Ersia: Raven Dawn

The time for dessert had come.

A delicate bowl of crème brûlée, its golden crust flawlessly torched, sat alongside a scattering of honeyed berries on each guest’s plate. Following Nicholas’s introductions, Queen Catalina gently laid down her fork and took up her dessert spoon—a quiet signal to draw the evening’s talking to a pause and allow everyone a moment to indulge.

The hall was soon filled with the soft clinks of silver against porcelain, and the subtle, delighted murmurs of satisfaction. Even Rolan and Nio—who seemed to forget entirely where they were—couldn’t help letting slip audible hums of delight with every other bite. Nicholas sighed discreetly, but said nothing, content to let the moment stretch just a little longer.

When the bowls had been cleared and the wine poured, the air shifted.

Gone was the warmth of laughter and sweet delight. In its place came the quiet gravity that had always lurked beneath the surface. Queen Catalina placed her goblet aside and regarded Nicholas with steady, unsmiling eyes.

“It is time, Lord Grand Envoy.”

Nicholas met her gaze, calm and composed. His gloved hand moved to adjust his monocle with practiced ease.

“My companions and I were dispatched under imperial seal by His Majesty, for the investigation and pursuit of Randia. As bound by the Third Grand Summit Covenant, both Rosmayne and Aramia are under mutual obligation to share intelligence and, when necessary, request aid from among the Thirteen Sovereigns.”

The queen studied him a moment longer, then asked with quiet clarity, “Is it gold that you require?”

Nicholas allowed a faint smile. “Gold is always a welcome tool, Your Majesty. But what we seek is something more valuable still.”

He folded his hands neatly on the table.

“We wish to request the Valette twins’ accompaniment in our mission.”

There was a brief silence. The name stirred little immediate recognition. Catalina’s brows knit faintly as she sifted through the ranks of her knights in thought. The Valette twins—Henry and Henrietta—were not the most famed of her realm’s warriors. Capable, yes, and loyal to the crown without question, but far from the brightest stars in her chivalric firmament.

“Ah… Henry and Henrietta,” she said slowly. “Lord Patrick Valette’s children. But why them, of all people? Surely there are names among our order more celebrated, more seasoned?”

She clasped her fingers together, eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but in curiosity.

“Just like the ones you see before you, I prefer to be surrounded by those I trust,” Nicholas said evenly. “Surely, Your Majesty, you can sympathize with such a personal inclination.”

As he spoke, his gaze drifted—brief but deliberate—toward the queen’s attendants seated at the far end of the table. It was not overt, but those who understood courtly games caught the signal clearly: a return volley in their quiet duel. Nicholas had not missed the earlier challenge, and now he sent one back. The implication was clear—he, too, understood that even the Queen of Rosmayne must navigate the thorns of her own court.

A faint shift swept through the room.

Lady Marielle, the Countess of Anessa, straightened in her seat. An unwavering loyalist to Queen Catalina, she would not let such a slight—however subtle—pass unchallenged.

“As you yourself said, Lord Envoy, you are bound to share your findings,” she said with cool precision. “Now that your tongue has partaken in our finest regale, surely it is only appropriate you offer something of substance in return before asking for more.”

Her tone was velvet-sheathed steel, and her words struck with practiced precision. A loyal hound defending her mistress.

Nicholas did not flinch. Instead, he turned to her with an apologetic half-smile, dipping his head slightly.

“My, my, Lady Marielle. Forgive me—I fear I allowed my excitement to get the better of my manners,” he said, tone light but not flippant. “Then, please, do tell me—what is it that you wish to know?”

“The hero,” Lord Gervais interjected, his voice deep and measured. “Randia. You shall speak of his identity, his power, and every other detail your investigation has uncovered. Spare us nothing.”

At that, Nicholas raised his glass—not high, not low, but just so. A wordless offering of peace, deference, and diplomacy. Across the table, Queen Catalina answered the gesture by lifting her own goblet—higher than his—and drinking in silence. One by one, the others followed suit. Glasses clinked gently, a wordless accord sealing the transition into the next, graver chapter of the evening.

