What Do You Think?
"You were amazing, Lily! I honestly didn’t think you could beat an adult like that!"
Viena's eyes sparkled with admiration as she sat beside Lisabelle in the gently rocking carriage. They were bound for the capital now, but her mind still danced with echoes of the duel that had just taken place—Lisabelle and Mr. Sunday, eyes sharp as drawn steel, their movements swift and precise, every strike met with equal force. To her, it had been like watching a storm made of flesh and will. The sheer thrill of it still buzzed in her limbs.
But Lisabelle only gazed out the window, her expression unreadable.
"Beat him? I didn’t beat him."
"Huh?" Viena blinked.
"He let me win," Lisabelle muttered, bitterness curling in her voice. "Damn it... the nerve of that man. I swear, I’m going to punch him in the face once I’m strong enough."
Viena, startled by her tone, fell quiet. She had expected pride, maybe even smugness—but not this quiet fury. She glanced down, watching Lisabelle’s clenched fist tremble slightly in her lap.
"Is that what he told you? When you two spoke after the duel?"
"Not in so many words," Lisabelle replied. "But if you were paying close attention, it was obvious."
"I don’t understand."
Lisabelle finally turned to look at her. Viena sat with furrowed brows, clearly frustrated, not by Lisabelle, but by her own inability to follow.
"Right," Lisabelle sighed. "You’ve trained with bows, not blades. I’ve never really taught you close combat."
She adjusted her seat slightly, her tone shifting from irritation to a calm sort of explanation.
"In melee combat, we use what’s called a stance. It’s the way you position your body to either attack, defend, or react quickly. Each stance serves a purpose—some give you reach, some give you power, some give you balance. You don’t just stand around and swing."
"So... is standing upright also a stance?"
Lisabelle’s lips tugged into a faint smile. "Exactly, you got my point. Or rather, it’s not. Standing upright with no guard, no readiness—that’s not a stance. And that’s what Mr. Sunday did through most of our match. Especially when we were exchanging blows. He wasn’t fighting seriously."
Viena sat back, frowning, a hand to her chin. "And that made you feel... sour?"
"In a sense, yeah." Lisabelle’s voice was quiet now. "It felt like mockery. Like he was saying: ‘Look how hard you try, and still, you can’t reach me.’"
She paused. Then, softer—almost imperceptibly—
"But I’m also glad he did that."
Lisabelle’s gaze returned to the window, where the trees rushed past in golden blurs. The sun had dipped lower, casting long, amber shadows across the road. The forest beyond looked as if it had been dipped in fire—gold, red, and orange, all bleeding into each other like a living oil painting.
"His sword swings are so heavy, Vivi." Her voice had softened. "It might not look like it to people just watching, but if we were really fighting—real blades, real stakes... if he came at me seriously—I might’ve been cut clean in half with a single strike. Even if I managed to block."
She raised her arm and drew an imaginary line across her body—from her right shoulder down to her hip—passing through joints, ribs, spine, everything. The motion made Viena wince.
It made her think of Lisabelle not as her brave, unshakable sister—but as something fragile. Like a block of butter against a warm knife.
"Can Papa win against someone like that?" Viena asked suddenly, her voice small.
Lisabelle raised her brows. The question amused her, but it didn’t feel ridiculous.
She slipped an arm around Viena’s shoulders and rested her cheek against the girl’s soft, dark hair.
"Well," she mused, extending her free hand as if measuring Randia’s size, "he is damn big, and that's a huge advantage. I’ll give him that."
She paused, then added with mock suspicion, "But does he know anything other than brewing magical grasses, playing with fairy powder, and keeping that damn poker face all the time?"
"Hey!" Viena puffed up. "Papa can fight! He beat two... two Scrolled Knights from Aramia once!"
Lisabelle blinked. "What?"
Viena froze. Her mouth had moved faster than her thoughts. She hadn’t meant to say that—at least not aloud. But the words were already out there.
Lisabelle pulled away, squinting at her like a hound catching a scent.
"A-At least, that’s what he told me before bed," Viena added quickly.
"Hm."
Lisabelle stared for a moment longer, her eyes calculating. Was it true? A bedtime tale? Or something that slipped out by accident—truth wrapped in dreamcloth? She couldn’t be sure.
But a new thought sparked behind her eyes.
"Maybe, I'll have him spar with me sometime."
Viena, now fidgeting, turned her attention to the sundial compass in her lap, running her fingers along the brass edges. Lisabelle noticed.
"A sundial compass, huh? Do you even know how to use it?"
"Eh? Isn’t it just for... decoration?"
Lisabelle burst out laughing. A full, delighted laugh that echoed through the carriage. Just then, the coach passed a guard post and rolled onto the main road of Rosmayne—well-paved, well-patrolled, and shining in the late-day sun.
Lisabelle leaned forward and tapped on the carriage wall. "Alan, stop for a bit, will you?"
