Ersia: Raven Dawn

The village square bustled with life as the spoils of the hunt were laid out beneath the open sky. Smoke curled lazily from makeshift grills, and the fragrant scent of roasting meat drifted through the air. Rabbit skewers crackled over the flames, thick chunks of venison simmered in bubbling pots of broth, and fresh-baked meat pies steamed on wooden trays. Two stags, two mountain goats, and five plump rabbits—enough bounty to feed the village for a week, and then some.

Villagers and hunters mingled easily, laughter mingling with the clatter of ladles and skewers. It was the sort of gathering that stitched bonds tighter than any oath.

“You see, Milady,” came a voice nearby.

Sir Roger, the stablemaster—a barrel-chested man with weathered hands and a sun-cracked face—approached Lisabelle with a cautious smile. He offered her a handful of skewers, though his gaze kept flicking to the other men clustered behind him. Their expressions were an uneven mixture of curiosity and discomfort. Lisabelle took one skewer without comment, arching a brow just enough to say: Go on. Get it over with.

Roger cleared his throat. “There’s something we’ve been meaning to ask. Tough thing to bring up, really... but we heard some talk. Rumors from the capital.”

“That I got in trouble?” Lisabelle asked plainly, tearing a bite from the skewer. She chewed and swallowed before answering. “It’s true. Whatever you heard—I did it.”

Roger exchanged glances with his fellows. Their shoulders collectively sagged with something like relief. No suspicion, no judgment. Just acceptance.

“Mind tellin’ us about it, milady?” Roger asked, voice low and steady.

Lisabelle shrugged, as if swatting away a fly. “Embarrassing nonsense. The short of it is—I got bullied. I had enough.”

Roger scratched at his greying beard, clearly mulling that over. Sir Kimberly chuckled and nudged Tall Boy Johnson, a towering, lanky man whose wrists seemed to dangle past his knees.

“Hard to imagine you gettin’ pushed around, Milady. If you and Tall Boy Johnson duke it out here and now, I’d wager my whole purse on you.”

“Daym right, I’d bet mine on you too,” Johnson replied with a chuckle.

Rough country folk rarely wasted their thoughts on the tangled webs of nobility. Lisabelle had always carried herself fair and firm with them—that was enough. If trouble had found her, she’d had her reasons. Whether she chose to share those reasons… well, that was her business.

Lisabelle rose smoothly to her feet, dusting crumbs from her gloves. “Roger, once you’ve eaten, get the horses ready.”

“Oh? What’s the rush?”

“My uncle’s guest should be arriving soon. I’d like to greet them before the dust settles. Thanks for the food, by the way. Though it’s a shame your cooks still mistake burnt meat and ashes for pepper after all these years.”

Her lips curled into a wicked smirk as she flicked the fine ashes from her fingers—straight into Sir Tony’s eyes.

“Aargh! My eyes! You damned cruel woman!”

Lisabelle’s laugh crackled like firewood. “Serves you right, idiot. Who grills meat like it’s their personal bonfire?”

“Those charred bricks you call food are more salt and soot than supper!” Kimberly barked, jabbing Tony in the ribs playfully.

"This must be a murder attempt, let's paint him black, boys!"

As the men dissolved into roughhousing and curses, Lisabelle slipped away toward the cookfires. She found Viena perched precariously on the edge of an oversized pot, her arm sunk deep as she fished blindly for scraps of meat. The iron cauldron dwarfed her slight frame, and her furrowed brow suggested she’d been at this game for a while.

Lisabelle chuckled under her breath and plucked the bowl from Viena’s hands. “Step aside, midget. How much do you want?”

“Fill it to the brim! I’m starving!”

“Heh. Sure, sure. You’ll need to eat plenty if you want to sprout faster.”

Lisabelle ladled generous helpings into Viena’s bowl, then served herself. They sat side by side on a low bench, their shoulders brushing as they tucked into their meals. Between mouthfuls, they chattered easily—about which part of the stag tasted best, about Tall Boy Johnson’s impossibly long limbs, and about the mountain goats that clambered sheer cliffs like ghosts.

Before long, their bowls sat empty, polished clean.

Lisabelle leaned back, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. Her tone shifted—light but deliberate. "Once we're done, we will go to my uncle's mansion. We will wash up there, and then I will teach you some manners."

"Teach me some manners?! A-Are you going to hit me?!" Viena jumped aside warily.

