Ersia: Raven Dawn

The autumn wind had arrived earlier than usual this year. Some sneezed under their scarves, others rearranged flowerpots on their porches. Elders strolled into the fields with their grandchildren in tow, checking the trees to see if any were ripe enough to harvest. Though the signature orange hues of fall had yet to stain the trees, a warm sense of anticipation clung to the air like a welcome guest.

“So this is the famous City of Flowers ... The whispers of its beauty did not lie after all,” a noblewoman murmured to herself, her eyes sweeping over the neat cobbled paths and blooming terraces. “It’s my first time seeing it in person.”

“Boss, can’t we just stay here ‘til winter passes?” grunted a burly man with a buzz cut, gnawing on a chunk of roast meat in his hand. “Everything smells too damn good in this city!”

“We’ve already agreed on this,” came the reply. “We reach Ardlight Pass by the end of autumn. Then we hole up for winter in Edenshire.”

Their horses slowed as the group of cloaked riders approached the gates of Fleurin. The guards—alert but bored—stepped forward, beginning their routine inspection. But something shifted when one rider dismounted.

He carried himself differently, his presence calm and undeniable, like a man used to being obeyed without needing to raise his voice. He exchanged a few light words with the nearest guard, then handed over a black scroll case bound in gold trim.

The guard unfurled the letter inside and paused. Without a word, he turned and briskly walked off to speak with a higher-ranking officer. Then that officer took the letter and disappeared behind the gates. Moments later, it happened again—the scroll passed to someone even more senior.

At last, an old knight hurried out from the inner post, his breastplate hastily buckled and helm tucked under one arm. He stopped before the visitors and gave a formal bow.

“Good afternoon, honorable guests. I must offer my apologies for the delay. Had we known the First Secretary of Aramia himself was visiting, we would have prepared a more suitable reception.”

The hooded figure removed his cloak’s cowl, revealing sharp, composed features.

“As per imperial edict, I come not as the First Secretary. There’s no need to address me by that title,” he said calmly.

“Understood,” the knight said, bowing again, though his eyes flickered with residual awe. “Still, a man of my position is not permitted to conduct meaningful discussions with one of your standing, Lord Nicholas Belsvan. Please, allow us to escort you to our guest quarters while I notify the appropriate authorities.”

Nicholas offered a polite nod, his expression unreadable.

“We’ll gladly take up on your kind offer.”

Nicholas and his party waited in the break room of the gatehouse, their horses already handed over to the care of Rosmesian knights. The room was modest, with stone walls bearing the faint scent of old oil and leather, and though the hospitality was adequate, a quiet impatience lingered in the air.

Nearly half an hour passed before the distant rhythm of marching boots signaled the arrival of a sizable entourage.

“Hm. Nearly thirty of them out there,” remarked a man in his late fifties, watching through the narrow window slit. His voice was calm, but laced with subtle disapproval.

“Oho! Look at that—she’s kind of cute!” the burly man beside him grinned, jabbing a thick thumb toward the woman leading the group outside.

Nicholas sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Do they not understand the word ‘discreet’?”

Moments later, the door creaked open. A woman stepped inside and offered a deep, practiced bow. She wore a muted grey noble gown—elegant, but understated. Her dark hair was trimmed neatly at the nape of her neck, uncommon among noblewomen, and her black eyes held a quiet intelligence. With a single glance, she took in every corner of the room, and everyone in it.

“Greetings, distinguished ladies and gentlemen. I am Ellis, lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty, Queen Catalina Rosalia.”

Nicholas rose smoothly to his feet and stepped forward, returning her courtesy with a polite bow. Of his four companions, only two bothered to follow suit—but Ellis gave no indication of offense. She continued without missing a beat.

“Lord Grand Envoy, Your Excellency Nicholas Belsvan—Her Majesty extends a private invitation to you and your companions for dinner this evening.”

“We are honored by Her Majesty’s kindness,” Nicholas replied. “That said, we would prefer to travel in a smaller party. Given the nature of our mission, drawing attention is the last thing we wish to do.”

“. . . I should have considered that. Please forgive my oversight,” Ellis said with a slight dip of the head, her expression composed.

