Ersia: Raven Dawn

“Res… tau… ran… tion… Plant…?” Viena mouthed the syllables under her breath, her brows knitting as she squinted at the sprawling paper sprawled before her.

“Restaurant Plant? What’s that supposed to mean?”

She leaned closer to Lisabelle, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. The sheet before them was a chaos of scribbles, faded photographs, looping numbers, and clipped newspaper columns plastered edge to edge. Doodles — stars, arrows, caricatures with lolling tongues — danced along the margins, as if mocking anyone trying to make sense of it.

“It’s pronounced Restoration Plan,” Lisabelle murmured, lips curving faintly as she corrected her.

“Restoring… like scrubbing rust off a pan?” Viena tilted her head, blinking wide blue eyes.

“Well, close enough,” Lisabelle conceded. “But it’s not about pans.”

“Then… what is it about?”

“Me.”

Lisabelle rose from the sofa with an easy grace, her boots tapping softly against the floor. Without haste, she crossed to stand beside Theo, her posture settling naturally into the space as though she had owned it all along. Gino and Gina straightened instinctively as she moved—attention sharpening with the kind of reverence people gave a seasoned commander tying her cloak before a campaign.

With a flick of her wrist, Lisabelle gathered her platinum hair and cinched it into a low, clean ponytail. Her fingers worked with measured precision as she rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, baring her forearms. Beneath her composed exterior, there was a simmering confidence—an unspoken command that rippled through the room.

Viena stared, her breath caught. There was something magnetic in Lisabelle’s stance, in the cool clarity of her gaze. Without quite knowing why, she felt herself ready to follow any order Lisabelle might give.

“We’ve never had a proper introduction, have we?” Lisabelle’s tone softened, but her posture remained sure. Her arms crossed loosely as her eyes swept over them. “We’re distant cousins, after all. Funny how things carried on without us bothering to set it straight.”

She exhaled once through her nose.

“I am Lisabelle Arbona. Fifth generation of House Arbona — formerly noble, at least.”

Her voice had taken on a steady cadence now, measured and rich, as though she were reciting not just her lineage, but a history carved into stone.

“My great-great-grandfather was a rancher. Nothing grand — but sharp enough to save the Duke of Marnobel’s life during an assassination attempt. His reward was a small plot of land east of the capital. Modest, but it grew.”

Her gaze lingered distantly, as if seeing far beyond the room.

“His son — my great-grandfather — expanded that land after leading a successful military expedition at Mount Galivier. That land became a fiefdom.”

She shifted her weight, the rhythm of her words smoothening like worn silk.

“The third generation — my grandfather, Graham Arbon — took a different road. He loathed war enough to abandon the sword entirely and instead chose scholarship. In time, he became a merchant… and a brilliant one at that. He built a fashion empire known from kings to queens. His name graced letters sealed with royal wax. Some say he was as famed in his trade as Queen Luseya herself was in hers.”

“Wow…” Viena breathed, her eyes round with wonder. “That’s amazing! What about your dad? He must’ve been super cool too! But… I don’t think I’ve ever seen him… or your mom. I asked Papa once but he didn’t say anything…”

The air shifted—just a notch tighter. Gino and Gina tensed, their smiles faltering as their jaws set. Even Theo’s fingers twitched against the seam of his olive trousers, restless. A shadow flickered across his face as he stepped subtly toward Lisabelle, voice low with quiet caution.

“You can let it be, Bel. I’ll explain to her later if you’d rather not—”

But Lisabelle only lifted a hand and pressed it lightly to Theo’s shoulder, easing him back with silent resolve.

“It’s fine.”

Her voice didn’t waver. She turned back to Viena with a poised smile.

“Of course. He was remarkable. A young merchant who started with nothing but the crusts of a baker’s shop. He built his own guild from scratch.”

Her smile softened, touched with nostalgia.

“It was he who taught my grandmother every recipe she knew.”

She paused, just briefly — no longer than the space of a breath. When she spoke again, her tone remained light, but the edges were carefully smoothed.

“Unfortunately, he passed away young. Along with my mother.”

The words landed gently. Not cold, not distant — but polished, like stones that had been turned over so many times their sharpness had dulled. Theo gave the slightest nod. He understood. Enough truth to satisfy; not enough to weigh down a child.

