Ersia: Raven Dawn

Knock. Knock.

“Just open the door, Vivi. It’s not locked.”

“It’s me.”

Lisabelle paused. At the sound of Randia’s voice, she slowly closed her book. He rarely came to her room—usually only to tell Viena it was bedtime. But Viena wasn’t here now. So what could bring him to her door?

She stood and opened it fully. “Yes? Do you need something?”

“I was told you took something that belongs to me.”

Lisabelle met his gaze without flinching. “I suppose I did.”

Randia said nothing more. He simply held out his hand—flat, expectant, his expression as unreadable as ever. A silent command: Return them.

For a moment, Lisabelle considered complying. But then a mischievous spark lit in her eyes. Something in Randia’s cold demeanor made her want to poke just a little.

She turned without a word, walked to her drawer, and retrieved the red pouch containing the rings. Viena peeked from behind Randia’s side, watching anxiously.

Lisabelle returned and held out the pouch in her open palm.

Just as Randia reached for it, she pulled her hand back.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low with a hint of warning.

“Uncle Ran,” she said, her tone mock-innocent, “Vivi says you’re strong.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what she told you, but you shouldn’t take everything she says at face value. Children talk more than they think. It’s in their nature.”

"But kids are honest, that's also in their nature."

He could already tell she wanted something, and if he didn’t play along, she’d likely turn this into an ordeal. So, with a sigh, he lowered his hand.

They stared at each other in silence—one calm and calculating, the other teasing, but resolute.

Finally, Randia spoke. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Spar with me.”

He blinked. “Why?”

“Because I want to see how I’d fare against someone bigger and taller than me,” she said plainly. “It’d be good practice.”

“You were beaten to a pulp not long ago,” he reminded her. “Are you addicted to pain or something?”

“That may be true,” she said with a smirk. “So, let’s do it in four days. That should be enough time to recover.”

Knowing how troublesome Lisabelle is, Randia let out a sigh and simply leave without saying a word. Lisabelle tilts her head in confusion, and so does Viena. They then looked at each other, raising brows.

"Does he do that often?" Lisabelle asked.

"I think so," Viena nods and awkwardly smiling.

"Haah. Your father is a real ball of weirdo."

The morning dew of Sabada clung to the earth like an eager audience, glistening as if awaiting the clash of wills between Lisabelle and Randia. In the open backyard, the two combatants stretched in silence, their breath visible in the crisp dawn air.

Meanwhile, the patio served as a makeshift spectator’s gallery. Eleanor, Viena, and the two house guards—Alan and Gwen—gathered beneath shawls and steaming mugs. Viena curled up on Gwen’s lap, arms tucked in, savoring the guard’s warm embrace as Gwen grumbled softly about the cold.

“This weather is perfect for a hot bowl of porridge and a fragrant cup of rose tea,” Eleanor muttered with a frown. “And instead, we’re out here indulging in this absurdity.”

“I’m sorry, Grandma,” Viena murmured.

Eleanor sighed. “It’s not your fault, little pie. I just can’t fathom my granddaughter sometimes. I raised her with poise, refinement, and a sense of grace. Yet here she is—choosing bruises over books. Where did I go wrong?”

“Maybe it’s Uncle Liam?” Viena offered. “He’s super cool! I like him!”

That name gave Eleanor pause. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Perhaps, she thought, that did make sense. The irritation in her face deepened into something more complex—resigned, almost mournful.

She muttered something under her breath, barely audible, even to herself.

“Milady,” Gwen asked, adjusting the scarf around Viena’s neck, “have you ever seen Lisabelle fight before?”

“Hm? No. And I have no desire to. I know she used to run like the wind—won every race back in her school days. But martial arts?” She raised a brow. “Surely, you jest.”

“With all due respect, Lady Eleanor,” Alan interjected, hands clasped behind his back, “I think your granddaughter has talent. Real talent. I’ve trained with many my whole life, and she moves sharper than most squires.”

