Ersia: Raven Dawn

"Come to think of it," Viena tilted her head, eyes narrowing in thought, "weren't you in the middle of telling a story about Robert Dufraisse? I don’t understand how all of this connects."

Alan gave a knowing smile. “Ah, right. We got a little swept away.”

He brushed some leaves from his coat sleeve and continued, “Do you remember when I told you Queen Luseya fled the royal camp after abducting her husband, with only twelve followers?”

Viena nodded. “Yeah. That part was wild.”

“Well, Lord Robert was one of them. But here’s the twist—he’d already been captured during the Golden Lunch Incident, supposedly as one of King Boronea’s aides. At least, that’s what the records say.”

Her brow furrowed. “Wait... so he was working for the enemy?”

“Not quite.” Alan’s tone lowered, hinting at secrecy. “Everything was orchestrated by Queen Luseya. She placed Robert inside Boronea’s court long before the revolt ever began. Some historians even believe he helped manipulate court politics to persuade Boronea to hold that hunting event near Edenshire.”

Viena’s eyes widened. “The one that led to the incident…”

“Exactly. That, and he supposedly facilitated the covert aid from House Crozette. A double agent, if you will.”

Viena crossed her arms. “Politics is scary.”

Alan chuckled softly. “I suppose so. But sometimes… it’s also the only way to win without swords.”

They stood in front of Lady Remra’s statue again, the marble serene in the golden light. Viena’s eyes drifted upward—and then narrowed.

“Alan, do you see that?” she said, pointing intently. “That bird on her hand. There’s something shiny on its beak—it looks… different.”

Alan squinted. “Hm... you're right. I don’t remember any part of this statue being reflective.”

“Could it be our clue?” she whispered, excitement creeping into her voice.

Before Alan could reply, Viena was already running. He followed quickly behind her, watching as she nearly scaled the base of the statue before he gently pulled her back by the arm.

“Hey—let me. You’ll get us in trouble with the guards,” he said with a smirk.

Carefully, Alan reached up and retrieved the object—a small metal cylinder, the kind often tied to homing pigeons to carry messages across battlefields and borders.

They exchanged a look.

“It’s another coordinate,” he murmured, tapping it open.

“What?! No way!” Viena gasped, practically bouncing on her heels.

Alan took a moment to decipher the tiny, tightly folded scroll within. His eyes scanned the markings, his expression shifting from curiosity to something deeper—interest, yes, but also a flicker of concern.

“Well, look at that,” he said at last, folding the slip of paper neatly between his fingers. “Now this is interesting.”

“What does it say?” Viena asked, leaning closer.

“This coordinate leads to the Royal Military Academy,” Alan replied. “Specifically, somewhere near the eastern training grounds.”

Viena’s jaw dropped. “Whoa—inside the academy? But… how did he even get it in there?”

Alan didn’t answer right away. He turned his gaze toward the skyline, where the spires of the Royal Military Academy pierced the clouds like lances. Then, his eyes returned to the bird’s beak—as if it still held secrets he hadn't yet uncovered.

“That,” he murmured, “is the question we’re about to answer.”

Viena, meanwhile, was focused on the scrap of paper, her brows knit together as she tried to decipher the string of abstract coordinates and scribbled notes. Alan’s expression shifted—his usual casual air replaced with something quieter, more calculating.

He couldn't shake the thought: How the hell does a medevist—let alone one with no known military ties—manage to hide something inside such a restricted ground in Rosmayne?

It wasn't just bold. It was... surgical. Deliberate.

And unsettlingly specific.

Too exact to be a prank. Too far-fetched for coincidence.

"So… how do we get in?" Viena asked, folding the note carefully into her pocket.

“Normally?” Alan raised a brow. “The military academy grounds are off-limits to the public. No civilian access, not even for nobles unless you're directly invited.”

Viena sighed and dropped her shoulders. “Just as I thought. So I’ll never get my present. Honestly, what was he thinking, hiding it in a place like that? Papa is so weird sometimes…”

She pouted, looking genuinely disheartened.

Alan let out a low chuckle. “Hah. Do you forget who you're talking to, kid?”

He puffed out his chest with mock pride and gave a playful smack to the emblem stitched into his coat—polished bronze on deep navy, glinting in the sun.

