Ersia: Raven Dawn

“They have red eyes because they worship the wrong god. Infidels, simply put.”

Randia set a vial of clear solution on the table, its glass catching the fading light. Beside it, he placed his mortar and pestle, already heavy with the scent of dried herbs and crushed minerals.

“So you despise them?” he asked without looking up.

Lisabelle tilted her head, considering.

“Despise?” She gave a soft huff, almost a laugh. “If anything, I pity them. Can you imagine carrying a target mark on your face just because you have a different faith than most people?"

The medicinal herbs and minerals are put one by one inside the mortar with practiced fingers, and soon the soft rasp of grinding filled the silence. The herbs crumbled easily; the minerals resisted but eventually gave way, ground into the mixture with the steady rhythm of someone long accustomed to quiet work. Then, Randia heats the bottled solution with magic after pouring some into a separate metal container.

“I thought you and the madam were deeply devoted to Aine,” he said, voice calm.

Lisabelle's expression tightened. “Grandmother is. For her, faith was the only thread left when everything else fell apart. It's what kept her walking back when things were tough. But me?” She shook her head. “Don’t count me in.”

Randia didn’t press her. He didn’t need to. He could sense the echo of something hollow behind her words—a weariness, perhaps, or just clarity born from loss. He understood that silence could be a mercy. That pain, when shared through words, often lost the dignity it held in quiet.

“People can believe what they want,” Lisabelle went on, her voice softer now, almost musing. “If they’re kind to me, I’ll be kind in return. If they spit in my face, well, they’ll learn. Whether your eyes are red, black, or blue—what does it matter? Whether you’re Mistari or not—what does it change? On the contrary - I actually want to know if they see the world like we do."

By now, the solution had boiled in a separate container, gently heated by Randia’s magic. He poured it carefully into the mortar, the mixture hissing faintly as he stirred it into a smooth, warm salve. When he turned back to her, a small brush in hand, Lisabelle lifted a brow.

“I can do it myself,” she said, already reaching for the brush.

He gave a half-smile and handed it over without protest.

Afterward, with the scent of herbs lingering in the room and the salve cooling on her skin, they exchanged no more words. The day had grown long. They parted quietly, returning to their respective chambers—neither hurried, neither delayed, both content to let silence carry what words could not.

---

It was past three in the morning when Randia rose, the air in his room still and cold. Sleep had evaded him — not through restlessness, but habit. He was used to the soft, rhythmic breathing of a child tucked into the corner cot. The silence tonight was louder than it should have been.

He stepped lightly into the hallway, robes drawn tight, and stopped before Lisabelle’s door. He hesitated for a breath, then another. Slowly, with the barest whisper of wood on wood, he nudged the door open just enough to peer inside.

Moonlight filtered through the shutters, casting silver bars across the floor and bed. There, under a thick blanket, lay Viena, curled against Lisabelle’s chest. The older woman had wrapped both arms around the child, chin resting atop Viena’s head, her breath rising and falling in calm rhythm. A lock of Viena’s dark hair was tucked behind her ear, likely done with that same meticulous care Lisabelle hid beneath her hardened shell.

They looked like sisters — not just by blood or appearance, but in the easy way they fit together. One at peace, the other protectively tethered to her. For a moment, Randia stood without breathing.

His shoulders eased, ever so slightly.

She’s safe.

This is a good house for Viena.

He felt it in the marrow of his bones. The Arbona household was cold in its architecture, yet warm in its quiet gestures. Lisabelle — guarded and often sharp — held Viena now with a tenderness few would expect. The madam had offered no less kindness in her own way.

Randia closed his eyes briefly.

It would be easy — so easy — to trust this place. To stop looking over his shoulder. To believe, just once, that things might stay gentle.

Then came the thought. Quiet, sharp-edged.

Then doesn’t that mean… that my role has come to an end?

Randia stood motionless for a moment longer, before quietly pulling the door shut. The click was soft — final. He turned, returned to his room, and reached for his cloak.

Outside, the world was still asleep. Autumn’s breath hung cold in the air, curling like smoke through the branches. The dark sky stretched wide, and the stars were beginning to dim, slowly smothered by the coming dawn. Fleurein’s outskirts were quiet, the stone path beneath his boots damp with dew. He walked without purpose, only distance — farther and farther from the Arbona house until the horizon began to lighten.

