Ersia: Raven Dawn

[Monda, 26th of Blue Rain, 10th Year of the Fourth Age]

The vintage grandfather clock ticked steadily in the parlor, its brass pendulum swaying beneath the faded crest of the Arbona house. The hands pointed to the fourth hour past midnight. The world beyond the shutters still slept, but Randia had long risen.

In the dim hush of the house, he moved with practiced precision, mending what most eyes would miss. His fingertips glowed faintly with muted spells, softening each clink and creak until the sharpest knock echoed no louder than the hush of a baby’s breath. Dust vanished beneath his touch, scuffed corners took on quiet sheen, and the old house, in its way, seemed to breathe easier for his care. All of it was done alone, in silence.

By the time dawn’s first pallor brushed the windowpanes, Randia had set aside his supplies for the day’s work and was reapplying varnish to a weathered side table. It was then that Eleanor stirred. Draped in a modest shawl, she padded softly into the room and paused at the threshold.

“Sir Ran,” she said gently, her voice worn but warm, “you know you don’t have to do all this, don’t you?”

Randia did not look up at first, though he clearly heard her. Only after a deliberate moment did he set his brush aside and incline his head slightly.

“This is far less than you have given us.”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Eleanor countered as she eased herself into the nearest sofa. “I did tell you — you’re our guest here, not our servant.”

Randia placed the varnish cloth down, then lowered himself onto his knees before her. His posture was formal, but not distant. His azure eyes, ever-clear and steady, held her gaze with a gravity that seemed to command stillness.

“No guest should trouble their host so deeply,” he said quietly. Then, bowing low so his brow nearly touched the wooden floor, he added, “Forgive me. I should not have taken Viena to the flea market that day.”

Eleanor’s brow furrowed faintly.

“What do you mean? What does Viena have to do with all of this?”

For the first time since the incident, Randia told her everything.

He recounted how Lisabelle had looked that day — her disheveled figure, her hollowed expression, the broken broom shaft clenched white-knuckled in her hands. He spoke of how Lisabelle had screamed Viena’s name, and what had happened the moment he subdued her to keep worse from unfolding.

Eleanor listened without a word. At first, her face grew pale and rigid, as though frozen in disbelief. But as Randia finished, her lips quivered and, against all expectation, a thin, tearful smile touched the corners of her mouth.

“Do you remember when I told you Lisabelle lost her parents?” she asked quietly.

Randia nodded once.

“The truth is… Lisabelle’s mother was pregnant when the tragedy struck. Seven months along with her second child.”

Eleanor’s gaze turned distant, her voice threading softer.

“I remember it so vividly. How excited Lisabelle had been. Before, she’d linger at school with friends until dusk. But once she learned she would have a sibling, she always hurried home. Every single day — without fail.”

Her fingers twisted absently in the hem of her shawl.

“And then… in one day, she lost them all.”

Eleanor drew a long, slow breath, her shoulders heavy.

“No one could understand her heartbreak. Not truly. Not even I. Because that day, when she wept, it wasn’t the wailing of a child. It was something deeper… something hollow and endless. Her cries were silent, so silent it chilled the marrow. So mournful that I swear, the flowers people brought to the funeral dulled in color when they neared her.”

Randia sat motionless, but something in his eyes shifted — a glint of understanding, and something heavier beneath it. He realized then what Eleanor meant without her needing to say more. In just those few days, Lisabelle had gravitated to Viena, despite such a very short time. She was drawn by an instinct she herself may not have fully grasped. To lose that bond, even in part, would carve another hollow space in her.

Eleanor saw the recognition dawn on him and, with quiet hope, held his gaze a moment longer — as if willing him not to leave so soon, not to take Viena away as he had perhaps once intended. Her Lisabelle, her dearest treasure, was quietly tethered to Randia’s little girl. Another loss might shatter what little had been rebuilt.

Randia inclined his head gently.

“Your granddaughter is a good girl,” he murmured. “She’ll be home today. And all will be well, Madam. Please… rest assured.”

Eleanor’s lips parted slightly as though she might say more, but instead she only exhaled a long, quivering breath and rose to her feet.

“Thank you, Sir Ran. Now… if you’ll excuse me.”

With that, she withdrew to her chambers, her steps slow but lighter somehow — as though a burden long carried had been eased, if only by a thread.

The clock’s thin second hand swept noiselessly across the pale face of the wall. Morning light slanted through the tall windows, catching motes of dust that hung suspended like drifting ash. Across the heavy oak table, the man’s deep voice settled into the hush with the gravity of a judge’s gavel.

“The academy board has ruled,” he began, his tone smooth but unyielding. “Effective immediately, you are stripped of your title as Perianthes, in accordance with the court’s decision.”

