Ersia: Raven Dawn

The scent of southern Ersia’s famed pastries wafted through the fine creak of the mirrored dining room doors—warm, spiced, and rich with memory. Despite the nightfall, no chill lingered within. Gentle rows of elegant candles lined the mirrored walls, casting a serene, amber glow over the long table dressed in crisp white linens. The servants, dressed impeccably, made sure the honored guests are at ease as they led them to their seat, which was perfectly set with crisp white linens, polished glassware, and small ceramic vases of fresh evening primroses.The hush of refinement deepened with the arrival of Queen Catalina Rosalia and her four attendants. At once, Nicholas, Minerva, and Fritz rose from their seats, with Nio—slightly unsure of her timing—reluctantly following suit. Rolan remained seated a second too long, until Nio discreetly yanked his ear thanks to his slow sense of etiquette.

“At ease, ladies and gentlemen,” said Queen Catalina with a gracious smile, her voice both poised and warmly disarming. "Let us not make this evening a prisoner of ceremony. I do not wish to have a dinner too formal for today," said queen Catalina.

After the queen sits at the head of the table, the chef de cuisine stepped forward with practiced composure, and made his announcement.

“Good evening, Your Majesty, esteemed guests. Tonight’s dinner shall be a five-course service, beginning with—”

But Catalina raised a hand gently. "Emmanuel, tonight we’ve something far more curious to feast our ears upon. Let your artistry delight only our mouths, yes?"

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” the chef replied, bowing with a smile.

He lifted the small iron triangle hanging at his waist and struck it lightly with a metal beater. The bright, delicate chime lingered in the air like a bellbird’s note, signaling the servers waiting silently outside. They entered in pairs, synchronized and silent, bearing the hors d'oeuvres with quiet reverence.

As the plates were laid before each guest, Queen Catalina’s emerald eyes roamed the table. A subtle grin touched her lips as she caught the unmistakable hunger in their gazes—even Nicholas, ever the composed gentleman, betrayed a flicker of longing beneath his usual shadowed thought.

“It must have been a long journey, Lord Nicholas,” said Queen Catalina, her tone graceful yet inquisitive, like a harp note played with deliberate poise.

“I must confess,” Nicholas replied with a faint smile, “that we found ourselves quite bewitched by the beauty of Rosmayne and its flower fields. We strayed from the main road quite often, lured by its charm.”

“Ah,” she replied, her eyes gleaming with layered meaning. “Then perhaps some gratitude is owed to the Lord of Kalarad. After all, the fertilizer they so generously provided us is of… commendable quality. They make the flowers blossoms even more gracefully this time of the year.”

A hush passed over the table, like a fine silk curtain being drawn.

Kalarad—an eastern vassal of the Aramia Empire—had long stood in a cloud of suspicion. Its ruling lord, Abram Kalamenko, was well-known in courtly circles for his wavering allegiance to Ethelar Aramid. Over the past two years, he had covertly engaged in numerous economic and political dealings that undermined his imperial suzerain, with Rosmayne quietly reaping the gains. It was an open secret, discussed behind fans and over parchment, but rarely spoken aloud.

The internal discord within Kalarad was no stranger to the empire. In truth, it was far more common for Aramians to clash with each other than with any foreign power. As a result, envoys from the capital often found themselves in delicate situations when traversing such turbulent territories—something Nicholas and his companions had experienced firsthand when they passed through Kalarad.

“I see,” Nicholas said with a courteous bow of the head, watching as the server placed the first course before them. “You hold Lord Abram in high regard. Should you wish to offer him a token of appreciation, I would be most happy to suggest a gift.”

"Oh? Then, let us hear what you have in mind." Queen Catalina said, her voice warm, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed a deeper curiosity.

She studied Nicholas with subtle intensity. The young queen had heard much of him—the emperor’s confidant, some whispered, even his shadow. Rumors swirled like courtly perfume: that Nicholas Belsvan was the second most powerful man in Aramia, sharper than any blade and twice as cold. Catalina, inheritor of a legendary crown and a queendom with too many watching eyes, had little choice but to weigh every guest carefully. And tonight, she would see how this Aramian played the game.

“Eight pony horses,” he began casually, “and a ten-year-old white mare. "Also, perhaps, as a flourish, a ceremonial spear crafted from Cantava wood? I reckon the Lucraveli has quite a bountiful harvest this year —and, as it happens, Young Lord Bogdan is an ardent admirer of those luxury goods."

Catalina’s smile remained, but behind it, something stirred—confusion, perhaps. The message in Nicholas’s words lay veiled, and though she tried to trace it, it slipped like water through her fingers. For a heartbeat, her uncertainty flickered in her expression—fleeting, but caught by Minerva’s watchful eyes.

“How… peculiar, Lord Nicholas,” Catalina said, folding her hands in front of her with elegant poise. “Is there a particular story behind this oddly specific suggestion of yours?”

Nicholas gave a genial laugh, the sound light but unreadable. He adjusted his monocle with the same ease one might stroke a dagger’s hilt. “Oh, please, Your Majesty. Nothing so grand or calculated. Merely a passing thought. Delightfully spontaneous—like these exquisite mushroom canapés and feuilletés you’ve so graciously shared with us.”

Minerva glanced toward Catalina. The queen’s game had been met with polished steel hidden behind a silk glove.

Admitting quiet defeat, Catalina let out a soft chuckle and rubbed her palms together, feigning playfulness with the grace of a practiced royal.

"How very charming and knowledgeable! Her voice rang like a bell—light, silver, yet unmistakably firm. “I see we shall be most delightfully entertained tonight. Forgive me for delaying your repast. Now—let us dine.”