An hour passed.

Eventually, he came upon a field — wide, open, empty — and at its center, a lonely well. He approached it in silence.

With a flick of his fingers and a murmured spell, the bucket chain rattled, and water surged upward in a graceful arc. It hovered for a second before crashing down into his cupped hands.

He splashed his face. Again. And again. And again.

The cold bit into his skin, but it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t carve away the thoughts.

“Wow, your magic looks so convenient!”

The voice broke through his trance like a stone shattering glass.

Randia’s head snapped up. He instinctively shifted into a defensive stance, cloak sweeping behind him as he stepped back.

But it was only a girl — young, plainly dressed, carrying two wooden buckets in her hands. A farm girl, eyes wide with surprise.

“A-Ah! I’m sorry!” she squeaked. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”

Randia relaxed slightly, straightening from his crouch. His voice was low, gravelly from disuse.

“. . . I should be the one to apologize. Am I trespassing?”

He stepped forward, and her reaction was immediate — she stumbled backward and fell with a small yelp, the buckets clattering in the grass.

Randia blinked, then reached out a hand.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-Yeah. I’m okay,” she said, flushing red as she took his hand. “You were crouching the whole time, so I didn’t realize you were… uh, huge.”

He helped her up with ease, and she quickly dusted herself off, half-laughing, half-embarrassed. Once steady on her feet, she gave him a polite, practiced bow.

"Greetings, mister. My name is Olga. It’s not like we own this land, but many families — mine included — got permission from the local authorities to graze our cattle here."

"Is that so?" Randia replied, adjusting his cloak. "My apologies. I should have known better."

When Olga looked into his eyes — clear blue, quiet as winter skies — she caught something deep and unspoken behind them. Not anger. Not fear. Something heavier. Like a man standing still at a crossroads, unsure which direction to choose. She didn’t know why, but the sight pulled at her chest. A quiet empathy stirred in her, instinctive and strange, for someone whose name she didn’t yet know.

“May I know your name, mister?”

Randia blinked, as if startled by the question.

". . . Forgive the late introduction, Lady Olga. My name is Ran. I am a medevist."

“Just Olga is fine!” she huffed with a grin. “I'm a commoner, after all. Call me lady again and I might start believing it!”

She handed him one of the buckets, and he helped her fill it with water. She washed her face briskly, splashing water up to her cheeks with carefree vigor. Despite the presence of a stranger beside her — a man twice her size and cloaked in mystery — Olga moved with ease. No hesitation. No guarded posture. Somehow, she felt safe around him.

“Fuahh! Morning water just hits different, right?”

Randia gave the faintest smile. “Yes.”

“So?” she asked, wiping her face with the sleeve of her dress. “What brings you all the way out here, Ran? And what’s got you looking so down?”

“I’m not feeling down.”

Olga let out a snort of laughter. With practiced ease, she sat herself atop a large flat boulder nearby — one that seemed placed by fate itself, just the right height and shape to welcome a passerby’s weary legs. She patted the space beside her, and Randia, after a pause, joined her.

"Listen here, Ran. Only three kinds of people are wandering in the field at this hour; Either someone who is turning a new leaf after years of wrongdoings..." she held up one finger, "...a burglar..." she held up a second, "...or someone who is super duper sad." the third comes up. "Since you certainly don't look very inspired nor dangerous to me, I guess you are the latter one."

"What about you then?" Randia folds his arms.

"Me?" Olga blinked, then struck a proud, silly pose. "I'm the fourth kind!"

"Hah. So what does that make you?"

"A bad insomniac!" she declared, puffing her chest like a soldier reporting for duty.

Randia couldn’t help it—he let out a soft laugh, the first in days. That tiny sound was enough to make Olga beam as if she’d won a prize. She threw her head back laughing and, in a burst of mirth, started slapping his shoulder repeatedly.

"What is it with you!? You’re actually pretty handsome when you’re not brooding!" she giggled. "No, seriously, up close like this? You've got that tragic, mysterious, ‘I know twenty herbs and seventeen ways to disappear into the forest’ look. Girls love that!"

Randia shook his head, bemused. "Look is the most fickle and unreliable quality you can seek in a man. You should perish such thought."

"But it’s still a quality, ain’t it?" Olga shot back, grinning. "So? Are you single? Wanna date an eighteen-years old beauty? I don't mind a full-grown man! Ripe fruit is the sweetest, they say!"

