Ersia: Raven Dawn

It was eight in the morning. Lisabelle was in her room, absorbed in study, while Viena sat in the living room, hunched over a sheet of paper, scribbling with quiet determination.

Randia had just returned.

He slowed his steps, surprised by the sight. Curious, he approached her from behind and leaned slightly to peer over her shoulder.

“What are you doing, Viena?”

“Hm?” Viena turned halfway, still scribbling. “I'm making a shopping list.”

“You can write?”

“Papa,” she puffed her cheeks, indignant, “you’re underestimating me again. I can write one hundred and fifty words now, easy!”

She looked impossibly proud of herself.

Randia didn’t offer one of his usual dry remarks. Instead, he reached out and gently patted her head, fingers brushing through her hair. He kept at it—soft, unhurried strokes—long enough that Viena began to squirm.

“Papa, you’re being weird,” she mumbled, catching his hand with both of hers. “What’s wrong?”

Without answering, Randia sat down beside her. The weight of him made the sofa cushion sink so much that Viena rolled against his side. She laughed in surprise, and her giggles only grew when Randia suddenly tickled her ribs with an awful thin smile tugging at his lips.

“Papa! Hahaha—stop! What—hahaha—what are you doing?!”

Only when she collapsed breathless into his lap did he stop. She lay there, head on his thigh, catching her breath. Then, eyes wide with delight and curiosity, she looked up at him.

“Seriously, what’s gotten into you?”

Randia looked down at her.

“Do you like it here, Viena?”

“Huh? Of course I do. Why are you asking that?”

“Then… do you want to stay here?”

Randia watched her bounce with joy. For a moment, he didn’t answer. He only continued to stroke her hair—soft, absentminded, almost reverent. As if trying to memorize the weight of her.

Then, he spoke—quietly.

“What if… it ends up being just the three of you?”

Viena froze. “What do you mean? N-No—!”

She scrambled upright and climbed onto his lap, clutching at the front of his cloak. Her face twisted, confused and afraid.

“No! Papa! Where are you going?” she demanded, her voice trembling.

“I’m just asking a question,” Randia said.

“NO! You can’t go! I won’t let you!”

She threw her arms around him and buried her face into his chest, and the tears came—slow and hot, soaking into his shirt. Randia said nothing. He only held her, stroking her hair again with the same quiet tenderness.

Then, he sighed.

“Having a daughter is so troublesome.”

And with that, he wrapped his arms around her—arms big enough to encircle all of her tiny frame—and held her as if she were the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

“. . . Papa, don’t go, okay?” she whispered into his chest.

“I don’t even dare imagine what you’d get up to if I wasn’t keeping an eye on you.”

“That’s right. I’d destroy the world if you left me,” Viena muttered, her fists gently thudding against his chest.

Randia chuckled. “Alright, let’s not do that.”

“Hehehe…”

---

Afterwards, Randia left the house for his daily shift at the cathedral, while Viena returned to her list-making and quiet busyness. The day went on uneventfully—peaceful, ordinary.

By the time the cathedral’s bells marked the fifth hour past noon, Randia was already packing up. He carefully arranged his tools into his worn leather bag, his fingers moving with practiced precision. The day had been long, perhaps longer than most. He had stopped counting the patients after the midday hour—his name had traveled far too fast among the sick and desperate. People came in waves, drawn by whispers of the quiet, sharp-eyed medevist who never turned anyone away.

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone, Lord Ran,” one of the attendants, a young man named Willard, said as he helped fold away the clean linens. “Even on the day of the Arbona girl’s trial, you came back and worked half the day. If you like, we could petition the officials for extra coin in your pay.”

Randia closed his bag with a soft click of the buckle and shook his head. “There’s no need. Just make sure the supplies are replenished by morning.”

“But—” a female attendant began, concern edging into her voice.

Before she could finish, Randia placed a hand gently on her shoulder—firm, not forceful. His gaze met hers, steady and composed, like a calm tide meeting a rocky shore. Then, wordlessly, he reached into his cloak and retrieved two small items: a powder-filled pouch and a tiny sealed vial. He handed the vial to Willard and the pouch to the young woman.

“I’ve noticed you’ve both been overworking,” he said, voice quiet but not unkind. “Willard—take this tonight, before bed. It’ll help replenish your strength. And you, Milla—mix that with water and apply it to your face before you sleep. It’ll keep the wrinkles at bay. But neither will help if you don’t rest.”