Karu Rodgers — unmistakable in his tall, broad-shouldered frame and clean-shaven, obsidian-dark head — sat poised like a statue carved from basalt. The polished horn-shaped breastpin on his bright blue waistcoat gleamed sharply under the sunbeam, its shape an unmistakable sigil of the spokesperson of the academy. To Lisabelle, no further explanation was needed. His presence alone meant finality.

“I understand,” Lisabelle replied evenly.

Her voice was soft but clear. No quiver, no falter.

Karu regarded her for a long moment, fingers steepled.

“Do you feel no regret, Miss Arbona? You labored long and hard for that title.”

Lisabelle blinked once, her gaze steady as slate.

“…Is that an official question?”

“No.”

“Then I am under no obligation to answer.”

A faint crease formed between Karu’s brows. Leaning back, he exhaled slowly through his nose. Few young wards ever held his gaze for long. Fewer still matched it. But this girl — this fifteen-year-old — did not waver. Her posture, her voice, even the measured stillness of her breathing — all of it radiated something unteachable: poise tempered by trial.

“Very well,” he rumbled at last. “Let us continue.”

He straightened a small folio before him, fingertips tapping twice before flipping it open.

“In addition to what I have stated, I am tasked to inform you of a revision to the academic calendar. The final field examination for graduating students, originally slated for Morning Breeze next year, has been rescheduled to Last Star.”

Lisabelle’s hand twitched — almost imperceptibly — as her fingers gathered a pinch of fabric at her blouse’s hem.

". . . So I won't be able to participate."

Her voice cracked, not with weakness, but with something more cutting — cold realization. The final field exam was the keystone of advancement. Without it, her academic standing would tilt precariously. Every remaining test she faced would bear twice the weight, with little margin for error.

Karu said nothing. He did not need to.

He closed the folio with a muted thud.

“The board’s initial decision was expulsion, swift and unceremonious. You should know that several of your instructors spoke in your defense. Without them, you would not have this sliver of reprieve.” His gaze sharpened. “I advise you to extend them proper gratitude for their intervention.”

He rose, adjusting the cuffs of his waistcoat. His polished boots echoed faintly against the marble floor as he turned toward the exit.

“Lord Karu.”

Her voice stopped him mid-step.

He turned. Lisabelle had risen to her feet. Her slender frame stood straight-backed, arms at her sides, her shadow stretching long and thin across the flagstones.

“Please,” she said, her words deliberate, “look after the new Perianthes. I am enough.”

Karu’s expression did not shift, but behind his dark eyes, something stilled — like a ripple settling into deep water. The overseer standing at the corner of the room heard nothing beyond the words themselves. But Karu, seasoned in the currents of unspoken meaning, caught both threads embedded within her statement.

First — a warning.

Whoever would inherit the Perianthes mantle was in danger. And that danger had a name, unspoken but clear.

Second — a vow.

Lisabelle intended to be the last. No other student would suffer as she had. The academy’s flaws had been dragged into the light, and she would not let them fester unnoticed again.

“Even now, your thoughts turn to others,” Karu murmured after a long pause. His voice softened by a shade, like distant thunder receding beyond hills. “You worry needlessly, Miss Arbona. Her Majesty the Queen herself has taken an interest. I assure you, this matter will not be left to languish.”

With that, he gave a curt nod, turned, and departed — the solid thud of the door closing behind him lingering in the still air like a final punctuation mark.

The sharp clatter of horseshoes echoed along the cobbled lane as the carriage eased to a halt. Leather reins jingled; the brass bell at the yoke chimed a crisp, clear note that cut through the morning hush.

Two figures alighted from the wooden coach. Their boots crunched softly against the gravel path as they approached the front porch of the Arbona household. The man rapped his knuckles against the door — firm but polite.

“Mrs. Arbona?”

Silence answered them at first. He knocked again, this time with a little more weight. Before long, the quick patter of light, hurried footsteps scurried across the wooden floor inside.

Creaaak…

The door cracked open by the width of a handspan. A pair of large, brilliant blue eyes peeked from behind the doorframe, accompanied by the faintest glimpse of a small, upturned nose. Her voice floated through the gap, cautious but curious.

“Can I help you, uncle? Granny’s sick.”

Both visitors instinctively crouched to her height, softening their postures so as not to loom.

“Hello there, little one,” the man said, his tone gentle and warm. “I’m Alan, and this here is Gwen. We’ve come to—uh . . . Well, we've got a business with Granny."

“Business?” Viena blinked, her tone brightening. “Are you selling something? Is there any candy?”

With that, she inched the door open wider, her tousled hair falling slightly across her brow, gaze shimmering with expectancy.

Alan chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.

“Ah—no, no. Not that kind of business. It’s more that we need to—”

“Viena.”

The single word dropped like a stone into still water.

A deep, sonorous voice from within the house. Heavy, deliberate footsteps followed — slow and assured.

In the next breath, a large hand swept into view, resting atop Viena’s head. The fingers curled gently, enveloping nearly her entire crown, and drew her backwards with practiced ease. The door swung fully open to reveal him.