Viena blinked. “Oh…”

“That’s right,” Alan grinned. “I’m not just some handsome guy lounging around telling stories."

---

The three of them left Parque de Memoire behind, boarding a public cart that rumbled steadily down the cobbled streets. Fortunately, the military academy’s eastern training ground wasn’t far—just thirty minutes away—and before long, the skyline changed. Sleek towers and domed halls began to appear in the distance, rising like solemn sentinels of discipline and tradition.

But amid the stern architecture stood something entirely unexpected: a colossal flower-shaped building, its sweeping petals formed by layered domes and arching glass, entwined in vines of blooming purple and yellow flowers. It shimmered under the midday sun like something out of a painter’s dream.

Viena gasped. Her eyes widened. Her mouth fell open.

“WHAT IS THAT?!”

“Uwah! You startled me!” Gwen flinched, nearly dropping her satchel.

Viena leaned out from the cart, pointing with both hands, her grin as wide as her amazement. “Was there always a building like that here?!”

Alan laughed. “That’s the Great Gardenia. You’ve really never seen it? You can spot the dome from halfway across the city.”

Gwen nudged Alan’s shoulder, then held her hand flat near her waist—miming Viena’s height with a teasing smirk.

Alan smirked back. “Ah. That checks out.”

Usually, Viena would shoot back with a scowl or a mock-offended huff, but right now, she was too captivated to care. She bounced slightly in her seat, eyes gleaming, her feet tapping in restless anticipation as the magnificent building came closer and closer.

“Gardenia… as in flowers?”

“Yes. It was Queen Luseya’s favorite,” Alan said.

“But these aren’t white gardenias! They’re purple and yellow!”

“Hah! True,” he replied. “It’s impossible to keep gardenias blooming year-round. So they use whatever’s in season. This time of year, it’s probably autumn crocus and winter daffodils.”

"Gwen, I don't know you are so knowledgeable!"

"You took the words off my mouth, Viena! She used to be so dumb during our academy days," Alan replied.

Gwen punches Alan shoulders and posing with her arms akimbo.

"That is so rude, you miserable nerd! I told you I only care with beauty, and flowers are beautiful. So, it's only natural that I am ultra-knowledgeable about them. That's the only reason I took up the Grand Gardenia florist duty for my second-year project."

"Right, so much talk about beauty coming out from your mouth that it left you with none."

---

They were still trading jabs, laughter rising between each playful insult, when Alan suddenly glanced up—only to see Viena already hopping off the cart.

“Wait—hey!” he called out, half-standing as Gwen hurriedly signaled the driver to stop.

Viena had already scampered a few paces ahead, eyes sparkling as she pointed with both hands. “We have to go there!”

“Nope,” the cart driver said flatly. “Closed for maintenance. Big event next year.”

“Oh! The betting event!” Viena blurted.

“Huh?” Gwen blinked. “No! The tournament event!”

Alan narrowed his eyes. “Wait. How do you even know about the betting?”

Viena froze. “Uhh… sometimes I overhear people talking about it in the streets?” she said with an innocent smile and a tone just a little too casual.

Alan stared for a moment longer before letting it slide with a skeptical grunt. Gwen shook her head, muttering something about “children these days,” as they all climbed back onto the cart and resumed the journey.

Eventually, they arrived at the military academy grounds, and the scale of it hit Viena like a thunderclap. Her jaw dropped.

“Whoa! It’s huge! I’ve never been this far northeast! I can even see the mountains!”

The academy complex stretched out before them like a miniature city—barracks, training halls, armories, lecture buildings, and practice fields. It dwarfed the Royal Secondary Academy of Fleurin by miles. No wonder they’d had to leave through the northern gates; there was no way this sprawling institution could’ve fit inside the city proper.

“They built it slightly outside the northern edge on purpose,” Alan explained. “The north’s the most likely to face disturbances—border issues, rogue bandits, that kind of thing.”

“What about the other directions?” Viena asked.

“Well,” Alan began, “the west of Fleurin is mostly farmland—green and safe. The east is taken up by the Great Lake. And the south? All cliffs and forests. Basalt columns. Pretty, but hard to build on. Each noble house keeps their own region in check, so we don’t have much trouble.”

“Wow,” Viena breathed, turning slowly to take in the view. “It’s like a whole world wrapped around one city.”