Viena’s face clouded. Her fingers fidgeted against the fabric of her skirt as her gaze dropped.

“… Aren’t you sad, Lily?”

Her voice cracked just faintly — soft and careful, as if afraid her question might splinter something fragile.

Lisabelle tilted her head, considering her.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because… when I remember Mama, I’m sad.”

A long moment stretched between them. Lisabelle’s expression barely changed, but her eyes darkened by a shade. Slowly, she gave a single nod.

“I see.”

Her lips quirked dryly. “Then we aren’t so different, you and I. Truthfully, I’d wondered myself whether your mom left your dad - or the other way around - since it's only the two of you traveling together. But I guess it's the stuck-up, flat-faced guy like him who sticks around faithfully after all."

Viena blinked. She couldn’t quite parse all of Lisabelle’s words—but from the tone, she gathered it was half-insult, half-praise. Her lips pursed awkwardly before she let out a confused, polite giggle, unsure whether she was supposed to be offended or flattered.

Lisabelle’s smile gentled, softening the sharp lines of her face.

“But it’s all behind us now. I like to think—if they could speak to us—they’d tell us not to linger in old griefs. They’d want us to keep moving forward, to live.

So don’t fret, Vivi. You’re not alone.”

Silence settled thick across the room, heavy as dust in an abandoned hall. No one spoke. No one shifted. The weight of old grief and unspoken things hung in the air, pulling everything downward inch by inch.

Lisabelle felt it first — that dragging lull creeping toward somberness. The way Viena’s shoulders dipped, the way Theo’s jaw tensed, the flicker of unease behind Gino and Gina’s grins.

Too slow. Too soft. Too much past and not enough future.

With a crisp crack of skin against skin, Lisabelle clapped her hands once—sharp and decisive, like the snap of a general’s fingers before battle.

“Aaah! Why am I rambling like a stubborn haggler?” she exclaimed, voice bright and deliberately brash. She rolled her shoulders once, shaking the weight off like a cloak. “Enough of that. Ahem—let’s keep to the matter at hand.”

Her eyes flicked across the room, regaining their steady gleam.

“In short—my family was noble. Good nobles. Better than most. And now—” her hand swept grandly over the cluttered paper sprawled before them, “—I’m going to rebuild it all from the ground up.

You lot are going to help me.”

A half-smirk curled at the edge of her mouth.

“And when we succeed, I’ll reward you handsomely.

On my word. In the name of Arbon.”

“Yeaaay! Good speech, Boss!”

Gina’s grin split ear to ear as he clapped hard enough to sting.

“Marvelous! You’re killing it, Boss!”

Gino chimed in, slapping her palms together with bright enthusiasm.

They clap their hands after Lisabelle's declaration. Viena followed after, while Theo just rolled his eyes and sneered (obviously got smacked by Lisabelle afterward). Now that they are on the same page, Lisabelle and Theo begin the discussion about the Restoration Plan that they have worked on for quite some time.

---

“So that’s more or less the shape of it,” Lisabelle finished, dusting her palms together with finality. “What do you think?”

Theo crossed his arms, lips pressing thin. “Tall order. But not impossible. We just need to sort the fat from the bone, brush a few things sharp—and we’re good.”

The three of them—Lisabelle, Theo, Gino—leaned closer over the blackboard, their voices quickening, lines crisscrossing in chalk, ideas firing faster than arrows at a skirmish.

On the other side of the room, Viena and Gina sat slumped—mirroring each other in sullen boredom, shoulders sagging lower with every minute they were ignored.

Their pouts grew pronounced. Their glances sharpened.

Finally, Viena slammed her hand down on the table, startling even herself.

“That’s enough! Explain it to us too! We’re not made of stone, you know.”

Gina bobbed her head furiously. “Yeah! We wanna understand too!”

Lisabelle blinked once. Slowly.

Theo exhaled through his nose and exchanged a glance with Gino, who stifled a grin.

Still, after a long beat and two synchronized eye-rolls, Lisabelle stepped back from the blackboard and folded her arms.

“Fine. I’ll explain it once. Once.

Listen carefully from start to finish. No interruptions. No questions midway. No stupidity. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Boss!” Viena barked, sitting bolt upright.

“Y-Yes, Boss!” Gina echoed, clutching her notebook to her chest like a schoolgirl facing her strictest instructor.