“No need to trouble yourself,” Nicholas replied, his tone softening. “Kindly have your escort stand down. Then we’ll proceed.”

His shift in tone—gentle but firm—seemed to put Ellis more at ease. She gave a nod and issued a quiet order to one of her attendants. Within moments, the larger entourage dispersed, melting away into the busy streets of Fleurin.

Nicholas, his four companions, and Ellis—accompanied only by two handmaids and three royal guards dressed as commoners—set off on foot toward the Thousand Mirror Royal Palace. The horses were sent ahead to avoid suspicion, a decision Nicholas insisted upon.

In truth, secrecy was not Nicholas’s main concern.

He had chosen to traverse the capital city on foot for a far simpler reason: to experience Fleurin in its truest form. No carriage window or balcony view could offer the intimacy of the cobbled streets, the shifting scents of pastry and dust, or the chorus of everyday chatter. Besides, after days spent stiff in the saddle, even his companions welcomed the chance to stretch their legs—though not all with equal discipline.

“Rolan, is it tasty?” asked Nio, her arms already overflowing with fried dumplings and candied nuts.

“Mmh! This stuff is damn good!” replied the brawny man between mouthfuls, handing her a duck skewer with zero concern for etiquette.

The two of them had wholly surrendered to the temptations of street food, an indulgence that began to visibly fray the nerves of a more fastidious companion.

“Youngsters,” came the chiding tone of the elderly gentleman walking behind them, “I must strongly advise restraint. There is a time and place for gluttonous abandon, and this, I daresay, is neither.”

“Grandpa, look. That old man in the painting looks just like you.”

“What in the wonder of the world—! Graceful!”

Fritz’s eyes widened in reverent awe. With a flourish, he stroked his immaculate white moustache and hurried to the street artist’s stall. There, he stood nose-to-canvas, inspecting every inch with the intensity of a man appraising a long-lost sibling. He even sniffed it, to no one’s surprise.

Naturally, he would have been thoroughly left behind—if not for the intervention of Minerva.

“Mr. Fritz,” she said with cool composure, “Her Majesty awaits us. Perhaps it would be wise to offer the artist your name card and return at a later hour, under more suitable circumstances?”

Fritz turned to her, eyes alight with dramatic fervor. "Young lass! You must understand that the expression of ART is always impromptu, abrupt and explosive! Thus, it would be a great heresy not to bow to such eruptive surge of spiritual beatitude!"

“I quite understand your principle, signore,” she replied smoothly. “However, I would be remiss not to remind you of the splendor that awaits us within the famed Thousand Mirror Palace. Surely that too deserves your undivided devotion.”

Fritz gasped, placing a hand to his chest. “By the saints! A bright suggestion, signora!"

Minerva allowed herself a triumphant, gracious smile and rejoined Nicholas’s side at the head of the party, resuming her role as Second with practiced elegance. As they walked, she cast him a sidelong glance—fleeting at first, but growing steadily in duration.

Nicholas noticed only after the third glance turned to an unwavering stare.

He blinked. “Err… Splendid work.”

Minerva’s cheeks bloomed with color, though her voice remained controlled. “It is not worth mentioning.”

---

Half an hour later, the entourage reached the edge of Western Park. From there, the royal palace still lay another thirty minutes away on foot—though that now seemed a distant hope. Fritz had begun grumbling about his knees with theatrical flair, drawing increasingly exaggerated groans from his repertoire.

Eventually, the group relented and paused their march. Royal officials were dispatched to summon a carriage spacious enough to accommodate the guests of Rosmayne with the comfort befitting their station.

The sun had long since lost its golden edge, its final rays now diffused into a soft, silvery dusk. The sky deepened to a muted indigo, and the town bell tolled eighteen solemn times. Just then, the awaited carriage arrived—grand, lacquered in dark plum wood, its polished brass fixtures glinting like old coin in the fading light.

One by one, the party began to board. Fritz was first, naturally—uttering a pained yet poetic ode to the burden of mortal knees. Rolan followed, already settling in as though the seat were his personal throne. Minerva stepped in after, as composed as ever, her gloved hands smoothing her skirt as she sat.

Nicholas approached next. He placed one foot on the step—

And then he froze.