Nicholas exhaled slowly, then unhooked the chain of his monocle and let it hang across his chest, as if symbolically removing a mask.

“Some of what I shall share may already be written in books. Forgive me, then, if parts of it sound familiar.”

His voice dropped just a note lower—still refined, still collected—but now there was something solemn in it. The room stilled, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across expectant faces.

“Asmar and Randia were both born in Enster,” Nicholas began, his voice calm and measured, “a small, windswept town in the northwestern fringes of Aramia. They were half-brothers—born of different mothers, but united by a single, tragic truth.”

He let a breath pass before continuing.

“Their father was a bandit—a nameless, rootless man who violated both women during separate raids. He was apprehended after a failed assault on a merchant convoy and sent to the gallows not long after. No records of his ancestry exist—no noble lineage, no forgotten bloodlines. He was, by all accounts, filth washed ashore.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, disturbed only by the crackle of firelight. Even Lord Gervais, with his stern skepticism, gave pause.

“Asmar and Randia bore an uncanny resemblance to one another,” Nicholas went on, “yet they never met until they were six. Their fates entwined during the Siege of Argestan, when the townspeople of Enster were forced westward as refugees. It was in one of those makeshift camps that the two boys laid eyes on each other for the first time.”

He placed a hand on the table, fingers loosely clasped—anchoring himself to the memory.

“The refugees, unable to return to their ruined homes, chose to carve a new life in the highlands of the Urstine Mountains. A village was founded there—Aderia. That is where the brothers grew up, and why they are more often remembered as Asmar and Randia of Aderia, rather than of Enster.”

Nicholas’s gaze flicked briefly toward Queen Catalina, then swept back to the others.

“It was in those heights that they became inseparable. Best friends at first. Brothers in truth by choice. When they turned twelve, they learned the truth of their mothers’ pasts—and rather than divide them, it bound them together in defiant kinship.”

He paused, and the silence was broken not by words, but by the raising of a hand—Lord Gervais.

“What proof do you have of this tale?” the lord asked, his voice firm but not hostile. “It is a compelling story—but without evidence, stories are only that.”

Before Nicholas could answer, Queen Catalina’s voice flowed into the pause like a gentle stream over stone.

“Lord Gervais,” she said, her tone poised yet resolute, “few remain who stood close to the heroes in those days. Fewer still who remember them not as myths, but as men. Lord Nicholas is one such witness—and I believe his words come not from self-interest, but from reverence. Let us take his words as it is for now.”

Following Queen Catalina’s measured defense, Lord Gervais gave a slight nod and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled across his lap. Though his personal sentiments toward Aramia remained uneasy, his loyalty to the crown—and to Catalina’s judgment—took precedence. With a silent gesture, he yielded the floor.

Nicholas offered a small bow of acknowledgement, then resumed with the steady cadence of a man recalling memories etched in iron.

“Asmar began working from a young age as a stonemason,” he said, “while Randia took to glasswork. Their hands were calloused by labor before most boys knew what it meant to bear weight. In Aderia, they quickly became known—not just as hardworking, but as pillars of strength. The village leaned on them, especially in the harsh winters, when every extra hand meant survival.”

He paused for a moment, allowing the warmth of that image to fade before the inevitable shadow.

“But peace does not last long on Aramian borders,” he continued. “One day, during Emperor Ethelar Aramid’s conquest of the Urs, Aderia was razed.”

A hush fell upon the room.

“The brothers fought to protect their people,” Nicholas said softly, “but they were gravely wounded in the chaos. Asmar slipped into a coma. And that might have been the end—had it not been for the arrival of a strange man.”

Nicholas's voice lowered, as if invoking a legend.

“Some say he was a wandering sage. Others, a spirit cloaked in mortal form. No one ever learned his name. What they remember is this: one eye pure white, the other pitch black. He performed a ritual unlike anything ever seen and spirited the boys away to a place known only to him.”

He glanced at Lady Marielle, who now leaned ever so slightly forward, unable to hide her curiosity.