The carriage eased to a halt. The two girls stepped down, the late afternoon light bathing their surroundings in warmth. Lisabelle crouched down in the grass and set the sundial compass on a flat stone.
"It’s a bit tricky without learning the relevant theory," she began, "but do you get the general idea?"
"It's a tool to find out where we are and what time it is by using the sun position and the spinning needle."
"Exactly. It’s not as flashy as magic, but it works when your spell fizzles or your enchanted ring runs out." She stood and brushed her knees. "We’ll go over it again tomorrow. You can surprise your old man with it."
"Okay!" Viena grinned, cradling the compass like a precious relic.
Time passed, and by around 7:30 PM, the lights of the capital greeted them with their familiar glow. The city was alive with lanterns swinging from eaves and the low murmur of the evening crowd.
After returning the rented carriage to the company, Gwen stretched her back with a yawn and waved goodbye, heading off on her own. Alan, ever the patient one, continued walking with the girls through the busy nighttime streets. After about fifteen minutes weaving through alleyways and cobbled paths, they finally reached home.
"Very well then," Alan said, giving a courteous bow. "I’ll take my leave now."
"Thank you for today, Alan," Lisabelle replied with a nod.
"See you tomorrow, Alan!" Viena added with a little wave.
Inside, the warm scent of dinner filled the air. Randia stood at the hearth, stirring something aromatic in a pot, while Eleanor prepped a cutting board nearby, arranging herbs with practiced elegance.
Lisabelle stepped in first and kissed her grandmother on the cheek, carefully placing all the small gifts from Liam and Vincent in the sitting room. Viena followed close behind and mimicked the gesture
"My, my!" Eleanor beamed. "My little girls are looking extra bright today. I take it the trip was fun?"
"It was suuuper fun, Granny!" Viena chirped, hopping onto her chair like a rabbit.
Soon after, the four of them sat down to eat together. The table was warm with candlelight and filled with the clinking of cutlery and laughter. Viena could barely contain herself—her mouth running faster than her hands—and Lisabelle occasionally chimed in with smirks or dry commentary. At some point, Viena also fulfilled her promise, handing over the meat pie she made to Randia and Eleanor with a proud little flourish.
While chewing quietly, Lisabelle happened to glance at Randia—and saw it: a fleeting smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was soft, subtle, the kind that lived in the corners of the eyes more than the mouth. But the moment he noticed her looking, it vanished—like mist burned away by morning sun.
Lisabelle narrowed her eyes. So he does smile after all.
"And then!" Viena was still going, her cheeks puffed from excitement and food. "Before Lily fought the mustache man, she ate too much and threw up in front of everyone!"
Lisabelle froze mid-bite.
"My dear goddess! Lisabelle!" Eleanor’s voice cracked like a whip. She sat upright, affronted. "Such disgraceful conduct! I taught you better than that—noble-born or not!"
"Wha—? No! It wasn’t like that at all!" Lisabelle protested, flailing her fork."You misunderstood! VIVI!"
"Eh? That's not what happened?"
"Lisabelle! Sit down," Eleanor snapped, her voice sharp and exact, as if she were lecturing a wayward courtier rather than her granddaughter.
Lisabelle, flustered and red in the face, dropped back into her seat with a huff, arms crossed in protest. The stew on her plate steamed quietly, untouched. Viena, trying to be helpful, spooned up some mashed vegetables and brought them to Lisabelle’s lips with all the sincerity of a peace offering.
"Lily, come on. It’s good."
Lisabelle turned her head away with dramatic stubbornness.
"Lisabelle Arbona," Eleanor said with a grave patience that signaled she was slipping into matriarch mode. "I advise you to explain carefully, young lady."
"It wasn’t even about the food, Grandma!" Lisabelle snapped. Then, more quietly: "It was…"
"It was?" Eleanor asked, arching a brow.
"I—I fought someone. Someone so strong." Her voice dipped, trembling slightly. "His presence alone turned my stomach."
The table went quiet. Randia, who until now had remained a silent pillar at the head of the table, finally stirred.
That sentence caught his full attention.
For a moment, his expression didn’t change—but a faint furrow formed between his brows. He understood the significance of what Lisabelle had said. Sensing power wasn’t a common instinct; it was honed through hardship, forged by real, desperate combat. That she had felt it so acutely spoke volumes.
But more than that—if someone like Lisabelle, whose potential Randia recognized as exceptional, felt sickened merely by the aura of this individual…
How powerful was this man?
And was Viena safe?
"Who was your opponent?" Randia asked, his tone even, but the silence around it unmistakable. It was the first time he had spoken all evening.
Lisabelle glanced up, surprised. His voice carried no judgment—but it was probing, deliberate, like a blade testing for weakness.
"He goes by the name… Mr. Sunday."
Randia’s gaze narrowed. He sifted through the archive of names and faces in his mind—duelists, mercenaries, warlords, imperial champions, even assassins from the old guilds—but nothing surfaced. Sunday didn’t match any codename or alias he remembered. That made it worse. The most dangerous men often had no names at all.
