Treasure of The Mind
“Papa, what do you have for me?”
Viena was trembling with excitement now, her eyes wide with anticipation. Her hands clenched at her sides, barely containing her energy. Everyone else had given their gifts—surely her father had something special too.
But instead of handing her a box or wrapping, Randia simply held out a small, rolled piece of paper.
Viena blinked. She took it gingerly from his fingers, turning it over in her hands before unfolding it. Inside were rows of strange numbers and loops of elegant cursive that curled and dipped like dancers on a stage. Even Eleanor leaned forward with raised brows.
“My goodness,” she murmured. “Mr. Ran, I had no idea you were extraordinarily talented in penmanship."
Randia shook his head. "Please, my lady, you are flattering me. It's just an extra proficiency I picked up during my work when treating the members of the higher society, nothing too extravagant."
“But Papa…” Viena frowned, squinting at the paper. “I can’t read this at all.”
Randia only smiled, then quietly stood and slung his bag over his shoulder.
“Wait—hey! Where are you going?!” she cried, standing up in a flurry of motion.
Before she could chase after him, Alan stepped beside her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Hold on a second. I think I get what your dad’s trying to do. Look.”
He pointed at the paper in her hands. Gwen leaned over her other shoulder, squinting at the strange sequence.
“Wait a minute,” Gwen muttered, tilting her head. “This looks like…”
“Coordinates,” Alan said.
“Coordinates?” Viena echoed, puzzled.
Gwen nodded, tapping the numbers. “It’s a special way to mark locations. A pattern of numbers that can tell you where to go—like a map without a drawing.”
“Which means…” Alan grinned.
“…your dad’s hidden your gift somewhere,” Gwen finished. “And he wants you to find it.”
Their eyes met.
“It’s a treasure hunt!” they said in unison.
Viena gasped. “Ooooh! A treasure hunt?!”
As Alan and Gwen continued bickering about the meaning of the coordinates—debating compass bearings like seasoned adventurers—Viena heard the distant creak of the front gate.
Her ears perked up. Without a word, she left the paper in Alan's hands and bolted out of the room.
She skidded across the wooden floor, yanked open the front door, and dashed outside barefoot. There, at the edge of the yard, she caught sight of Randia closing the iron gate behind him, his worn-out big bag slung over his shoulder as he prepared to leave for the cathedral.
“Papaaa!”
Randia turned slightly at the call, his coat brushing against the morning breeze. His eyes met hers, calm and unreadable.
“If I find it ugly,” Viena shouted, puffing her cheeks, “I’m gonna bite your ears, okaay?!”
A pause.
". . . If you can find it."
The faintest smirk tugged at his lips, and the condescending way he looked down at her—like a lion indulging a kitten—ignited a spark in her.
“What?!”
She stomped her foot, her brows knitting together.
“Just you wait! I’ll find it before you even take your first bite of lunch—and I’ll flaunt it right in your smug face! All day!”
[02:30 PM – Parque de Mémoire]
“Whoa! There are so many statues!”
“This is the Parque de Mémoire—the Park of Remembrance,” Alan explained with a hint of reverence in his voice. “The royal family built it to honor the heroes of the past, just as the name implies.”
The grand park stretched far and wide, filled with towering statues carved in marble, bronze, and stone. Each figure bore a plaque etched with names and deeds, some long faded, others recently polished. The air was quiet, solemn, and crisp—befitting a place dedicated to memory.
Alan, Gwen, and Viena had finally arrived at the location marked by the mysterious coordinates. Lisabelle, unfortunately, had to remain at home. The park was under close watch by royal guards, and her presence—bound by house arrest—would’ve brought more trouble than the treasure hunt was worth.
Still, the three adventurers stood undeterred, wide-eyed in the midst of history.
“Alan!” Viena pointed to a nearby statue of a dignified-looking man with a short beard and a coat heavy with medals. “Who’s this guy?”
“That’s Robert Dufraisse,” Alan said. “His statue’s one of the newest—erected only thirty years ago.”
The name rang like a bell in Viena’s mind.
“Dufraisse… Ninon Dufraisse?” she asked.
Alan blinked in surprise. “Huh. I didn’t expect you to know that name. Yes—Lady Ninon Dufraisse is the current head of the family. She turned seventy-five just four months ago. They say the celebration lit up the entire Dufraisse domain—the lanterns stayed glowing for a whole week straight!”