There was nothing else to say. Randia offered them a faint nod, then turned and left, the soft rustle of his cloak trailing behind him—the only sound in the quieting corridor.

“…He even looked out for us,” Willard murmured, still staring after him. “On top of everything he’s taught—things we couldn’t have learned from any textbook. It’s strange. With skills like his, how have we never heard of him before?”

“. . . Is he married yet?”

“What?”

“I think I’m in love,” Milla whispered dreamily, clutching the small pouch to her chest like it was a love letter.

Without hesitation, Willard swatted the back of her head with a rolled-up bundle of notes. She let out a yelp, rubbing the spot while he tossed a dust cloth at her.

“Get to work. Help me clean the tables before the next medevist comes in.”

“You brute!” Milla protested, stomping over with mock fury. “You don’t think I have a chance, do you?”

“No. He wouldn’t be interested in someone like you.”

“Whaaat?! Excuse you! I’ll have you know, I’m only an intern right now, but my family is quite wealthy, thank you very much!”

Willard let out a weary sigh, as though mentally preparing himself for the scandal to come. “Do you know my aunt?”

“Lady Marjorie? The Earl of Beldive’s wife?”

Willard nodded gravely. “The Beldive House has seven children. Five days ago, my aunt personally offered her youngest daughter to Lord Ran.”

Milla dropped her cloth. “WHAT?!”

“Lady Celia. She was brought in that morning. Severe nut allergy. Ate a cookie by mistake. When I saw her, she was already turning blue—I thought she was gone for sure.”

"Wait, wait—how come I didn't hear anything about this?"

Willard turned to Milla with a look of incredulity, genuinely stunned by the question.

"Milla, oh Milla... why in the world would we make a fuss about it?" He gave her a tired look, like a teacher scolding a particularly slow pupil. "Take a step back and think. How could something like that happen to the daughter of an Earl in the first place? It’s not an exaggeration to call it an assassination attempt."

Milla blinked, her mouth slightly open.

"Now imagine this," Willard continued, his tone suddenly somber. "Everyone finds out she nearly died from eating nuts. What do you think happens next? Every meal becomes a risk. Every snack a loaded dice. Her entire life would be spent afraid to eat, afraid to breathe. If word got out, she’d live in terror—or starve to death trying to avoid a slow, uncertain end."

Milla fell silent. She pictured it—being Young Lady Celia, watching every bite in fear, distrusting every plate, wondering if the next one would be her last. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

“…So Lord Ran really saved her?”

"Yes. It takes great skill of Velda to deal with anaphylaxis. To make it easy for you to imagine. It's like redirecting a raging river in a heavy rainstorm and make sure every flood panel works harmoniously all by yourself." Willard’s voice lowered, respectful. "Poor handling of the surges of meta can either instantly kill the patient, trigger even more troublesome body mechanism, or turns the patient into a cardiac cripple with their heart no longer able to function properly even if they survived," Willard stares at his own blurry reflection on the bucket of water.

“Err… is that even humanly possible?”

Willard stared into the ripple of his reflection in the cleaning bucket. “Barely. Maybe fifty medevists in the entire world could pull it off. And you know what? Six of us were in the room when it happened. Not a single one of us dared to even breathe too loudly during those fifteen minutes.”

The weight of his words settled in the room. Milla wiped the table in silence, humbled, yet secretly even more enamored than before.

“…If I tried really hard, do you think there's a chance I could—"

“No.”

"Wha—! I didn’t even finish my sentence!"

"Be realistic, Milla. He refused the way of instant wealth, fortune, and honor of marrying a high-ranking - beautiful and juvenile 16 years old noble. How will you, a sorry woman in their thirty could ever-"

*Slap*

SLAP.

“You absolute jerk!” Milla’s face burned red. “I’m twenty-two! I’m still in my prime years of marriage, you know?!”

Willard rubbed the side of his head. “...And this fragile temperament on top of it. I sincerely wish you nothing but the best in your future endeavors.”

Willard stroked his chin thoughtfully, uncharacteristically considering her wild theory.

“Hmm. I mean… could preference in women actually reflect professional excellence?” he muttered under his breath. “Should I… emulate him down to that detail?”