“When they returned,” Nicholas said, “they were never the same. Healed. Hardened. The villagers called it a miracle. Master Bryan O’Brien—who knew them best—called it something else. He named that day The Day of Awakening.”

Nicholas allowed a breath to pass before continuing, his tone now tinged with quiet reflection.

“Asmar once told me that Randia used to be… different. His hair was golden-blonde, the same shade as his own. But after the Awakening, it turned snow-white, and with it, something within him dimmed. He had once been cheerful—even comical, in his own stubborn, headstrong way. But that brightness vanished. Asmar believed trauma had devoured it.”

Nicholas’s eyes lingered on his glass of wine, the crimson liquid catching the light like memory made tangible.

“Even so,” he said quietly, “I cannot shake the feeling that something else changed that day. Something deeper.”

The room remained silent. Not in disbelief, but in stunned reevaluation. For all present, Randia had always been an image carved from stone—cold, severe, unflinching. The thought of him smiling—let alone cracking jokes—seemed like a myth.

This was, after all, the same man who had executed three of his closest companions by his own hand—two of them being women. He had judged them as traitors and offered no tears in their passing. To imagine that same man laughing by a forge, or grinning beside his brother, was as jarring as glimpsing a crack in the heavens.

Nicholas let them sit in that silence, not out of cruelty, but because it was necessary—for them to begin to see Randia not as a legend, or a monster, but as a man. One who had once been different.

“As for his power…” Nicholas paused, then straightened his posture and slowly opened his palm, as though presenting a riddle to the room. “I believe your majesty experienced an unusual storm a few months ago?”

Queen Catalina tilted her head slightly. “Yes, we did.”

Nicholas’s fingers flexed just barely, his gaze sharp. “Were there any reports of wild animals behaving strangely in the days that followed?”

The question stirred a brief wave of murmurs. The queen exchanged glances with her inner circle. Her lady-in-waiting, Ellis, had already begun rifling through a thick folio of notes beside her. Her diligence paid off in moments.

“…Yes,” the queen confirmed aloud, reading the parchment given by Ellis. “There were several reports from outskirt villages: unprovoked attacks by wildlife—bears, boars, jackals, even lynxes. No fatalities, thank the goddess, but the pattern was… unnerving.”

Nicholas gave a single, quiet nod.

“Then it’s definitely him.”

Without awaiting approval, he poured himself another drink and raised it to his lips. He took a slow sip, then set the glass down with casual finality. The queen made no protest—young as she was, it seemed she was too captivated by the unfolding tale to be bothered by petty breaches of etiquette.

“To the best of my knowledge,” Nicholas began again, voice lower now, “Randia cannot use magic. Not in the traditional sense. But he possesses three abilities, each as dangerous as any spell.”

He held up a single finger.

“First—his natural gift for martial combat. With a spear, he is beyond reach. Grandmaster Muneshige of the Sankoku-shu was so taken by his technique, he founded an entire school to study and replicate it.”

A second finger rose.

“Second—his strength. Titanic. Among living men, I know of only one who could match it.”

Nicholas turned his eyes toward Lord Gervais, whose brow furrowed as realization dawned.

“Geovatus…” Gervais muttered under his breath.

He then raised a second finger.

“Second—his Magnum Opus: Lyudra.”

A ripple of unease passed through the room.

“So Lady Setra was telling the truth after all?” murmured Lady Marielle, glancing toward Ellis.

Ellis, without raising her head, gave a single confirming nod.

"Lyudra possess terrifying power but also with a great side-effect. It literally allows Randia to channel the power of the sky into himself, allowing him to enters a state that borders on the divine."

He paused, letting the weight of that truth settle in the air.

"However, that very power is so great that it burns him from inside-out. Flesh, bone, blood, nerve—it tears at him. The toll is excruciating. Worse still, it disrupts the balance of meta in the vicinity.”

Nicholas set down his glass and leaned slightly forward, the lamplight glinting off the lens of his monocle.