Gwen, ever the local gossip broker, leaned in with her usual flourish. “It was insane. Perfumed invitations on velvet paper. Truffle pies, imported fireworks, and live music from eight orchestras. Even the chambermaids wore tiaras!”
Alan, now fully immersed in the fantasy, let out a wistful sigh. “To be born rich and surrounded by beautiful women… one can dream.”
“Wow!” Viena gasped, eyes shining. “Then this Robert must’ve been a really powerful man! But… that’s weird. He’s not holding any sword or spear.”
“Haha, of course not!” Alan chuckled. “Lord Robert Dufraisse wasn’t a soldier—he was the greatest Minister of Finance this country ever had. They say he single-handedly pulled Rosmayne out of bankruptcy. One-third of everything you see in the Queendom today? His doing.”
Gwen grinned. “There’s even an old saying: ‘If three birds are drinking from a fountain, one of them is praying for Lord Robert in heaven.’”
“Whoa… that’s so cool!”
“You think that’s cool?” Gwen raised an eyebrow mischievously. “The real fun is in the rumors about him.”
“Gwen—!” Alan gasped. “She’s nine. You can’t just go around saying—”
Too late.
The bowl of rice had already turned into porridge. There was no going back now.
Viena tugged hard on Gwen’s pants, eyes narrowed in unrelenting curiosity. “Don’t listen to him! Tell me! Tell me the story!”
Viena tugged hard on Gwen’s pants, her eyes gleaming with relentless curiosity. “Don’t listen to him! Tell me! Tell me the story!”
Gwen gave a helpless look, caught between the little girl’s pleading and Alan’s raised brow. After a sigh, she crouched and whispered, “(Some people say… it was Lord Robert who planned the assassination of the Seventh Crown—King Boronea.)”
“(Huh?! Why would he do that?!)” Viena gasped.
But before Gwen could answer, Alan cut in, voice low and sure.
“Because the Seventh King was a disaster,” he said. “A fool, a glutton, a tyrant wrapped in silk. He drained the royal vaults for his wives and concubines. Taxed the commoners more and more to fund his exorbitant lavish lifestyle. Supported by the church, he exerted power uncontested, until the whole country begins to crack."
Viena is confused as why Alan didn't tone down his voice. She hushed him, only to be brushed off by him with a laugh.
Alan chuckled, arms crossed, his voice light but steady. “Relax, kid. The name Boronea is a mud even now. Most of the royal guards wouldn’t blink if we spit on his statue—if he had one. Look.”
He nodded toward a stoic guard stationed at the far end of the park. The man looked utterly uninterested, even yawning.
“(Basically,),” Gwen chimed in, hugging Viena by the waist, “(as long as you don’t say that Lord Robert was involved, you don’t need to whisper.)”
"Really? That must have been awful. So, what happened next?"
“The unrest turned into revolt,” Alan said. “Small skirmishes flared all across Rosmayne. But the biggest uprising was led by a rising star in the army—Lieutenant General Raymond Heisser. In less than a year, the nation was split in two. Rebels against Loyalists.”
“Then what?” Viena’s eyes widened.
They wandered across a little wooden bridge spanning a gentle canal. An oak bench stood beneath the afternoon sun, its back nestled into the shade of an ivy-covered arch. Alan walked ahead and took a seat, brushing off a few fallen petals before motioning the others to join him.
“Then came the Treaty of Solgrace,” Gwen said, still holding Viena’s hand. “A fragile peace was signed. It lasted five years. Until…”
She paused, grinning.
“Until the Golden Lunch Incident.”
Viena gasped. “That sounds… delicious?”
“Not even a little,” Alan said, pulling out a wicker basket he’d brought with him. He handed out crisp apples as he spoke. “It was about a granary dispute in the western lands—specifically in the fertile plains of Neims.”
“Neims… Wait! Uncle Liam’s place!”
“Exactly.” Gwen gave a sly smile. “Here’s what most people don’t know. Back then, the Arbon family was deeply divided. The head—Lieutenant General Douglas Arbon—was a die-hard loyalist, as was his eldest son, Gilbert. But the younger two? Graham and Liam Arbon? They sympathized with Raymond’s cause.”
“That must’ve made family dinners real awkward,” Viena murmured through a bite of her apple.
The wind picked up just a little, rustling the leaves above. Statues stood quietly around them, watching the past replay in whispers and crumbs of fruit. Viena chewed slowly, glancing between her two companions.
