Ersia: Raven Dawn

An old man sat upon the open balcony, his frame poised yet weathered, draped in a dark, finely woven mantle that fluttered faintly in the afternoon breeze. By his side stood a young butler, silent and attentive, every inch of him composed, as though ready to anticipate his master's wishes before they were spoken.

Liam Arbon’s gaze stretched far beyond the stone balustrades, toward the hushed streets of his dwindling domain. His eyes, grey and dimmed by the slow erosion of time, lingered on the empty avenues where once, years ago, life had thrummed with boundless vigor. He remembered it well: streets teeming with laughter, markets pulsing deep into the night, torchlight flickering against smiling faces. In those days, even darkness had carried an air of celebration. Now only loyal subjects remained, scattered and sparse, nodding from afar in silent deference to their aging baron.

“Master Liam,” the butler’s voice, smooth and tempered, broke softly through his reverie. “Young Lady Lisabelle is here. She wishes to see you.”

The Baron of Neims stirred, closing his hand over the carved head of his walking stick. His butler took a step forward instinctively—but Liam waved him off with a flick of his wrist, pride stiffening his spine.

“I am old, Davon, not broken.” His voice rasped, and a brief cough betrayed him. He covered his mouth quickly, as though to conceal the moment of weakness, then inhaled with measured control.

“Master… please, don’t overexert yourself.”

“Go and prepare some treats,” Liam commanded, his tone regaining its baronial weight. “It’s been too long since my niece darkened my doorstep. Let’s give her something sweeter than my scolding.”

Davon, the red-skinned butler, bowed crisply and disappeared into the mansion with silent efficiency.

---

Half an hour passed.

When Lisabelle and Viena stepped onto the balcony, they found Liam dozing soundly on the cushioned settee, his head tilted back, mouth slack, and an unmistakable line of drool glistening at the corner of his lips. Without hesitation, Lisabelle crossed the tiled floor and, with the unceremonious ease of long familiarity, gave his nose a firm tug.

Liam snorted, jerked upright, and blinked furiously, his expression contorting comically as he swatted her hand away.

“Yabel!” he barked, the old nickname bursting from his lips like an accusation. “That’s how you greet your uncle after vanishing for five months without so much as a scrap of a letter?!”

“Stop calling me that!” Lisabelle huffed, folding her arms. “And I did send you a letter two weeks ago!”

“That? That wasn’t a letter from a niece! That was a bureaucrat’s decree!” Liam threw his hands skyward in mock outrage. “I thought it was that heartless cat Catalina trying to saddle me with another tax!”

“What? How can you say that? And don’t speak of Her Majesty so loosely—you’ll get us both in trouble!” Lisabelle’s voice dropped in warning, though her lips twitched against a smile.

“Yabel! There wasn’t even a doodle on it! Not a single chicken scratch or ink blot to prove it came from you! Can you believe yourself?”

“I am fifteen, Uncle Liam!” Lisabelle snapped, her cheeks flushed, equal parts exasperation and fondness seeping into her voice.

As Lisabelle and Liam’s bickering volleyed back and forth, Viena stood quietly to one side, her gaze drifting downward—drawn, unbidden, to the baron’s left leg. A thick bandage cocooned it from knee to ankle. Before she even realized it, her small fingers were already resting lightly against the wrap, curiosity spilling out through her touch.

Liam’s sharp old eyes caught her movement; the corner of his mouth lifted in faint amusement, his curiosity mirroring hers.

“Well, well,” he rumbled, voice softening as he looked down at her. “And who is this little one?”

Startled, Viena jerked her hands back, her posture stiffening into the practiced grace Lisabelle had drilled into her. She bowed, her tone clear and polite.

“Pleasure to meet you, Lord Baron. I am Viena, daughter of Ran.”

Liam's brows knit together as he leaned back slightly, sifting through the cluttered vault of his memory. “Hmm… Ran? Was there a noble house by that name? My mind betrays me sometimes.”

“No,” Lisabelle interjected smoothly, setting a hand on Viena’s shoulder. “Her father’s a medevist. Just a humble one.”

“…Ah. Well, pleasure to meet you all the same, little lady,” Liam said warmly, tapping his chest. “I am Liam Arbon, Lord of Neims.”

To Lisabelle’s mild protest, Liam set about unwrapping the bandage. “She was curious,” he insisted when she frowned. “Let’s not let that go unanswered.”

When the cloth finally unwound, Viena’s eyes widened. His leg looked more like a charred log than flesh—blackened, cracked, and rigid, as though some cruel fire had stolen not just skin but life from it. Lisabelle half-averted her gaze, her throat tightening with sympathy, but Viena leaned in unabashedly, studying every detail.