A sharp jolt flickered up the left side of his neck, like a ghost brushing skin with ice. Instantly—uncannily—Nio, who had been lingering behind, stiffened in the same manner.

“. . . !”

“. . . !”

Their heads snapped to the left in perfect sync, eyes narrowing as if drawn to something invisible in the air. Their sudden, shared reaction passed unnoticed by the others—except Minerva, who watched with quiet alertness.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, her tone careful.

But Nicholas and Nio didn’t reply. Both were too absorbed, senses attuned to whatever unseen force had reached out and touched them. The feeling wasn’t painful, but it was precise—like a note played in a foreign key, or a scent that shouldn’t exist in a familiar room.

“Lord Nicholas? Nio?”

At last, Nicholas spoke, his voice low and composed. “Minerva. We have three hours before the dinner, yes?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“Good. Proceed with the others. Get them cleaned up, dressed, and briefed. I trust you’ll ensure we don’t disgrace ourselves before the Queen—especially Rolan.”

Minerva tilted her head, concern shadowing her eyes. “And what of you?”

“I’ll remain here a little longer.”

“N-Nio too!” Nio added, her voice soft but insistent.

Nicholas stepped back from the carriage, gesturing curtly for the escorting knights to accompany his three companions onward. After a brief protest, they relented. Nio quietly fell in beside him, her steps light, eyes already scanning the surroundings.

As the carriage began to roll forward, the others turned to watch from its windows, curiosity piqued.

“Haven’t they had enough?” Rolan muttered, half-yawning. “Do they still want to pig out on more snacks?”

Fritz furrowed his brow, one white-gloved hand stroking his impressive moustache. “I’ve never seen Nio wear that expression. I wonder what they are looking for?" Fritz raised his eyebrow.

Meanwhile, Nicholas and Nio walked along the dusky street, trailed at a discreet distance by two guards dressed in plain garb. The fading light bathed the cobbled roads in violet hues. The quiet was only broken by the faint clamor of evening stalls and distant temple bells.

To Nicholas, the strange resonance remained maddeningly elusive. He could feel something—a faint ripple, like a forgotten melody half-remembered in a dream—but he lacked the arcane instinct to grasp it. Nio, however, was different. Her senses stirred with every breath of magic in the air.

“Have you found anything?” Nicholas asked, keeping his voice low.

“Nio . . . can’t. Not yet.” Her brows were furrowed, gaze fixed somewhere distant.

“How did it feel to you?”

“Nio thinks it’s alive. The mana carries a rhythm—like a heartbeat. Slow. Steady. Like it’s resting.”

Nicholas nodded slowly. “Could it be conjuration?”

She shook her head. “That is rather unlikely. Conjuration bleeds mana into its surroundings—it’s crude and traceable. This one is... dense and complicated. They are folded in on itself. Hidden.”

As they discussed possible methods to trace the source, a child darted past them—a little girl no older than eight or nine. She had short, wavy black hair and wore a strange bandana tied in a shape resembling bunny ears. She passed between them lightly, almost playfully.

Nicholas’s eyes followed her absently—until something caught his attention. For the briefest moment, as her head turned with a giggle, the glint of her earrings flashed in the dusk.

He froze.

They weren’t ordinary trinkets. The earrings were made of polished crystal—cut in a distinct, narrow teardrop shape. Familiar. Too familiar.

“You!”

Without realizing it, Nicholas had already reached out and seized the little girl’s wrist.

She turned to him, startled—and in that instant, time stopped.

Her eyes.

A deep, glacial blue—piercing, unearthly—just like his.

Nicholas stood rooted to the spot, stunned silent. The girl too froze, lips parted, as if sensing something familiar, yet strange. For a fleeting moment, neither moved. Their gazes locked—his, full of quiet ache; hers, wide with innocent curiosity.

“Viena!”

A shout broke the silence behind him.

"Hey! Hands off! What do you think you’re doing?!"

It's Alan and Gwen who come to meddle between them. Gwen pulled Viena away from Nicholas' hands. The escorting guards of Nicholas immediately sprang into action also. They unbuttoned their scabbards and standing side-way to show their swords. Reacting to this, Alan stepped forward. He is confused as to why his fellow knights are acting that way, but even so, he has his priority.