"How did he look?" Randia asked, setting down his spoon.
Lisabelle tapped her fingers nervously on the table. "Late thirties, maybe? 180cm tall. And he didn’t fight like a man with something to prove. He moved like… like it was all muscle memory. Like he didn’t need to try."
"What about his face?"
It was rare to see Randia so engaged. Even Eleanor, poised to scold Lisabelle for her earlier outburst, forgot herself and simply listened. The shift in atmosphere was palpable—like the house itself had paused to lean in.
Lisabelle hesitated. “…He wore a half-mask. So I couldn’t fully tell.”
“It was a cute cat mask!” Viena chimed in innocently, holding up her hands like little paws. “With ears and everything!”
Lisabelle nodded with a small smile. “He’s blonde. Mustache and a short goatee. His manner of speaking was kind of… strange? Like he was trying to sound noble, like he wanted to pass for the higher caste. But he didn’t quite pull it off. It felt like he was mocking the whole thing, like he was playing at something. I think he came from a commoner background.”
After her explanation, Randia didn't ask any further. The conversation moved on—stories of the town square, pastries they tried, and how Viena found a lizard that scared a passing noblewoman. Dinner continued with laughter and warmth.
But when they were nearly done, and Eleanor stood to gather the last of the plates, Lisabelle brought the conversation back with a flicker of mischief and honesty.
“Ah, I almost forgot,” she said, leaning back in her chair with a wince. “Mr. Sunday kinda… blew me away. Literally. Knocked me down hard.”
Randia raised an eyebrow.
“I got treated by Uncle Vincent’s medevist on the spot,” she continued, stretching her shoulders, “but something still feels off. Can you check on me later, Uncle Ran?”
Randia’s reply was simple, but there was a weight behind it.
“Sure.”
After dinner, while Viena cheerfully helped Eleanor with the dishes, Randia brought Lisabelle to the living room. The fireplace had burned low, casting a quiet, orange glow over the space.
“Take off your outerwear and lie back,” he said simply, motioning to the long sofa.
Lisabelle hesitated only for a second before nodding. She shed her coat and tunic, leaving herself in her undergarments. There was nothing immodest in the way Randia worked—it was clinical, efficient. He moved with a kind of calm authority that made the whole process feel less awkward than it should have been.
Then, he did a thorough check-up from head to toe. He is scanning through any external injuries as well as musculoskeletal obstructions that could interfere with her mobility. His touch was firm but precise as he palpated muscle, traced the contours of bone, and rotated her joints one by one. Occasionally, he would pause to press a specific spot, watching her expression closely.
“O-Ouch! It hurts a little right there,” Lisabelle winced as he pressed under her ribs on her right side.
Randia nodded.
“Chest contusion,” he murmured. “And… a hairline fracture in your right humerus.”
Lisabelle blinked. “How did you know that?”
“I felt the slight resistance along the radial axis,” he answered flatly. “A clean fracture. Likely from a sideways blow. You took it on your right?”
“Yeah,” she said, impressed despite herself.
"“For the fracture—there’s no need to splint it, just support the arm when you sleep and avoid overuse. Eat more dairy, meat, and green leafy vegetables. Spinach is ideal. Also, try to always get up early in the morning and bask in the sunlight. It will heal on its own."
“And the bruise?”
Lisabelle, who had never truly watched Randia at work before, found herself quietly impressed. The way his fingers moved, the precision in his pressure, the calm decisiveness in his voice—it all spoke of a mastery she hadn’t quite realized he possessed. That he could notice so much in such little time, right there in the living room, without the pomp of scrolls or potions bubbling over a fire, was—she had to admit—kind of amazing.
"Yet, there’s one more thing to be dealt with," Randia said, sitting back on his heels. "Your Anima is unstable."
Lisabelle’s breath caught. ". . . I used my magic," she admitted, voice smaller now. "And I’m not good at it yet."
"Was your opponent that strong?"
She hesitated. Then, softly:
"Yes. I’ll never forget those red eyes."
That sentence struck like a thunderclap.
For the briefest moment, Randia’s hand froze mid-motion. It was so quick, so faint, that anyone else might’ve missed it. But Lisabelle, ever observant, saw it—a tiny glitch, as if something deep inside him had been jostled loose.
His heart skipped a beat. He knew it.
He forced himself into motion again, pretending to rummage through his bag, digging aimlessly through jars and linens. In truth, he needed the moment—just a moment—to take hold of himself.
"A Mistari?" he asked, keeping his voice level.
"Yeah. That’s the first time I saw one in person. That kind of explains the mask."
Randia didn’t respond immediately. The stillness between them stretched long—too long.
Eventually, Lisabelle closed her eyes, as if trying to rest. Randia, meanwhile, sat stiff with thoughts that refused to quiet.
.
.
.
Then, in a voice almost too calm, he asked:
"What do you think about the Mistari, Lisabelle Arbona?"