Thump.

Lisabelle slapped her palm flat against the blackboard. A small puff of chalk dust burst outward like a white flare.

“We’re going to make a lot of money.

Our minimum target is sixty thousand Rios. Clean.”

“S-Sixty? But how—”

Lisabelle’s eyes sliced sideways.

“Shut your mouth. I’m still talking.”

Gina clamped both hands over her lips in a flash. Theo let out a short laugh, teeth flashing, shoulders shaking in silent mirth.

“Forty days of event,” Lisabelle continued crisply. Her chalk tapped against the board in time with her words, sharp as drumbeats. “Four master projects. Memorize them:

First—Project Chaperone.

Second—Project Paper.

Third—Project Overprice.

Fourth—Project Farewell.”

Her chalk wrote out each title with clean, deliberate strokes.

Viena’s lips moved silently as she counted on her fingers.

“C… P… O… F…?”

“No, no, no. Chaperwell sounds better,” Gina muttered under her breath, trying to sound clever.

Whoosh.Tock. Tock.

Two chalk stubs flew like tiny missiles—one striking Viena’s forehead, the other tapping Gina square between the eyes.

“Eugh—ow!” Viena yelped, clutching her brow.

“Oof—” Gina winced, rubbing her temple.

Neither protested further. They only grumbled quietly, knowing full well they’d earned it.

“Aight, aight…” Theo chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Chaperwell does sound kinda fine, to be fair, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Tock.

Theo, caught off-guard, jerked back as a larger piece of chalk struck him cleanly above the brow.

“What the hell? Why do I get the biggest one?!”

“Shut up, Theo.”

Satisfied order was restored, Lisabelle plucked the wooden ruler from the table and pointed sharply at the blackboard like a magistrate laying out a verdict.

“Project Chaperone—biggest and hardest.

We’re becoming tour guides.

Visitors will flood Fleurein starting one month before the events. We start canvassing from towns within a ten-kilometer radius on the first day of spring.

Theo—you’ve got eight months to prep it all. Are you up for it?”

Theo’s grin was feral. “Stupid question.

Money’s my god. I’d chew bricks for my god.”

"What an idiotic response since I'm asking for a simple yes or no, but whatever, I get it," Lisabelle shook her head in mockery.

"What?! Bitch, aren't you a little too extra today?!" Theo turns red.

“Lend me Eddie for a bit,” Lisabelle added briskly. “I’ll break down the finer details in two days. Don’t forget—separate your boys. The ones who speak foreign tongues? More valuable.”

As Lisabelle and Theo exchanged quick volleys of strategy, Gino’s quill scratched dutifully across his notebook—neat, precise. Gina scribbled too, though her writing spiraled into jagged, indecipherable scrawl.

Lisabelle caught a glimpse of it out the corner of her eye, grimaced slightly, but said nothing—for now.

“Project Paper is next hardest,” Lisabelle went on, tapping the board. “Gino—you’re lead. Lorenzo has deep client lists: pubs, rich merchants, guild officers, even military contacts.

I’ll teach you how to dig intel properly.

We sell those tidbits during the main events. Different event, different paper—so the process takes time. You start immediately.

Every effort counts.”

“I-I’ll do my best,” Gino stammered, straightening.

“Don’t be afraid. It’s so fun, you won’t even realize you’re working.”

Finally, Lisabelle pivoted toward Gina.

Gina stiffened on instinct, her smile twitching nervous at the corners.

“Project Overprice,” Lisabelle announced, voice glinting. “Your specialty, Gina.

You’ll sell random, weird trinkets—dressed up prettily and priced absurdly. Don’t worry about sourcing goods. That’s my headache. You only focus on how to sell them.”

“I-I don’t know if I even—”

“Come here, Gina,” Lisabelle beckoned, crooking a finger. “Sell me this chalk.”

Gina rose from the couch, her movements fidgety and uncertain.

She drifted to the blackboard, feet shuffling on the worn wood floor. Her single loose braid swayed idly as she shifted her weight left and right, her fingers twisting nervously behind her back.

Lisabelle, ever precise, stepped closer and tapped Gina’s shoulder lightly—her touch firm, grounding.

“Think of me as a potential customer,” she murmured, her voice edged with challenge but softened by the faintest curl of a smile. “Now, go on. Show my sister how good you can be.”