"Wait, gentlemen! Stop!" Nicholas immediately defuses the situation.

"I am sorry for the misunderstanding. I recently lost someone dear to me, and the little girl looks very similar, so I just couldn't hold myself."

Alan slowly dropped his guard, and so did the other knights. They finally talked things through and make peace. Alan also told Nicholas that they were on their way to meet Viena's father at the cathedral. Thus, Nicholas called for Viena who was hiding behind Gwen all the time. He gives her a small cubic object at the size of a thumb.

"It's a small lantern, one of the newest inventions from Aramia famous for its simplicity. Shake it and it will glow. But remember, you can only use it twice."

"Whoa! That sounds amazing!"

"So, you will forgive me for today, right?"

"Yeah! No biggies! Thank you, uncle!"

---

After parting ways, Nicholas and his entourage resumed their journey toward the Mirror Palace. The cobbled path glistened faintly in the dimming twilight, echoing beneath their boots as the sky deepened into a dusty indigo.

A few minutes into the quiet march, Nio crept closer to Nicholas’s side, her brows furrowed and her tone low.

“Nico… are you sure?” she asked. “Nio thinks that girl is… unusual.”

Nicholas didn’t look at her right away. “Unusual in what way?”

“There’s magic around her,” Nio murmured, her eyes scanning the cobbled street as though retracing the girl’s steps.

Nicholas stopped walking.

The rest of the party halted with him, glancing about, unsure of the cause. He turned his head slightly. “You mean the jolt we felt—it came from her?”

“Nio isn’t certain,” she replied, her voice quiet but firm. “But there were residues. Traces.”

Nicholas shifted to face her fully. “Elaborate.”

She gave a quick nod and inhaled.

“First,” she began, “Nio could sense Yarna coursing through her. Not a little, but everywhere—faint, yet laced through her limbs like veins. To most eyes, it might look like scattered swirls. But to Nio… it looked more like black burn.”

Nicholas’s expression didn’t change, but the pause in his breath was telling.

Black burn.

An arcane affliction—silent and painful—caused by the misuse of one’s own Yarna. But there was another possibility. A darker one. When the burn wasn’t self-inflicted, but forced through the body by someone else’s manipulation.

His jaw tightened slightly.

Still silent, he let her continue.

“Second,” Nio said, now glancing behind them as if to make sure they weren’t overheard, “her eyes… the color’s fake. Someone used Velcrum on her.”

“The cloaking spell,” Nicholas muttered, rubbing his cheek in thought. “It alters iris pigment to conceal identity.”

She nodded again. “Exactly. Her real eye color is hidden, and whoever cast the Velcrum was... precise. It’s not amateur work.”

Nicholas’s brows furrowed. Then, he turned and resumed walking, the boots of his guards falling into step behind him.

“If that’s all,” he added over his shoulder, “let’s move on. We probably just overthought it.”

"Why do you think so?" she asked quietly.

"The girl has two guards, and his father is affiliated with the Cathedral. That means, she is obviously high-born. Crossing the noble and the church is a suicide for us since it will greatly undermine our effort to complete this mission."

"But W=why would a person from an important family stroll the street on foot?"

"Why, haven't you noticed already? I am literally doing just the same," Nicholas smiles.

"I-I see. But what about the magic and others?"

"It's possible to think that she is a victim of a feud between nobles that involve Yarna as a media of coercion, hence explained the close relation between her family and the church following that issue."

"Shouldn't she be sheltered then?"

“Precisely,” Nicholas said. “They probably let her out under strict watch, casting enough glamours to keep her identity safe. People raised in gilded cages find strange ways to breathe.”

Nio was quiet for a moment before letting out a small laugh. She is so impressed by Nicholas' answer and deduction.

"Nico is very smart. Nio wants to be like Nico."

"No need to feel that way. You are very talented also. Otherwise, I wouldn't ask you to help me finding Randia."

He reached out and gently ruffled her hair. Nio ducked shyly but didn’t stop smiling.

The city air carried the scent of evening bread and distant incense. They walked on—two shadows in a sea of light, their minds still lingering on a girl with borrowed eyes and a name too strange to forget.