“Wow… I’ve never seen anything like this,” she breathed. Then, glancing up quickly, she corrected herself, “How does it feel for you, Uncle? I-I mean, Lord Baron…”

“Uncle is fine, Viena,” Liam chuckled, waving away her formality. “Too much courtesy tires old bones. As for how it feels? Hmm… truthfully, nothing at all. I’ve no sensation left in it. But I’d rather it not climb further than it has.”

“Lily, maybe Papa can help?” Viena turned to Lisabelle with a spark of hope.

Lisabelle’s smile tilted, bittersweet. "Nah, I doubt it. I hate to say it, but we've had some of the most well-known medevists check on him. The best that they can do is to halt the progress. Luckily it's not infectious, so we can still safely look after his sorry ass."

Liam barked a laugh, cutting through the creeping gloom. “Enough of that. You’ll sour the sweets Davon prepared. Come—eat. It’s no good letting them go to waste.”

Watching the two girls nibble on pastries and sip tea, something long-forgotten settled softly in Liam’s chest. Warmth. Belonging. Every time Lisabelle visited, the old mansion felt a shade less hollow. And now, with two of them, the feeling doubled—though he brushed away the foolish notion that one of them might ever stay.

“Why won’t you eat, Uncle Baron?” Viena asked between bites.

“Nah, sweets are for sprightly things like you.” With a smirk, Liam reached into a small lacquered box and withdrew a cigar. He clipped the end with practiced ease. “A real man sits on this.”

Viena leaned forward, eyes alight. “Wow! What is that? Candy for adults?!”

“That’s right! Want to have a lick?” Grinning wickedly, Liam held the freshly cut tip to her lips.

Viena gave it a quick, trusting lick—and instantly recoiled, spitting furiously onto the stone tiles.

“Blegh! That’s disgusting! What was that? What did you put in my mouth? How can people eat that?! Yuck!”

Liam threw his head back and roared with laughter, Lisabelle joining him despite herself. Viena’s face scrunched in outrage, her fists balled at her sides.

"Of course it was, you silly. That's not even a food!"

“But Uncle Baron puts it in his mouth—?”

Before the girl could finish, Davon appeared silently at Liam’s side and struck a match, lighting the cigar. Viena fell quiet, her brows knitting in fierce concentration. Lisabelle’s gaze softened; she knew that look well. When Viena focused, she forgot everything else—her breath slowed, her body still as glass, as though every scrap of her being bent toward understanding.

Huff—haaah.

Liam exhaled, sending a plume of thick, aromatic smoke directly into Viena’s face. Instantly, she coughed, hacking and rubbing her eyes as they watered fiercely.

“Cough! Kuh… Ack!”

“That’s enough,” Lisabelle said firmly, yanking her uncle’s ear with practiced precision.

"Aw aw! Alright, alright! I was just joking!"

"Davon!"

"Yes, milady."

At Lisabelle’s command, Davon handed her a damp cloth and a glass of cool water, which she offered to Viena. The girl took both, wiping her face with theatrical grumpiness.

“I don’t like you anymore, Uncle Baron,” she muttered peevishly, pouting as she sipped the water.

Liam only laughed harder, unfazed. “Davon, fetch her something sweeter than my pranks, will you? Real candy this time.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

In the middle of their fun gathering, suddenly Matilda comes to put an end to it. As sour as it was, she had no other choice but to interrupt the fun between an uncle and his nieces.

"Master Liam, The Bidau has arrived. Everything relevant has been prepared, we are now waiting for you."

---

The Bidau family was treated to a light meal in the mansion’s garden, where the apple trees stood in full bloom. The sweetness of the earth’s ripe red jewels drifted on the breeze, their fragrance warm and honeyed, welcoming the honored guest with a scent almost celestial. A carefully arranged bouquet graced the center of the table, its balance and grace deepening the garden’s calm, the atmosphere befitting such a gentle gathering. The afternoon snacks, delicate and artful, were served atop prized Eastern antique porcelains — their translucent glaze catching the sunlight like water frozen mid-fall.

“It's been awhile, Vincent,” Liam Arbon said, rising slightly from his chair. His smile was calm, his posture stately beneath the soft rustling leaves. “I hope the travel has been kind to you.”

“Thank you for having me, brother.” Vincent inclined his head with an easy grace. His voice was rich, edged faintly with mirth. “The journey was a rest for my eyes. Neims is as beautiful as ever.”

The guest was Vincent Bidau — the peerless magnate of garments and fashion, and the current chairman of Arbon Company. A man in his late forties, at least a decade younger than Liam, he had not come lightly: over thirty escorts, all impeccably trained, shadowed his visit to Neims.