Alan, lazily spinning an apple in his hand, stared off into the distance. “The dispute over how the land’s yield should be divided turned into something much bigger than anyone expected. It even disrupted the entire country’s supply chain. That’s why both sides finally agreed to hold peace talks—way up north, in a place called Edenshire.”
“There's a beautiful cave there,” Gwen chimed in, tucking her hair behind her ear. “The stalactites glow like stars. You might like it, Viena. It's like stepping into a fairytale.”
Viena tilted her head. “I’ve never been to a cave before. I wouldn’t know what makes one good or bad.” She blinked, then looked back at Alan. “But why go so far north just to talk?”
“Edenshire was a neutral zone,” Alan said, pausing to take a long drink from his flask. “It sat right between the territories of the Crown loyalists and the rebels. Neither side had claim over it, so it made sense.”
“Well…” he added, his voice cooling, “It’s not neutral anymore.”
Viena frowned. “Why not?”
“Because Edenshire belongs to Varnaria now.” Gwen added.
Viena remembers the map she read with Lisabelle when she was playing with her sundial compass. Varnaria is a big country that stands head-to-head with Aramia. Varnaria stand right to the northwest of Rosmayne, while Aramia to the northeast. In the south is the open Oskean Sea, but on the south-west edge of the shore, Rosmayne share the border with Underpoint.
“Did they attack us?” she asked softly.
Alan glanced at her, then shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“Not really,” Gwen added, nudging Viena’s arm. “It’s complicated. But you’ll understand better if you let Alan finish his tale.”
“Fuah! Nothing beats a sip of mead on a chilling afternoon,” Alan sighed contentedly, leaning back on the bench, arms stretched wide like he owned the park.
“Alan!” Viena poked his thigh insistently. “You stopped! Continue!”
“Haha, alright, alright.” Alan pulled a crinkling pouch from his satchel and offered it casually. “Chestnuts?”
“JUST TELL THE STORY!”
He snickered and tossed one into his mouth. “Okay, okay—where were we? Ah, yes. The Golden Lunch Incident. That was the turning point. A lot happened that day. King Boronea was killed. So were General Douglas Arbon and his son Gilbert, along with a slew of other important figures.”
Viena gasped. “All of them?!”
Alan nodded gravely. “It came to light later that Lord Raymond had enlisted the help of the Kingdom of Kiel. After the massacre, he and the Kielish army marched toward Fleurin, aiming to seize the capital and take the throne for himself. And that’s when it gets really dramatic.”
“The Kielish army was massive,” he continued, sandwich now in hand. “Big enough that people—Raymond’s own allies—started to grow suspicious. But he wouldn’t hear it. He trusted Kiel, especially their general, and brushed aside his advisors’ warnings.”
Alan took a bite of his sandwich, voice muffled slightly as he spoke through the crumbs. “Over the next few months, one territory after another fell. Almost half the loyalist lands were under his control.”
Then he paused.
“And then,” Alan said, lowering his voice for effect, “Lord Raymond disappeared.”
“What?!” Viena shot up to her feet. “How?!”
Alan grinned. “He was abducted. In the dead of night. From the heart of his own war camp.”
“No way . . . by who?!”
“By his wife. The woman who would later be known as Queen Luseya Rosalia the Magnificent.”
“NO WAY!” Viena clapped her hands over her mouth.
“I KNOW, RIGHT?!” Gwen squealed. “I’m twenty-five and I still get chills every time someone says Her Majesty’s name!”
“I know, right?!” Gwen squealed, practically bouncing. “I’m twenty-five and I still get chills every time someone says Her Majesty’s name!”
Alan cleared his throat, brushing crumbs from his lap. “Ahem. Anyway . . . Lady Luseya, only twenty-two at the time, gathered twelve of her most trusted followers. In the dead of night, they spirited Lord Raymond out of his own camp and set off for the capital. When she stepped onto the stage in Fleurin, it was like everything she’d worked for in secret had been leading to that moment.”
“She presented herself not as a conqueror, but as a true Romesian—someone both rebels and loyalists could trust. A bridge between enemies. And they believed her.”
Alan paused, letting the words sink in as he stood, brushing off his coat. “Come,” he said, gesturing for the girls to follow. “There’s more to show you.”