Eleanor scoffed. “Nonsense. She’s a spirited girl with far too much free time and energy. That’s all there is to it.”

While the conversation on the patio continued, the two duelists completed their warm-ups below. Lisabelle and Randia made their way to a nearby table, where a modest selection of wooden training weapons had been laid out—swords, daggers, poles, and even a pair of sparring shields. Though the backyard lacked the vastness of a proper training field like those in Neims, it was still spacious enough for footwork, lunges, and any maneuver of long weapons.

Randia reached out with little deliberation, selecting a single wooden broadsword. Its worn grip and balanced weight seemed to suit him—nothing flashy, nothing excessive.

Lisabelle, already tossing her twin wooden blades from hand to hand with playful ease, eyed his choice with a smirk. She strolled over, the crisp grass crunching under her boots.

“Just a straight sword?” she said. “What about dual wielding?" Lisabelle plays with her two swords.

"There's no need for that." Randia replied without looking at her.

"Dull and boring as always. Why don't you try something more fun?"

"To cast a cloud to the mind of your opponent is to seize half the path to victory. If by simply choosing this weapon makes you look down on me, then it’s already doing more than enough.”

Lisabelle’s grin faded, just a touch. Her banter ceased as she turned without a word and took her place on the other end of the yard. She raised her blades, elbows loose, knees light. Her eyes no longer sparkled with mischief—they gleamed with focus.

Randia rolled his shoulders, then finally shrugged off his cloak, folding it neatly and setting it aside before lifting his blade with both hands. His stance was calm, almost lazy—but Eleanor narrowed her eyes at the way his weight shifted ever so subtly to his rear leg.

Alan stepped between them, looking every bit the seasoned knight as he held his hand aloft.

“Listen well,” he said. “This is a sparring match. Give it your best shot but control yourself. Now, are you ready?"

"Yes!"

Lisabelle answered with a fire in her voice, while Randia remained silent. Alan raised his hand between them, signaling the countdown.

Lisabelle bounced on her heels, light and eager, her twin blades twirling once before settling into a ready stance. Across from her, Randia stood turned slightly to the side—calm, composed, his sword resting loosely in his grip. His gaze was steady, watching her with the measured stillness of a man who had already rehearsed this outcome a hundred times in his head.

"Three!" Alan called.

"Just so you know, Uncle Ran," Lisabelle said with a grin, "I never look down on anyone."

"Two!"

". . . Good," Randia replied, barely above a whisper.

"One! Commence!"

As expected, Lisabelle burst forward with a speed that had caught grown men flat-footed before. Her form was sharp—low stance, balanced steps, blades ready to feint or strike.

But before she could even raise a sword, Randia was already in front of her.

She hadn't seen him move—hadn't heard a step, or the swish of cloth. He was just there, like the world had skipped a moment.

She instinctively squinted, bracing for some trick—a flick of dust, a rush of air—but it was already too late.

The blunt hilt of Randia’s sword tapped gently against the side of her chest, just above the heart.

“Wha—?” Alan breathed from the sideline.

“Dead,” Randia said flatly. With a light push to her chest, he stepped back.

Lisabelle stumbled a pace, blinking. “But—how?”

Randia lowered his blade. “My legs are longer. One clean blink-step is all I need to close distance. Bigger doesn’t mean slower. You should’ve factored that in.”

Lisabelle’s jaw clenched. She nodded once and came again, her blades darting with tighter, more cautious precision. She tested him—feints, sidesteps, a swift flurry of strikes. Their wooden weapons clacked in a quick volley.

Then, Randia shifted.

A sudden passing step backward—then forward again in a perfect lunge, body arched, feet firm. His sword stopped a breath away from her eyes.

Lisabelle froze.

“Dead,” he repeated. This time, he tapped her forehead lightly with the tip of his blade. “Try again.”

She exhaled, stepping back. Her fingers curled tighter around her swords.