She winked shamelessly. Randia responded by calmly raising a hand and giving it a gentle wave, like brushing away a breeze.

"No. I am neither a fruit, nor am I seeking such... entanglements."

"Eeeeh? What a shame," Olga sighed dramatically, leaning back on her hands and kicking her feet. "Well, you can always change your mind later! alright now... what is on your mind, Ran?"

Randia didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he tilted his head toward the heavens—toward the deep blue tapestry above them, scattered with stars like silver dust thrown across indigo silk. The sky should have been dark at this hour, and yet it glowed brilliantly, as if trying to console the earth with light that had traveled a million years to get here.

Fifteen years of isolation.

Fifteen years of wandering in silence, hiding his name, burying himself in a profession that mended others but never quite himself—and all of it unraveled by a red-eyed brat he took to lunch on a whim.

Never did he expect such a small, impetuous thing to make a home inside his heart. And now... it was becoming unbearable.

"I’ve been traveling with someone for months now," he said at last, his voice quiet, like one afraid to say too much lest it come undone. "...and I don’t think I can spend any more time with her."

"HER?!" Olga shot up straight, practically bouncing. "I knew it! Of course, you’ve been claimed already! Argh, why are all the good ones always plucked!? It’s so unfair!"

Randia rose to his feet, brushing the wrinkles from his cloak. "I’ll take my leave."

"Nha! No, wait-wait-wait-wait-wait!" Olga scrambled up and clutched the edge of his cloak like a child refusing to let go of a story mid-telling. "Okay, okay! I'm sorry! I’ll listen properly this time! No jokes. Promise. Just—don’t leave like that."

"I took her with me on my travels," Randia began quietly, "searching for a cure... and for a better place for her to belong. Now that we’ve arrived in this land—this country—everything seems to fit her so perfectly."

"But you’ve grown so attached to her," Olga interrupted softly.

Randia said nothing. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his knees and gazed up at the stars, mirroring Olga’s silent vigil.

"If it’s a matter between two people," Olga finally spoke, "wouldn’t it be better to listen to what she has to say?"

"I don’t think I should," Randia replied, voice tight with restrained frustration. "She’s terribly irrational when it comes to such talks. I can’t even imagine what she’d do if—"

"But even if she is all that," Olga countered with a gentle smile, "that part of her is also what makes you drawn to her, isn't it?"

". . . ."

He remained silent.

"You said you were looking for a cure and a home for her, right? But what if the cure is not any magic flour made by the doctors, and the home is not those which are made of wood and stones?

"What do you mean?" he asked, a flicker of unease in his tone.

"What if her cure and her home… is you, Ran?"

A cold morning breeze swept across the field, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and wildflowers. The pale moon hung solemnly overhead, casting a silvery glow on the grass where crickets sang their endless symphony. The quiet majesty of the night seemed to press gently against Randia’s wide cerulean eyes.

For a moment, the thought settled like a delicate ember, warming and terrifying all at once.

But then he shook his head, as if to clear a fogged mirror.

Before turning to leave, Randia reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn leather pouch. From it, he took three smooth, pale tablets and placed them gently into Olga’s open hands.

“What is this?” she asked, curious.

“A somnifacient,” Randia replied quietly. “It’s a medicine that helps you sleep. Use only one per day—though I hope you won’t need them often.” He adjusted his cloak with a small, tired smile.

“Are you leaving now?” Olga’s eyes flickered with a trace of disappointment.

“Yes.” His voice was calm but resolute.

“Was I... helpful?” she asked softly, searching his face.

He paused briefly, then nodded. “Yes.”

A warm smile spread across Olga’s face, and she stood, lifting her water-filled buckets with ease—the ones Randia had filled for her earlier.

“Let’s meet again, Ran,” she said cheerfully.

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep... but maybe someday,” Randia replied, his gaze steady.

“Yeah, that’s good enough. I’ll pray for you and your companion.”

“Thank you.”

With a final nod, Randia stepped away, his figure melting slowly into the shadowed trees edging the field. Olga watched him go, the soft morning light catching the glint in her eyes.

In less than three minutes, he was gone from sight.

“Ooh, he’s so fast,” she murmured to herself, amused and impressed. “I guess that’s what long legs do.”