Ersia: Raven Dawn

“I’m sorry, Uncle Vincent.”

At last, the words slipped from Lisabelle’s lips—soft, but certain. That was all Vincent had needed to hear. His shoulders slackened, the sharp glint in his gaze dimming into something gentler. With a faint exhale, he closed his eyes and straightened the silk tie at his throat, his movements as meticulous as always.

“The gift will be sent directly to your estate,” he murmured, voice tempered now with finality. “Come. There is one more thing I wish to give you.”

The three of them—Vincent, Lisabelle, and Liam—made their way toward the rear grounds of the mansion. Their boots pressed softly into the gravel path as scattered apple blossoms floated idly in the air, riding the solemn autumn breeze.

Along the way, Vincent’s questions came steadily, layered with casual curiosity and understated concern: inquiries about Eleanor’s well-being, about Lisabelle’s progress at the academy, the recent court ruling, and how she had navigated the aftermath. He even asked Liam whether the estate required more servants. The Baron of Neims, ever the taciturn figure, shook his head at that.

“I hardly found any comfort being surrounded by new faces,” Liam remarked plainly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a ghost of a smile.

When they reached the grounds, Vincent’s stride slowed, his cane tapping lightly against the stone as he pivoted toward Lisabelle.

“As a consequence of your actions,” he said, tone cooling into formality, “you will be attending the military academy—if you are able to prove yourself capable.”

Lisabelle’s breath caught, a faint tightening in her throat.

“…I thought they had already painted me red. Lady Diene—the woman I hurt—isn’t she with the military?”

“This was her suggestion,” Vincent replied evenly.

“…Pardon me?”

He offered no further explanation. His lips pressed into a thin line as he resumed walking, leaving Lisabelle to digest the weight of those words in silence. Soon, the expanse of the training grounds stretched before them—vast and orderly, bordered by weathered stone walls and rows of iron-cast lanterns. Dummy targets stood like silent sentinels, and racks of polished wooden practice arms lined the edges. Beyond that, the worn field of the old jousting arena lay dormant under the afternoon sky, a relic of Master Graham’s passion for mounted combat from his travels to the Far East.

But Lisabelle’s gaze was drawn to something far nearer—and far more startling.

There, at the heart of the grounds, Viena danced between sparring partners. She wielded a wooden sword with startling grace, her small frame darting nimbly beneath the careful eyes of her instructors. Beside her stood Diene, poised and composed, along with Alan and Gwen—both clad in light training attire, their wooden blades resting on their shoulders as they observed the young girl’s form.

“W-Why is she here?” Lisabelle’s voice cracked, her brow furrowing.

“I invited her,” Vincent answered simply.

After the court ruling, Vincent had paid a personal visit to Diene’s residence. In their quiet, measured conversation, Diene had made her stance clear. If ever there was an opportunity to meet Lisabelle again, she wished for it to be granted. Vincent had given his word—and here they all stood, bound by the delicate threads of duty and reconciliation.

“Ah, there she is,” Alan called, catching sight of their approach.

“Woah,” Gwen added, propping her wooden sword against her shoulder. “I knew she had noble blood in her, but she really showed it today.”

As Lisabelle and her company neared, Diene stepped forward without hesitation. With practiced grace, she lowered herself into a formal bow, her posture flawless, her expression composed and impenetrable. No resentment lingered on her face; no shadow of past grievances flickered in her emerald eyes. It was as though the events that had bound them in discord had been folded neatly into history.

“Greetings, Master Liam, Baron of Neims,” Diene intoned, her voice steady. She straightened slightly, her gaze settling on Lisabelle with serene equanimity.

“…And to you, Young Lady Lisabelle.”

Lisabelle stood still, her lips parting ever so slightly. A thousand unspoken thoughts weighed on her tongue, but she forced them down.

“…Greetings, Lady Diene.”

Despite everything that had transpired between them, Lisabelle and Diene had never once exchanged proper words. The silence between them now festered, thick and suffocating, like unspoken debts hanging in the autumn air. Everyone could feel it—like a draft slipping under a closed door, unwelcome and cold.

It was then that Vincent, ever the architect of difficult reconciliations, stepped forward. The ferrule of his cane tapped firmly against the packed earth, each measured strike grounding the moment, steadying the unease like an anchor sunk into deep water.

“Lady Diene,” he began, his voice smooth as tempered steel, “as you expressed to me the other day—you are interested in Lisabelle’s physical competence.”

“I am,” Diene replied, her lips curling into a small, unreadable smile.

Seeing that smile unsettled Lisabelle more than any accusation could have. What is she thinking? What does she want from me? Why entangle herself with an enemy? Her mind spun in a whirl of justified suspicions.

“Then, Yabel,” Liam’s hand came down, warm and solid, on Lisabelle’s shoulder, “what do you say to entertaining our guest?”

“With respect,” Lisabelle answered, her voice clipped and precise, “is this not a little sudden? None of you mentioned this beforehand.”

“Don’t fret too much.” Vincent's lips curved in a familiar, infuriating smile as he waved a hand lazily. “It will be nothing more than a little sparring—with a duelist of my choosing.”