They strolled along the winding park path, leaves crunching beneath their boots as the afternoon light slanted gold through the trees. Viena clung to Gwen’s hand, still turning over the image in her mind—of a young queen draped in white, revered not for power, but for compassion. A saint who once changed the course of an entire kingdom.
“During the five years of peace granted by the Treaty of Solgrace,” Alan said, his voice quiet but steady, “she dedicated herself to the struggles of the common people. Day in, day out—tireless, present, real. That’s how she earned the name The White Lady. To the masses, she wasn’t just a queen. She was hope made flesh, highly revered as a saintlike figure.
“And among her many acts,” he added, “one stands out—not just for its nobility, but for how it ended up shaping the very future of Rosmayne. She sent a young girl abroad for education. That girl was Lady Remra.”
“Who’s Lady Remra?” Viena asked, eyes curious.
Alan didn’t answer. Not immediately. Instead, he turned off the main path, guiding them toward a quiet corner of the park. There, framed by hedges and dappled sunlight, stood a statue—unlike any other.
It depicted a girl sitting on the ground, legs folded beneath her, birds perched delicately on her shoulders and in the open palm of her hand. There was serenity in her stone-carved gaze, and something gentle in the way the birds leaned close, unafraid.
Alan pointed. “That is Lady Remra.”
“Wow…” Viena murmured. “She’s different. How come she’s sitting down when all the others are standing so tall?”
“She was disabled,” Gwen said, tapping Viena lightly on the head. “And a commoner. The only daughter of a bakery owner.”
“Huh…?”
“There’s a beautiful story about how she and Queen Luseya first met,” Alan said, a faint smile on his lips. “But we’ll save that for another time. What matters is this: Luseya saw something in her. A mind like few others. Sharp. Raw. Bright. So she sent Remra to Varnaria to study.”
“And from there,” he continued, “everything changed. Remra became the assistant to a renowned researcher—then, not long after, caught the attention of a prominent military officer who would later become her husband. All of it happened within five years. Call it destiny, or sheer luck. But it proved pivotal.”
Viena knelt before the statue, running her fingers across the base. There, etched in clean letters, were the numbers: 1116 – 1167, presumably her lifespan. Remra lived for 51 years, and it leaves Viena wondering about Randia's age. Now that she thinks of it, she never really asked how old her father is.
“After her marriage,” Alan went on, “Remra wrote a letter to her husband. In it, she urged him to rally the high command—to launch a strike against the Kingdom of Kiel while their main forces were still absent. The plan worked. And it proved critical. Without that move, the map of today’s Rosmayne would look very different.”
He paused as they approached another stretch of gravel path leading toward a small clearing. Birds chirped distantly overhead.
“Meanwhile, in Fleurin,” he said, his voice lowering, “Queen Luseya moved with precision. With help from Lord Hector Crozette of the loyalist House of Crozette, a grand assembly was convened—delegations from both factions, nobles and commoners alike, all gathering under one roof. It was the first step toward unity.”
“And there, before them all, Lord Raymond stood trial. The verdict was clear. And when the time came…” Alan’s tone grew somber, reverent. “It was Lady Luseya herself who carried out the sentence.”
“With Fleurora,” Gwen added softly. “The Blooming Dawn. The sword of Queen Fionalda.”
Viena’s breath caught in her throat.
“She executed her own husband?” she whispered.
Alan nodded slowly. “By her own hand.”
There was a silence that lingered—not heavy, but deep. Thoughtful.
“That’s…” Viena’s voice faltered. “That’s so sad.”
“Yes,” Alan said softly. “It was a tragedy. But it became the inspiration for countless plays and performances, even to this day. More importantly, it lit the final spark Lady Luseya needed to reunite the realm.”
He looked ahead, voice sharpening slightly.
“Lord Raymond’s execution was only the beginning. In the days that followed, Lord Crozette led a swift and brutal purge—ten cardinals, twelve archbishops, and nearly all of the former king’s wives, concubines, and court officials were beheaded. Some say he rode the tide of justice to further his own ambitions, using the moment to eliminate rivals under the guise of reform…”
Alan shrugged.
“But in the end, it worked. The country didn’t just survive—it began to heal. So no one dared complain.”
Viena furrowed her brow. “What about the king’s children?”
“They were exiled,” Alan replied. “Stripped of their titles, their holdings, even their names. Sent off to distant lands, far from Rosmayne.”