But the momentary musing popped like a soap bubble as he recalled something that happened that very morning.

“No, scratch that,” he said. “There was this one patient today—drop-dead gorgeous. Regal bearing, poised speech, figure like a sculpture. The kind of woman who makes everyone in the building forget what they were doing.”

Milla leaned in, eyes wide. “And?!”

“She only had eyes for Lord Ran. I don’t even think she was really ill—probably just made up a reason to see him. And Ran… well, he treated her like he does everyone else. Cordial. Efficient. Not a single lingering glance or extra word. She walked out of here looking… mildly offended.”

Milla frowned. “Okay, okay… so Lord Ran’s not into young girls. And apparently, he’s not into elegant, confident women either…”

She paused, brows slowly rising as something occurred to her.

“…Wait a second. Does he even like women?”

Both of them gasped.

“G-Gay?!” Willard exclaimed.

“G-Gay?!” Milla echoed.

While the two were still busy entangling themselves in wild theories and indignant slaps, the air behind them shifted.

Randia had entered the room quietly some time ago, his presence unnoticed until his sigh—soft, but heavy—pierced through their chatter.

Startled, Willard and Milla jolted like guilty children. In their panic, they both stumbled backward, colliding into the cleaning bucket. The water sloshed, tipped, and spilled out across the tiled floor.

“L-L-Lord Ran!” Milla yelped, standing stiff as a plank. “W-We didn’t hear your footsteps at all! I mean—good evening! Or rather, what can I help you with—?!”

“L-Lord Ran, my deepest apologies!” Willard blurted, already bowing so low it looked like he might headbutt the floor. “She started it!”

“What?! Willard, you—!”

“I want to ask you something,” Randia cut through their flailing.

His voice was steady, but the look on his face was not.

For the first time since they began working under him, both Willard and Milla saw a change. The calm, inscrutable mask that Randia always wore—stoic even in chaos—was gone. His eyes flicked restlessly, as if chasing thoughts he couldn’t catch. His brows were drawn tightly together, and though he stood upright, the weight on his shoulders was visible in the tension of his jaw, the barely concealed strain in his tone.

It was deeply unsettling.

“Did either of you… go through my bag?”

The question silenced them even more than his entrance had. Willard and Milla exchanged a swift glance before falling to their knees.

“My lord,” Willard said, bowing his head, “I would never dare to do such a thing.”

“My lord,” Milla echoed, trembling slightly, “I’ve only ever taken the supplies you asked for, and always under your supervision. Nothing more. I swear on my family’s name.”

Randia looked down at them, unmoving.

“Did either of you… see or take a pair of rings? From my bag.”

The room was still.

“No, my lord,” Willard said, voice low but firm. “In the goddess’s name, I would not.”

“I… I am not raised by my parents to commit such a lowly act,” Milla added. “Please—please tell us how we can convince you.”

To their surprise, Randia slowly bent down and lowered himself to their level. It was not something either of them expected—not from someone like him. But here he was, kneeling on the same floor they had just been scrubbing, looking not like their superior, but like a man searching for hope.

“I’ve lost something… very precious to me,” he said, his voice softer now, nearly hoarse. “A pair of rings. Each one set with pink diamonds.”

His gaze flicked between them—not accusatory, but pleading.

“If either of you took them, please… give them back. I’ll do anything you ask. No punishment, no questions. If they were sold, just tell me to whom. I won't be angry or press charges. If you are being truthful to your words, please help me find it."

The air felt heavier with every word. It wasn’t desperation they saw in his eyes—it was grief restrained behind dignity.

After a beat of silence, Willard dipped his head low again. “We will assist you by any means, my lord. You have our word.”

Randia gave a faint nod. “Thank you. Both of you. Please… let me know if you hear anything, no matter how small.”

He stood up slowly, dusted his knees, and turned to leave. But just before he stepped through the door, he paused. He lingered for a breath, then turned his head back over his shoulder.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

He raised a finger, as if delivering an afterthought at the end of a long lecture.

"Just to make it clear between us ... I am not gay."

The silence that followed hit like a hammer.

Willard and Milla both turned beet red. The heat shot up their necks and flushed their ears, and neither dared to meet Randia’s eyes.

They remained perfectly still—bowed, shamefaced, and frozen in mutual mortification—as Randia, without further word, finally left the room and walked out of the cathedral.