Lisabelle snorted. "No, stupid. I mean real manners. Like, formality and etiquette."Viena’s shoulders sagged with wary resignation. Manner lessons had never been her favorite, not after enduring Randia’s endless scoldings during their travels. But thanks to those lectures, she wasn’t entirely clueless either.

"Is your uncle a straight-laced, uptight person?"

"Mm. Not really. But his guest might be.” Lisabelle tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her gaze. “Where’d you learn words like straight-laced and uptight?”

"The brochures at Barbara Barberia!"

“I see” Lisabelle huffed a quiet laugh.

Viena and Lisabelle arrived at the mansion under the escort of Sir Kimberly, their watchful guardian, and Sir Roger, steady at the reins. For a baron of modest rank, Liam Arbon’s estate stood with surprising grandeur, its aged stones whispering of storied forebears and long-forgotten deeds. Upon the wrought-iron gates gleamed the Arbon insignia—a glorious sunflower, etched with pride and burnished by time.

“Welcome, Young Lady.”

“Welcome, Young Lady.”

Two maids, Janette and Matilda, dipped into graceful bows, their movements precise despite the silver threaded through their hair. Viena blinked, quietly mesmerized.

“Thank you, Janette. Matilda,” Lisabelle answered with soft formality.

“It gladdens the heart to see you in good health… and good spirit,” Janette smiled, her eyes lingering warmly on Lisabelle’s hand resting over Viena’s small fingers.

“We have prepared all in advance, Young Lady.”

With practiced elegance, the maids led them into the mansion. Inside was everything Viena had dared imagine and more—opulent art pieces adorning the halls, polished furniture that shimmered under the afternoon light, and an air of cool, pristine order unmarred by dust or disorder. The towering windows draped in fine, heavy curtains made her tilt her head, wondering how anyone managed to clean such enormous glass.

“Lily, this place is so impressive!” Viena breathed, eyes wide.

“Is that so?” Lisabelle chuckled faintly. “This is modest, really. Compared to the true highborn estates, this is but a shadow. Families like the Zavenchis or the Sezans—ah, their manors are five times as lavish as this.”

“F-five times? No way! How can someone be allowed to have that much wealth?”

Lisabelle’s smile tilted wryly. “I know how it feels. But that’s simply how the world spins. The only true equality is death; everything else… is the arithmetic of circumstance.” She paused, then softened her words. “That is to say—there are countless reasons why such gaps exist. And the scales rarely balance evenly. Which is why, when one is fortunate, one must temper privilege with conscience. Give what you can; share what you know wisely.”

Soon they reached the Master Bath—a grand, marble-clad sanctuary meant for both cleansing and leisure. Twin pools shimmered beneath the light, and the marble statue of Lady Ninon Dufraisse, the third matriarch of her house, stood sentinel. A gift from the Dufraisses, it commemorated a friendship between houses that had endured to this day.

As they began their bath, two younger maids emerged quietly from the recesses of the room. Viena stiffened, startled, when gentle hands took over the task of washing her. It had been nearly four years since anyone but her late mother had done so, and a quiet ache stirred within her chest.

Once the maids withdrew, leaving only steam and stillness, Lisabelle leaned back lazily against the edge of the pool.

“There are only four servants in this house?” Viena asked, curiosity pricking her voice.

“Six, in fact,” Lisabelle replied, flicking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “And no—the house doesn’t always gleam like this. Only when we expect company.”

“I can understand that. It must be exhausting to keep such a place spotless.”

“There used to be over twenty hands tending it,” Lisabelle murmured, her gaze distant for a heartbeat. “But… times change. And so here we are.”

Half an hour later, cleansed and refreshed, the two stepped into the closet room. Lisabelle, with a discerning eye, selected attire suited for the afternoon—a dress formal enough to command respect yet unpretentious in its elegance. For Viena, she retrieved an old gown of her own: a simple light-brown dress cinched with a broad ribbon sash. It lent the girl a quiet charm.

As they waited for the anticipated guest, Lisabelle enlisted the maids’ help in brushing Viena up on formal etiquette. To her surprise, Viena absorbed the lessons quickly, her movements steady and attentive. Lisabelle soon realized, with mild amusement, that Randia’s tireless drilling had already laid the groundwork.

“Mm. That’s passable,” Lisabelle finally declared with a satisfied nod. “I believe you’re ready.”

“Phew! Finally! So—what now?”

Lisabelle glanced towards the window, noting the shifting light. “It seems our guest is running late. Very well—why don’t we go greet my uncle in the meantime?”