"You adjusted for our height differences and acted accordingly against my sword’s reach. However, you failed to account for the maximum extension I gain through proper form."

Ten minutes had passed.

Strike. Parry. Lunge.

“Dead. Try again.”

Sidestep. Riposte. Leap.

“Dead. Try again.”

Spin. Feint. Counter.

“Dead. Try again.”

Again. And again. And again.

Even from the patio, Viena could feel it—that strange, exacting rhythm. Randia’s voice, calm and steady, repeating the same phrase over and over. It was the same voice that once taught her, again and again, until the lessons sank deeper than memory.

And now, Lisabelle was the one learning it.

"Ugh! Enough of this!" Lisabelle shouted, her frustration boiling over as she flung both swords to the ground. They clattered against the dirt like discarded toys.

Randia, unshaken, simply exhaled. "Your basics are all over the place, Lisabelle. You rely on acrobatic moves to catch your opponent off-guard from unexpected angles. It's a good method but not perfect. Try to adapt."

Lisabelle didn’t respond. Her jaw was tight, her brows furrowed.

Without a word, she turned and marched toward the weapons table. Her hand reached out—not for another sword—but for a spear.

A long, slender polearm. 180 centimeters. Solid ashwood.

She gave it a twirl, tested its weight, and returned to the sparring ground with renewed fire in her eyes.

Randia gave a nod of approval. "Good answer. You won’t win against someone like me with swords."

The change was immediate.

Lisabelle’s stance became sharper. Her reach extended. Her movements were no longer wild flourishes but precise thrusts, clean arcs. Where her twin blades danced, her spear stabbed. Clean. Measured. Ruthless.

And fast—so fast that her own palms began to split open. Thin lines of blood streaked the haft of the spear as she drove it forward again and again, pushing Randia back for the first time.

Alan blinked, stunned. "She’s… actually good with it?"

"She's more than good," Gwen murmured.

Then—it happened.

Lisabelle’s spear whipped forward and landed a sharp strike on Randia’s anterior shin, a clean hit. The spectators gasped. But Lisabelle didn’t smile.

She didn’t have time to.

She had overextended. Her grip loosened. Her arms trembled. The exertion of the past ten minutes had begun to catch up, and she was too slow to pull back.

Exactly as Randia had anticipated.

With the very leg that had been struck, Randia stamped down on her spear, pinning it to the ground. Before she could react, he swung a heavy, horizontal strike toward her neck with his wooden sword.

"Lisabelle!" Eleanor screamed from the patio, half-rising from her seat.

In the heartbeat that followed, Lisabelle did the only thing she could—she let go.

She dropped the spear.

At the last possible moment, she bent backward, her spine arching like a bowstring, narrowly dodging the strike. Her hands touched the ground. A back walkover. Her legs flipped overhead. Dust and dew spun in her wake.

And then—her eyes caught something.

The swords. Her discarded twin blades. Right where she had left them.

Before her boots even landed, Lisabelle reached out, grabbed them both mid-flip, and surged forward in one final, desperate charge.

But Randia had already moved.

Subtly. Patiently. Cleverly.

With a small nudge of his foot, he had rolled the wooden spear behind him, placing it just under her incoming step.

Lisabelle’s heel caught the shaft.

The dew. The grass. The slope.

She stumbled.

And then—fell.

Face-first into the wet earth.

A stunned silence fell over the yard. Lisabelle lifted her head slowly, blades still clenched in her hands, mud streaked across her cheek.

Randia didn’t even look back.

He was already walking away, cloak shifting with each step.

“Let us stop here,” he said to Alan without turning.

Alan raised his hand. “The bout is over! Weapons down!”

Lisabelle remained still.

The mud. The chill. The sting in her palms.

But what hurt the most was the weight of defeat.

She sat up slowly, stared at her trembling hands, and clenched them into fists.

(Fucking damn it!)

With a growl of frustration, she smacked the ground.