“What?” Gwen gasped, then broke into a mischievous grin. “You think they got lopped off too?”
She suddenly reached out and ran her fingers playfully across Viena’s neck, pretending to slit it. Viena squealed and squirmed, laughing despite herself.
Alan gave a faint smile, waiting for them to settle before he continued.
"After the public execution, the masses grew unruly. They threw stones, food, anything they could find at the lifeless bodies. It wasn’t justice anymore. It was cruelty. That was when Lady Luseya stepped forward. She raised her hand and said, ‘They have paid the ultimate price. Let not our dignity fall lower than theirs.’”
He paused, letting the words settle.
“In that moment, Lord Crozette bowed before her. It wasn’t just a gesture—it was a declaration. Of loyalty. Of recognition. Maybe it was impulsive, maybe planned. But others followed. Nobles, soldiers, commoners. They all bowed to her, in silence. Not with fanfare, not with trumpets—but that was the moment she became sovereign in the hearts of the people.”
“Let me do this part! Let me do this part!”
Before Alan could protest, Gwen stepped back with theatrical zeal, planting her feet wide and raising a hand to the sky. Viena looked up at her with sparkling eyes, unsure of what was about to happen—but completely enthralled.
Then, with the conviction of someone who had watched this scene a dozen times as a child and rehearsed it twice as much, Gwen began to recite.
“I am Luseya! Daughter of House Rosalia!I am a barefoot noble! Born with no fertile lands, no flowing gold, no mighty titles!
I walked among the fortunate and the forgotten!
I treaded mud for wheat and lay with bedbugs as I rest!
I braved a poor man's winter! Shared my bread with the old — and my breast with the newborn!”
“I am Luseya! Daughter of Rosmayne!The Inheritor of nothing!
The murderer of a traitorous husband!
The one who lived the rut and the mansion, the shack and the castle!
The one who drink with the maids and danced through the webs of affairs!
The one who see truth in lies and weaves wisdom for all lives!"
“I am Luseya.Viena, caught in the moment, immediately stood straight, spine stiff as a spear. She didn’t even realize she’d moved.I am your daughter.
I am your sister.
And I am your mother."
I do not ask for you to kneel before old tales or empty titles! Raise your head—and hold it high!“Y-Yes, ma’am!” Viena shouted instinctively, saluting with both hands.I call you to stand with me in power! With honor and might! With confidence and pride!”
Gwen was on fire now, her voice echoing as though she truly stood before a crowd of thousands.
“Look before you!In seven days, this podium of blood and filth will be our tomb!
The enemy is approaching!
Your homes will be besieged!
Your elders, slaughtered!
Your wives, defiled!
Your children, enslaved!”
“So steel your hearts! Sharpen your blades!Gwen flung her fist into the air and shouted the final words like a thunderclapForge your resolve in fire!
Go home and scream!
Let the world know—Rosmayne calls for her true sons and daughters!
On Junda, in the Plain of Rikka!”
“SOI COSTE PROSPERA!”Viena clapped her hands, wide-eyed with excitement—and she wasn’t alone. Several children nearby, caught in the fervor of Gwen’s performance, joined in the applause, their cheers echoing across the park path. Parents looked on with amused smiles, some chuckling fondly while others simply shook their heads in disbelief. Among the older folk, a few laughed with nostalgia while others merely clicked their tongues at the noise, pretending to be annoyed even as the corners of their mouths twitched with memory.
It didn’t take long for Gwen to become the center of attention. Children swarmed around her, tugging at her sleeves, demanding more stories, more voices, more heroes. The young guard laughed, overwhelmed but clearly enjoying the moment.
With Gwen distracted by her adoring crowd, Viena tiptoed over to where Alan sat on a bench beneath the dappled shade of a tall tree. She tugged lightly at his sleeve and tilted her head with curiosity.
“Wow… That was so cool,” she whispered. “But what did the last words mean?”
Alan glanced down at her and gave a soft smile, folding his arms.
“Soi coste prospera, you mean? It means: I am the cost of prosperity.”
He let the words hang in the air for a moment, then continued.
“It’s the rallying cry of Rosmayne. Not just a call to arms—but a reminder. That peace, freedom, and dignity are bought with sacrifice. That to stand for this land… sometimes, we must give everything.”
“...That’s kind of desperate,” she murmured.
Alan nodded. “It is. But it’s also what makes the joy we have now mean something.”