Gina turns quiet for a while until suddenly her aura changes into one of great intensity and fervor. When she opened her eyes, her facial expression turned so colorful that it was so captivating to see. If there were a million people inside the room, she would be among the hundred who catch people's attention. If there were a hundred people, she would be among the five most attractive people. If there were five people like now, then the spotlight is all hers.

“Hello! Good morning, ma’am!” Gina’s voice rang clear, warm, and melodious, cutting through the stale blackboard dust like a sunbeam. “It’s a pleasure to meet you! I’m Gina! Forgive me for intruding, but I couldn’t help noticing your commanding presence! You have the air of someone truly accomplished—are you perhaps a lecturer? A general in plain clothes? A guild official rising swiftly through the ranks? Or—dare I say—a merchant prince in the making?”

Lisabelle’s brows quirked as she folded her arms, slipping into her role with ease. “Are you trying to sell me something? I’m afraid I’m not interested.”

“No, no, never!” Gina gasped, as though affronted by the very suggestion. “I wouldn’t dare squander your precious time. Our meeting is fate’s design, and I am merely the humble messenger bringing you a tool to help you soar even higher. Please—just a glance, if you’d be so kind! Tadaa!”

From behind her back, Gina flourished a small box of chalk with theatrical flair.

Lisabelle squinted, her expression hardening into irritation. “All that talk and you’re showing me… chalk? Are you joking?”

"Not just some chalks, they are very special - one of a kind, chalks!" Gina said, her voice dropping into a confidential whisper, eyes glittering with mischief. "These chalks are mined in a faraway quarry of Mount Galivier! The surface is smooth, and it produces much less dust when you use it, so your chest won't get sick after years of practicing your metier! Plus! It won't break into pieces when you drop it by accident like most chalk! Also! The colors are bright and it's easy to erase and doesn't leave too much build-up stain on your blackboard!"

"Well, that's . . . interesting, but I don't think I really need it."

"Please don't give up on your dreams!"

"Wait what? It wasn't me who was supposed to-"

"I don't know what makes you give up and think of passing such a chance to have this chalk to level up your game, but you must keep going, just like me! Because, not only did you get this top-notch chalk that my brother worked hard to obtain - you also helped a little girl fund her way to school since all her dad can do is sleep all noon and then get drunk and beat his family all night!"

Lisabelle’s lips parted, her retort caught somewhere in her throat.

“…Fine. I’ll take a box.” She reached into her coat and slid fifteen Rios into Gina’s hand, her movements slow, uncertain.

"A box?!" Gina gasped, aghast. "Honorable Ma'am! A box would only last a month and a half at most! Besides, what about your son or your daughter? Wouldn't it be a fantastic gift to show your appreciation and support for their hard work? Why don't you try buying ten or twelve? I'll give you a discount and just tell my mother I got a few pence robbed on my way home!"

"You are right, I'll take it," Lisabelle gives fifteen Rios to Gina.

With a flourish and a radiant smile, Gina gathered the imaginary boxes and curtsied deeply. "Thank you, thank you! You are a wonderful woman full of grace and generous heart! Heaven must be filled with beautiful souls like yours!"

Clap.

Lisabelle clapped her hands and the roleplay was over. She is overjoyed to see Gina's performance. To think that she will only get better and better since she's still young makes Lisabelle giddy. 'A talent for a show that is shining brighter than a sun', she thought to herself. No wonder ever since Lorenzo Baretti puts Gina in front of the store to deal with the customer, the shop is bustling more than ever.

"Wonderful, Gina. Let’s tally it up—Etiquette? Check. Introduction? Check. Ego appeal? Check. Product strong points? Check. Empathy appeal? Check. Upselling? Check. After-purchase? Check. That is a perfect performance. Now, all you need is to be consistent," She pulled Gina into a brief, rare embrace—tight, approving, warm.

"Man, that's a pitch alright," Theo smiled also.

“Man,” Theo muttered from the side, his grin crooked. “That was one hell of a pitch.”

Lisabelle ruffled Gina’s hair with an uncharacteristically fond hand. When Gina shyly tried to hand back the fifteen Rios, Lisabelle waved her off firmly.

“Keep it. You earned it.”

Gina’s lips quivered before she dove into Lisabelle’s chest, hugging her tight, her smile hidden but unmistakable in the way her shoulders trembled with joy.