“Uncle Vincent?” Her protest sounded hollow even to her own ears.

In the end, as always, her opinion was a candle snuffed under their collective will. She yielded, retreating to the mansion with Janette to change into more suitable attire. When she returned, she wore her customary ensemble for light combat: a black-and-white striped gambeson and banded trousers. Practical, close-fitted, unadorned. Viena, standing off to the side, clasped her hands in admiration—the cut of the outfit lent Lisabelle a rakish sharpness. With her platinum hair tied back and her healthy frame clad in such garb, she could have easily been mistaken for a young lordling rather than a noblewoman.

“I thought perhaps you were pent up from all that academic stress,” Vincent mused, idly swirling the white wine in his silver goblet, his tone nonchalant as he gazed into the glass. “The accumulated strain burst forth at the most unfortunate moment, hence… the regrettable incident with Lady Diene.”

"Indeed. Perhaps a release through physical exercise every now and then would be very good for you, Yabel," Liam rubbed his hands, seemingly getting cold from the autumn air.

Lisabelle ground her teeth silently. The insinuation—that she neglected her physical discipline—was absurd. For two years running, she had not lost a single mock duel at the academy, her victories earned through relentless, gruelling training that most of her peers wouldn’t dare attempt.

“Fine,” she muttered as she cinched her hair tighter. “Let’s be done with it. Who is my opponent?”

“A mercenary I met two weeks ago at Eaglehorn Port,” Vincent answered, his smile sharpening with intrigue. “He helped me procure a map—charged a princely sum for his service. Claimed he was so good I’d never need to hire another sword again. No name, no reputation… but I liked his confidence, so I brought him today to test the claim.”

With that, Vincent slipped two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp whistle.

“Mister Sunday! Come show your skin!”

Without warning, a figure dropped from the overhanging branch of the old oak beyond the mansion wall. He descended in a fluid somersault, his motion a dancer’s blend of grace and precision. At the last moment, just before landing, he flung a wooden sword to the earth and—impossibly—balanced atop its upright hilt, though he wavered precariously and teetered into a few comical poses.

“Whoopsies! That was close! Hahahah—I should’ve rehearsed that better,” he quipped, his voice an untroubled tenor, bright and youthful despite the hints of age in its undertone.

The man stood tall—easily 180 centimeters—and clad entirely in white: a simple tunic over petticoat breeches, black boots at his feet. A stark white masquerade mask veiled his face, its painted expression a whimsical cartoonish black cat, strangely playful. Yet most disconcerting of all were the eyes of the mask—or rather, the lack of them. No holes marred the porcelain surface, no aperture to see through. The mystery of how he perceived the world only deepened his bizarre, discordant aura.

“Aha! That’s funny and cool! How did he do that?!” Viena squealed, bouncing on her toes.

“Well, well… first time I’ve seen that trick myself,” Vincent chuckled, clapping appreciatively. “Perhaps he wasn’t bluffing after all.”

While most were caught up in the spectacle, Diene’s expression stiffened. A faint crease formed between her brows, subtle but telling. An unease stirred in her chest—subtle but unmistakable, like the instinctive prickle of foreboding before a storm breaks. Her gaze flicked sharply to Lisabelle.

The young woman stood frozen. Her posture had locked, every muscle drawn tight as corded wire. The fine hairs along her nape stood on end; her breath grew shallow. Her wide, unblinking eyes brimmed with something rawer than suspicion—true, visceral fear.

“Uncle…” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Who is that man?”

Vincent blinked, caught off guard by her tone. “Hm? What do you mean?”

Before an answer could be offered, Lisabelle doubled over and vomited onto the trampled dirt. Murmurs rippled through the small crowd. In her two years of constant struggle and lurking danger, she had cultivated a keen, almost animal sense for imminent peril. The man before her was no mere mercenary. Her body recognized the truth even before her mind could catch up.

He was death incarnate. A walking execution.

Her limbs trembled under invisible weight. Shame flushed her cheeks—she had wet herself without realizing it.

“Lisabelle! What is it? Are you unwell?” Vincent stepped towards her, concern finally breaking through his earlier flippancy.

“Get off me!” she snapped, shoving him aside with a desperate strength.

The others recoiled in confusion, but Lisabelle did not flinch nor avert her gaze. Still crouched, she wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling hand, breath rasping sharp and shallow. For a heartbeat, her limbs quivered as though pinned by invisible weights. Then, with a low, shuddering breath, she planted her palm against the packed earth and pushed herself upright—slowly, deliberately, as if defying her own frailty. Her spine straightened, shoulders squaring against the phantom pressure bearing down on her. Though her pulse roared in her ears and cold sweat slicked her brow, her eyes never wavered from the masked figure. Wide and glass-bright, they burned with a manic clarity—a fragile yet unyielding flame. By sheer will alone, she anchored herself and met her opponent's gaze head-on, as though daring the abyss itself to blink first.

“This guy…” she hissed between clenched teeth.

“He is dangerous.”