“Ran, huh? Hm.” The dwarf’s brows furrowed deeper. “Does he have a surname?”

Laura’s lips curved—not quite into a smile. “That was my first question, too. But no. Apparently, he does not.”

She slowed to a halt. With a quiet snap, her fan folded closed, and she turned—her gaze drifting back in the direction where she had left Viena and Lisabelle.

A soft gust stirred the street, threading fingers through her wavy brunette hair and lifting the ends like silk ribbons. A heady fragrance unfurled on the air, catching passersby unawares; heads turned instinctively, drawn toward the elusive flower.

But they found only a woman standing motionless in the road, her eyes sharpened into cold glass—

—still as if caught in amber, suspended in her own deep musings.

Goldun’s voice lowered. “Did something happen, my lady?”

Laura didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she raised her hand and tapped a finger beneath her eye—a silent gesture toward the Erucite ointment laced there.

“Thanks to this,” she murmured, her voice almost distant, “I caught something. Just a flicker… but enough.” Her eyes narrowed, gaze still fixed far away. “The smaller one. Viena. There’s something around her. Subtle—but unmistakable. It smells of Yarna.”

Goldun stiffened. His knuckles whitened around the strap of his satchel.

“Y–Yarna? Surely, that can’t be—”

“I hope I’m wrong,” Laura said simply. Her words hung on the air, precise and cool.

“That’s what I need you to find out. An unregistered medevist roaming the queen's land—and a girl wrapped in traces of black magic…” Her thumb flicked her fan open with a soft crack.

“I don’t like the shape of it, Goldun. Not one bit.”