Randia.

He stood tall in the doorway — broad-shouldered, the linen of his dark tunic pulled taut across his frame. His presence had the same quiet pressure as a drawn bowstring. The faint lines of old scars ghosted along his forearms, and thin bandages veiled portions of his angular face. From between those folds, his eyes—clear, cerulean, and unblinking—met theirs with unwavering calm.

“I apologize,” he said, his voice deep and measured. “My daughter is swift on her feet.”

Alan and Gwen stiffened. Both straightened instinctively, craning their necks to meet his gaze properly. Alan swallowed, throat bobbing as he took an involuntary half-step back.

"A-Ah yes, don't worry about it . . . ."

"Y-Yeah, we were just . . . talking . . . ."

The two officials instinctively took a step back, as though trying to gauge the full breadth of Randia’s formidable frame. Alan’s breath caught in quiet awe, struck by the man’s sculpted, unyielding physique — an effortless testament to years of discipline. Beside him, Gwen’s gaze lingered, spellbound by the piercing blue of Randia’s eyes that gleamed through the folds of his bandages like shards of polished sapphire.

“Aren’t you Doctor Ran?” Alan asked, his voice a touch more reverent now.

“The medevist who was struck by the girl?” Gwen added, turning to Alan with a flicker of recognition.

“My condolences, doctor. Is your injury mending well?” Alan stepped forward and extended his hand.

“There is no need for condolences,” Randia replied smoothly, clasping Alan’s hand with a firm but measured grip. His lips curved into the faintest smile. “I am alive and well. The wound is closing nicely.”

As the two officials remained momentarily caught in their admiration, Randia’s gaze slid toward the carriage waiting at the roadside.

“I presume there is much to discuss,” he said, his tone even. “But before that—Lisabelle. She is inside, is she not?”

“Yes, she is there,” Alan confirmed, glancing over his shoulder. “Just sitting quietly… well, probably asleep by now.”

“No worries,” Gwen chimed in. “It’s not like we had to restrain her or anything. Honestly, she’s been surprisingly docile — not at all like the stories made her out to be. So, yeah… no handcuffs.”

Randia inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, then spoke gently,

“I apologize for the imposition, but… might the madam meet her? It would ease her spirit greatly.”

Alan and Gwen exchanged a brief, uncertain glance — neither quite ready to make the call. After a silent beat, they both shrugged, wordlessly agreeing, and began strolling toward the carriage.

“What was the protocol again?” Alan muttered under his breath.

“Eh, who cares?” Gwen whispered back, though her voice carried. “What kind of officer keeps a grandmother from her granddaughter?”

The two officials whispered to each other, although it was loud enough to be heard by anyone nearby.

Meanwhile, Randia told Viena to bring Eleanor and guide her to the front porch. Randia moved with calm purpose toward the side yard. His hands worked deftly, tidying the outdoor table and straightening the chairs. With a practiced flick of his fingers, a subtle glimmer of magic coaxed the kettle to boil, the faint steam curling upward as fragrant tea leaves unfurled within the pot. He intended to give Eleanor and Lisabelle their privacy — while he handled the officials and the weightier conversation.

Moments later, Viena returned, her small hand carefully supporting Eleanor’s elbow. The older woman’s steps were slow but determined. Almost at the same time, Lisabelle descended from the carriage, her figure silhouetted against the bright morning light.

Eleanor’s breath caught as her gaze fell upon her granddaughter. Without hesitation, she broke into a hurried stride — the years seeming to peel away as urgency propelled her forward. Lisabelle, upon seeing her grandmother’s wavering gait, gave a start and rushed to meet her halfway.

Their embrace collided like a quiet storm. Eleanor wrapped her arms around Lisabelle’s slender frame, clutching her as though she might vanish if loosened. Tears cascaded freely down her wrinkled cheeks as she whispered fervent prayers of gratitude to Aine, her voice trembling between sobs. She kissed Lisabelle’s brow and cheeks over and over, fingers trembling as they combed through the girl’s dark hair.

Lisabelle’s face was drawn, her lips pressed tightly together. No tears fell from her eyes, but sorrow shadowed every line of her expression. She opened her mouth as though to speak — to explain, to apologize — but Eleanor hushed her, cradling her face between trembling palms.

A few paces away, Randia approached Alan and Gwen quietly. His voice dropped to a low murmur, threading between their reverie.

“Sir Alan. Lady Gwen.” His tone was gentle but definitive. “Let us give them a moment alone, shall we?”

He extended an open hand toward the shaded side yard where the tea was set. A silent invitation — calm, composed, and impossible to refuse.

Alan blinked rapidly, discreetly wiping at the corners of his eyes. Gwen cleared her throat and averted her gaze, blinking fast.

“…Yes. Yes, of course,” Alan managed, his voice thick.

Wordlessly, they followed Randia.