For a quarter hour, Liam and Vincent conversed beneath the dappling light — warm, familiar talk between men who had weathered many seasons together. Then, at last, Lisabelle arrived. Viena was absent, still engrossed in chatter with Vincent’s escorts. With graceful poise, Lisabelle approached Vincent and greeted him with a peck on the cheek — an old, familial affection. Vincent had been her guardian in all but name since her parents passed away.

"Forgive my tardiness, Uncle Vincent."

"I was wondering if you had grown to be not too fond of schedules, but then I saw you growing into a fine young lady, how am I supposed to feel anything other than happiness?"

“Please, Uncle Vincent.” She gave a half-laugh, colored with fond exasperation. “Are you still going on about that?”

“Why, of course!” His grin deepened, warm and shrewd at once. “You are the perfect match for Armes. It will be no small task to find a daughter-in-law like you — ideally, it must be you.”

"Hahah, Uncle, you are such a tease. The garden of Rosmayne rivals that of heaven, surely there ought to be some flowers bound to catch the eyes of Le Roy Du Lin." (King of Linen)

Laughter chimed beneath the amber afternoon sky, their voices bright against the murmuring leaves. Time unspooled gently as they reminisced on promises fulfilled, on foolish moments long past, and dreams yet spun. Half an hour passed before Vincent, with subtle mastery, steered their steps deeper into the garden.

“As I mentioned a few months ago,” he began, leading them down a gravel path dappled in gold light, “I was invited to Emir Barzak’s daughter’s wedding. Quite the spectacle that one. But then, to top it off, unexpectedly, I stumbled across some intriguing wares during my stay in Zarim. Tell me, Lisabelle — what do you imagine I’ve found?”

"That's quite tough . . . . The Emerald Scarab?"

Vincent let out a deep, rumbling laugh. After all, The Emerald Scarab is a mythical treasure that is believed to be a relic that is foretold in a prophecy. It is believed that whoever finds The Emerald Scarab will be shown the path to the root of the world. In another way, having found such a wonder is equal to holding half of the world's gold.

"I agree that such tall tales have their own perks. However, this one is more real than any of those. Go on, open the door, and get your present."

She stepped forward and unlatched the small door Vincent had led them to. The hinges sighed open — and her breath caught.

Inside lay a treasure trove of fabrics and jewels of unparalleled quality. Cashmere spun from Sandastan ibex, so fine it shimmered like moonlight; Yanun cotton, dense enough to turn a crocodile’s bite; silk woven from the death worm’s cocoon, impossibly smooth and glimmering faintly crimson. They sprawled before her like the palette of a deity awaiting the stroke of creation. Vincent, ever attuned to her passions, had provided not merely materials but visions waiting to be shaped by her hands.

“You’ve outdone yourself as always, Uncle Vincent,” she murmured, eyes still drinking in the marvel. “What on earth am I to do with all this?”

“Paltry trinkets,” Vincent replied softly, “compared to what Master Graham gave me.” His tone shifted — silk hardening to steel. “And perhaps it is time I remind you of that.”

He turned fully to face her. Though lean, in this moment he seemed vast — his presence expanding like a shadow at dusk. His ivory coat flared gently with the breeze; the gold-diamond chain of his pocket watch clinked faintly against the V-shaped buckle of his belt. Resting both hands atop the head of his ebony walking stick, he held her gaze with unflinching gravity.

“I was a street rat before your grandfather breathed life into me. A conman who preyed on pregnant women and elders, just to drink myself senseless when night fell.”

Slowly, deliberately, he slipped the ring from his left index finger and held it aloft.

“Do you know this? His fourth gift to me. A ring he bought with half his fortune to wed your grandmother. I stole it from him — betrayed him for the fourth time. And still, he forgave me. Still, he believed I would change.”

His fingers closed around the ring. His voice sank lower, deeper — resonant as the toll of a bell.

“To this day, I have worn no ring but this. Not even my own wedding band. Now do you understand what I am telling you, Lisabelle?”

She dropped her gaze, her throat tightening. Guilt bloomed heavy and hot in her chest. She knew this Vincent — this cool, deliberate weight he used instead of rage. His quiet was the quiet of deep water, fathoms unseen. It was why titans of industry spoke of him in hushed tones.

“I understand, Uncle Vincent,” she whispered. "My grandfather thought of you as our own family, And I believe in you as much as I believed in him."

Vincent’s dark eyes did not soften.

“Belief is a strong word, Lisabelle — and you’ve acted in contradiction to it. If you trusted me, if you had faith in me, why have you borne everything alone when such misery has greyed your sky?”

“I—I just didn’t want to be a burden—”

“I will always stand by you, Lisabelle.” His voice was iron wrapped in silk. “Even if House Arbon consorted with devils to raze the world, I would stand at your side. That is my promise to Master Graham.”