“More or less,” Gwen said, hands on her hips. “And this world’s got rules. So don’t go running off again or you’ll make me look bad.”

“I make everyone look better just by standing next to them,” Viena replied sweetly, sticking her tongue out.

Alan sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s going to be a long day.”

After a while, the three finally arrived at the academy gates. It only took a few words from Alan to the guards for them to be let inside. Viena noticed how the soldiers standing watch straightened up—not just out of duty, but with a kind of subtle reverence. Their salutes were sharp. Their eyes lingered on Alan and Gwen just a little longer than usual.

It wasn’t the kind of respect earned solely from seniority.

As they walked further into the academy grounds, a squad of knight-trainees jogged past in formation. Despite their labored breathing, they called out in unison:

“Good day, seniors!”

Alan and Gwen returned the salute with practiced ease.

Viena blinked. “Alan, Gwen… are you two bigshots around here or something?”

“Fufufu~! What a delightful question!” Gwen smirked, crossing her arms with theatrical pride. “My ego is being pampered!”

Alan chuckled. “It’s not that we’re particularly special as individuals. It’s the uniform that does the talking. Look around—notice the colors?”

Viena looked more closely. The younger trainees wore simple white shirts and training gear. Guards were outfitted in functional leather armor. Several others, likely instructors, wore black gambesons adorned with silver brooches shaped like books.

“I can kind of guess their roles,” Viena mused. “But what about yours? You wear blue, and your brooch looks like a sword.”

“Right,” Alan nodded. “Once knights finish their education, they’re posted based on aptitude. Some become instructors. Some are sent to guard important sites. Others are deployed to the frontlines—out on the borders.”

“And the blue?” she prompted.

“Blue,” Gwen interrupted proudly, “is the best of the best! Capital Wardens—keepers of peace in the heart of the queendom. No warfronts, no swampy outposts, no dirty little backwater villages. Just order, prestige, and clean streets!”

She threw her head back in laughter.

“Ahahaha! Truly, everyone should aspire to be like me! I am the embodiment of discipline and studiousness!”

Her voice rang across the training grounds—bold, self-satisfied, and loud enough to turn heads. The atmosphere shifted. Cadets and instructors alike turned to her, their expressions ranging from amused to thoroughly unamused.

“Gwen,” Alan muttered. “Tone. Down.”

And then—tap, tap—someone touched her shoulder.

Gwen froze.

A voice, smooth and laced with mirth, sounded behind her.

“Well, well. I thought I recognized that grating voice. And it was you, Gwen Fairwind. Imagine my shock. You’ve got the nerve to strut back in here after nearly flunking every semester?”

An older man, perhaps in his early fifties, stepped into view. His hair was silvering at the temples, and deep lines etched his face like old parchment worn at the edges—but his back was straight, shoulders still broad beneath the worn blue of his academy coat. His presence carried both age and strength. As he approached, Viena’s ears caught something strange—a rhythmic clank with every step he took, like iron brushing stone.

“Professor Gaspard!” Gwen called out, a grin tugging at her lips. “Long time no see! Still terrorizing freshmen?”

The man squinted, then broke into a hearty laugh.

“Well, well! If it isn’t Rodin’s boy. I’d recognize that scowl anywhere.” He jabbed a finger at Alan, eyes twinkling. “As long as that old drunk’s still breathing, I suppose I’ve got no excuse to kick the bucket just yet! Hah!”

Alan chuckled and nodded in respect. “Good to see you too, Professor.”

The three of them slipped into easy banter, trading stories like old comrades. Viena stood by quietly at first, watching the man with growing curiosity—until, without warning, she crouched beside him and grabbed his leg.

“Hey—!”

She pressed her hands against the fabric, eyes wide as saucers.

“It’s not muscle,” she said, almost reverently. “It’s… hard. And cold.”

Professor Gaspard blinked, then barked another laugh. “Is this bunny your kid, Gwen?”

“What?! Professor!” Gwen cried, flustered. “I’m only twenty-five!”

“Yeah, bad question,” Gaspard said with a smirk. “She’s clearly got more brightness behind the eyes than you ever did.”