“Bossu… I love you so much!”

“Yeah, yeah. Back to the sofa with you,” Lisabelle muttered, hiding her smirk as she nudged Gina away, “We’re not done yet.”

Before continuing, Lisabelle’s gaze flicked toward Viena. The little girl sat motionless, her deep blue eyes wide and unblinking, as though spellbound by Gina’s performance. Not even her chest rose with breath; she might have been a porcelain figurine, were it not for the subtle tremor of wonder at the corners of her lips.

“Well then, Viena,” Lisabelle asked, her voice cutting gently through the thickening quiet. Her tone, as always, carried both warmth and scrutiny. “Did you learn something worth keeping?”

“Yes!” Viena beamed, her entire frame seeming to spark awake. She clapped her small hands together, the sound light and earnest. “You’re amazing, Gina! Teach me how to do that sometime!”

Gina tilted her head bashfully, her cheeks tinting pink. “Hehe, it was nothing~ Boss taught me everything I know. I just sprinkled in a little extra flair.”

Lisabelle’s smile flickered—not wide, but precise—before she snapped her ruler twice against her palm. The sharp crack echoed, slicing through lingering chatter and drawing all eyes back to her like iron filings to a lodestone.

“Now,” she began crisply, “the final project. A fresh design I conjured during our recent… retreat.”

Theo’s eyebrow twitched. “You mean your days in jail?”

Whack.

The ruler struck Theo’s cheek before his smirk had time to fully bloom.

“It was a reconditioning public facility,” Lisabelle corrected smoothly, her gaze sharp enough to pare bark off a tree. “True nobles of good standing—like myself—do not suffer imprisonment. Now shut your mouth if you want to keep your teeth intact, monkey.”

“$#^#%&*!!!”

Theo sucked air through gritted teeth, his hand flying to his face as he stumbled back a step, glowering. Muttering darkly under his breath, he trudged back toward the sofa, collapsing into it with exaggerated grumbles that rumbled low but never quite spilled into open defiance.

Lisabelle cleared her throat, unruffled.

“Ahem. Project Farewell. It’s a series of ceremonial rites, blending ancient and modern traditions from our Rosmesian culture. The concept is simple: it will be performed before travelers depart our land, to offer blessings of peace, safe passage, and enduring well-being. My target is to secure contracts with at least ten host villages—each of which will pay handsomely for the prestige of offering such a rich, ‘authentic’ cultural send-off. These cultural exchanges they so reverently call… what was it again?” She paused, brows furrowing slightly. “Ah—‘tourism,’ yes?”

Theo, massaging his cheek, grunted. “So what do we need to do?”

“Help me secure garment supplies,” Lisabelle replied smoothly, tapping her ruler rhythmically against her wrist. “And keep an eye out for dancers, clerics, ritualists—anyone skilled enough to give the rites some theatrical weight. I don’t expect much help finding the latter, but worry not. I have… cards to play.” Her smile was thin, edged with knowing. "If Project Farewell can work, it will really help us to get that 60.000 Rios."

Suddenly, Viena raised her hand.

Suddenly, Viena’s small hand shot up. “Yes, Vivi?”

“These activities sound like a lot of work,” she remarked, her voice thoughtful, eyes narrowing with unchildlike calculation. “How many people are we talking about?”

Lisabelle’s lips pursed, pleased at the sharpness of the question. “Roughly two hundred and fifty, counting us five. More than half of them are Theo’s boys. Mostly immigrants, drifters, and wanderers who won’t shy away from quick coin.”

Viena tilted her head, expression sober. “If they’re Theo’s boys… will they listen to you?”

Silence draped itself over the room like velvet.

Lisabelle said nothing at first. Her eyes, however, gleamed—not in irritation, but in quiet approval at Viena’s incisiveness. The faintest lift at the corner of her mouth betrayed her satisfaction. Still, she withheld her answer, letting the question linger like a gauntlet thrown on marble.

Then, without a word, Theo leaned forward and plucked a small cookie from the table, sliding it into Viena’s hand. His face, for once, held no smirk or glib retort. Instead, there was something quieter. Something steadier. His expression relaxed into something that almost resembled pride.

“They will,” Theo answered for Lisabelle, voice low but certain. “A hundred percent.”