---

The third course had been cleared—pan-roasted pheasant with Dijon glaze and a delicately prepared sole meunière—leaving only the lingering traces of sauce and satisfied sighs around the table. Light conversation drifted like perfume through the air, meandering from passing anecdotes to pleasantries about the Queendom’s famed night blooms and the cool fragrance of its southern coast.

Only when the pace of eating slowed and the edge of hunger had faded from every guest’s expression did Queen Catalina begin to lean into the true purpose of the evening.

“It seems you travel with a rather refined company, Lord Nicholas,” she remarked lightly, setting down her wine glass. “Though, if I may admit, I expected a larger party—given the weight of the task you carry.”

Her eyes twinkled with amusement as she caught Rolan still busily forking the last bites from his plate, unabashed and entirely unaware of the queen’s now-rested cutlery. This time, her smile was genuine, free from veiled meanings. Nicholas could tell: she was beginning to enjoy herself—and growing increasingly intrigued by the party seated before her.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Nicholas replied smoothly, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. “Though we are but few, I would be honored to introduce my companions.”

He gestured with a quiet grace toward the poised young woman seated beside him. “This is Lady Minerva, the first daughter of House Trussia.”

A flicker of recognition passed across Queen Catalina’s features. Of course she remembered Minerva—she had been present during Catalina’s coronation, part of the Aramian delegation. The Trussia name held weight even in Rosmayne. For over three centuries, that house had charted the tides of power across Seraina, their lineage gleaming like fine silver in the long corridor of history. Before the rise of Ethelar Aramid, they had commanded the greatest domain in Eastern Seraina.

“I hope Rosmayne hasn’t wearied you, Lady Minerva,” Catalina said, her tone both welcoming and mildly teasing.

Minerva, ever composed, inclined her head with dignified warmth. “On the contrary, Your Majesty. In these troubled times, your Queendom remains a dreamland. We are deeply grateful for your hospitality.”

After exchanging pleasantries with Minerva, Queen Catalina reclined slightly in her seat, awaiting the next introduction with an air of graceful curiosity.

Nicholas obliged.

“Seated beside Lady Minerva is Sir Fritz,” he began, voice rich with cordiality. “Once the guildmaster of the Dudley Merchant Guild—though now retired. His first son, Dudley, has since been ennobled by the Duke of London and now bears the name Dudley Walsingham. He has taken the reins of the guild with remarkable flair. With his affairs in capable hands, Sir Fritz has chosen to revisit the adventurous spirit of his youth by joining us on this journey.”

Queen Catalina tilted her head, clearly impressed. “How admirable,” she mused. “So then, the House of Walsingham is your patron now.”

Nicholas gave a measured nod, his smile easy. “In a manner of speaking, Your Majesty.”

He then gestured subtly toward the youngest member of the party.

“And here,” he said, voice softening with something close to fondness, “is Nio. A scholar and a librarian by calling. I first encountered her five years past, in the hushed halls of the Great Archive of Iskandariyah.”

Nio startled slightly as the queen’s gaze turned to her. “N-Nice to meet you, Queen of Rosmayne!” she blurted, bowing awkwardly in her seat.

The room stilled for a moment—but then Catalina’s lips curved into a genuine smile, touched with warmth. The simplicity of the girl’s demeanor, so earnest and untouched by pretense, charmed her in a way that few courtiers ever could.

“A pleasure to meet you as well, Nio,” the queen said kindly. “I do hope Rosmayne has been kind to you so far.”

Nio nodded, several times in quick succession.

Nicholas let out a chuckle, clearly entertained. “Do go easy on her, Your Majesty. Nio turned nineteen only yesterday.”

“Oh? Is that so?” Catalina's smile brightened. “Then you shall not leave Rosmayne without a proper birthday gift. I’ll see to it that something fitting finds its way to your chamber by morning.”

A round of gentle laughter passed through the table. Nicholas, seizing the moment, allowed himself a few playful jests, drawing the table further from the grip of ceremony and closer to ease. He knew well that the final introduction would require a softened room—and luckily, the queen laughed along, delighted by the levity.

“Nio is intelligent,” Nicholas continued, “and extraordinarily attuned to magical flux.”

Queen Catalina nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Then I trust she is indispensable to your mission.”

Nio gave a timid smile, her gaze briefly meeting the queen’s before darting away. She fidgeted with her fingers under the table, recalling Sir Fritz’s earlier advice not to be so stiff—but that was far easier said than done, especially when seated across from royalty.

Nicholas allowed the moment to settle before gesturing to the final member of their group.

“And lastly, we have Rolan,” he said, with a tone that hovered between resignation and amusement. “As much as I hate to admit it, he complements Nio remarkably well. While she excels at detecting traces of magical residue, Rolan has a knack for finding physical tracks—footprints, broken twigs, disturbed dust. He’s a hound when it comes to the unseen.”

The queen’s eyes flicked toward Rolan, who was still finishing the last bites of his pheasant.

Nicholas added with a slight chuckle, “As Your Majesty may have already observed, he’s not exactly… well-versed in such settings. I ask your forgiveness on his behalf.”

Rolan set down his utensils and leaned forward with a grin. “Now that’s a bit harsh, Boss. Did you already forget who saved your sorry hide from being mauled by that bear during the hunt three summers ago?”

"It seems that my entourage just went down to four people." Nicholas snap back.

A ripple of laughter stirred through the table, even reaching the queen, who covered her mouth politely as she smiled.

“Ahem—” Nicholas cleared his throat, the corners of his lips twitching. “In any case, that concludes our brief introduction, Your Majesty.”

Queen Catalina clasped her hands together with graceful delight. “A fascinating company you keep, Lord Nicholas. I daresay supper in Rosmayne has rarely seen such a collection of personalities.”