Without waiting, he crouched down stiffly and rolled up the left leg of his trousers. The smell hit them first—a tang of castor oil, aged metal, and something faintly burnt. The prosthetic leg beneath was a masterwork of function over beauty: a patchwork of brass joints, tiny pistons, and iron bars bound together with clever welds and careful care. The thing hissed faintly as he moved, like it had a life of its own.

Viena leaned closer, utterly captivated.

“What happened to your leg, Professor?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared at the exposed mechanism, as if remembering something distant—something quiet and buried.

“Lost it in the war,” he finally said, voice lower now. “Nearly twenty years ago.”

Viena’s eyes widened. “Did you get slashed? In battle?”

He gave a dry laugh. “I wish. Nothing that glorious. I got chewed alive by Fasciari.”

“Fasciari?” she echoed, tilting her head.

“Flesh-eating disease. Nasty stuff. Spreads fast in wet trenches. We lost two hundred men in that campaign. Only thirty of us made it through with all—or most—of our pieces intact.”

Viena’s face went pale, but her hands didn’t flinch from the machine leg. If anything, she held it tighter, in awe and sympathy.

“That’s… awful,” she murmured.

“Eh,” Gaspard shrugged, letting his pant leg fall back down with a soft thump. “It’s not all bad. I get some fun privileges now thanks to that.”

Viena stood still, her fingers loosening from the iron limb. The professor’s words lingered in her mind like a distant echo—two hundred men fell… only thirty survived.

She remembered Randia’s voice, low and firm, the day he held her close during a thunderstorm.

“War isn’t a game, Viena. It's not glorious. It's not clean. Most soldiers don't die by enemy blades—they die from hunger, sickness, cold. Things that don’t care how brave you are.”

Now she understood. The clank of iron. The sour smell of oil and sweat. This was what her father meant.

“Wherever war goes, famine and disease follow, Viena,” Gwen said gently, folding her arms as she gazed out toward the academy's training field. Her voice had lost its usual teasing lilt.

Alan added, “A good medevist or paramedic is worth six knights, sometimes more. Especially when it's not swords you’re fighting, but rot and fever.”

Professor Gaspard nodded. “Word is, during the last Grand Summit, they struck an agreement. There should be more medical experts travelling on and about soon. Perhaps they can leave a book or two while they are here in Rosmayne," Professor Gaspard explained.

Then, without warning, Professor Gaspard unfastened the straps of his prosthetic leg and—grinning devilishly—handed it to Viena.

“Here, hold this for me.”

She caught it reflexively. The weight was heavier than she expected, and the reek where skin met liner was overpowering. Her nose scrunched up instantly.

“Ugh! It smells like old boots soaked in vinegar!”

Gwen burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. Gaspard roared as well, slapping Alan on the back before dragging him off for a quick toast of mead nearby. Meanwhile, Viena stood there, holding the iron leg like it was some sacred artifact and yet trying desperately not to breathe through her nose.

She gave it a cautious swing.

“So…” Professor Gaspard called over his shoulder as he wiped foam from his beard, “what business brings you here, boy?”

Alan grinned. “Nothing dramatic. We’re just helping the lass here get her birthday present.”

Gaspard blinked. “Come again?”

“It’s a long story,” Gwen said.

Alan launched into the tale—how Viena had gotten it into her head to chase after something kept deep inside the academy. A restricted zone. Guards posted. And now somehow, by sheer stubbornness and charm, they were marching her straight in.

By the end of the explanation, Gaspard looked as bewildered and entertained as the rest of them. He stared at Viena, then at the leg she was still swinging around.

“A civilian,” he muttered. “Getting through three levels of security… for a present. This, I gotta see.”

He clapped his hands. “Alright. I’m in. Someone has to supervise this madness. Might as well be me.”

“Viena,” Gwen called, pointing at the prosthetic, “the professor’s gonna need that back. You know, for walking.”

“And weren’t you here for something more important than flinging old men’s limbs around?” Alan added dryly.

Viena gasped, eyes wide. “Oh gods, you’re right! The present!”

She shoved the leg back toward the professor—perhaps a little too quickly—and took off toward the main hall, her bunny-ears headband bouncing behind her.

Gaspard chuckled as he reattached the limb. “Spirited little thing. You sure she’s not yours, Gwen?”

“Don’t start,” Gwen muttered, marching after Viena. “She’s trouble enough as it is.”