"The wildlife, shocked by the unnatural surge of exposed to the aftershock of Lyudra’s release, react violently. The sudden surge in meta forces them into a state of chaotic, rapid adaptation—some enter frenzied states, while others undergo spontaneous cladogenesis. Entire bloodlines mutate overnight. Thanks to this phenomenon, scholars have begun to trace similar disturbances in ancient ruins—suggesting that Lyudra, or something like it, was involved in the fall of several lost civilizations.”

He paused, then slowly donned his monocle once more.

“I’ve only witnessed him use it twice. And I sincerely hope I never see it a third time.”

The room remained silent—each guest lost in the enormity of what they had just heard.

Then the queen broke the quiet.

“Can you track him down, then?”

Nicholas did not answer immediately. Instead, he shifted his gaze to the other side of the table—to a timid young woman who had thus far remained in the background. Her eyes widened as she realized his silent cue.

Nio blinked, then rose to her feet with hesitant grace.

“Y-Your Majesty… if I may?” she asked, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

Queen Catalina gave her an encouraging smile. “Yes, of course, young lady.”

“Meta is raw,” Nio began nervously, fidgeting with her sleeves. “It’s highly volatile and not… not personalized. It lacks the imprint of the user, unlike Anima, which makes it much harder to track.”

She took a shaky breath.

“Still, Nio believes it’s possible… if Nio can inspect the site no later than seven days after an incident involving meta. Beyond that, the residual traces scatter or are absorbed into the environment.”

Then her eyes widened, and her words began to tumble.

“S-So, that means it’s possible—but only if it’s not too late, which it is—so it's impossible by now, even though it’s possible—but actually, only in theory, because it’s not really—ah, Nio doesn’t know what Nio is saying anymore! Nio is so, so sorry!”

"Nio. Thank you for explaining."

Her voice cracked at the end, and she lowered her head in shame, her hands covering her reddening face.

Nicholas let out a soft chuckle and called to her gently. “Nio. Thank you for explaining.”

She peeked between her fingers to find him smiling at her, pride glowing in his eyes. Her embarrassment deepened, but she gave a small, grateful nod.

“I see,” Lord Gervais said, rubbing his chin. “Well, that’s a pity. If only you’d arrived sooner, things might’ve been far easier.”

Nicholas inclined his head politely, then raised three fingers.

“Third,” he continued, his tone turning serious once more.

.

.

.

“Randia has two pets.”

“Pets?” The queen blinked in confusion. “You mean like cats or dogs?”

“Tamed beasts or familiars, depending on how you’d like to call them,” Nicholas replied. “It’s all the same to me. Strange, loyal fellows bound to him by contract.”

“You talk about them as if they were people,” Lady Marielle remarked, raising a brow.

“Do I?” Nicholas allowed himself a small smile. “Perhaps it’s because they acted so—intimately human. I used to play with them, you see. I have rather fond memories.”

The queen leaned forward, intrigued. “So? What—or who—are these pets of his?”

“Minerva.”

“Yes, my lord,” she answered promptly.

Minerva brought her fingers to her rings and gave them a gentle rub. From beneath her sleeve, a tiny creature emerged—an elegantly furred squirrel, no larger than a teacup, with silken brown fur and bright, intelligent eyes.

The squirrel bounded to the table’s edge, stood on its hind legs, and began to bow repeatedly toward Minerva, pressing its tiny forepaws together in reverence.

“This is Dingo,” Minerva said, a subtle fondness in her voice. “A magical squirrel from Dayaman Island in the Great Archipelago. My father gifted him to me for my tenth birthday. He’s quite long-lived for his species, and while he cannot speak, he understands every word I say.”

She turned her eyes to her queen with a delicate smile. “For example,”

“Dingo, go and greet Lady Ellis.”

At once, Dingo scurried across the polished table, stopping before Ellis. Without hesitation, he performed the same worshipful bows toward her.

Ellis—usually composed and precise—let out a breathless laugh, her amber eyes lighting up with joy. She covered her mouth in surprise, but her fingers betrayed her, drifting downward to give the squirrel’s belly a soft rub. Dingo flopped over obligingly, tiny legs splayed in theatrical bliss.

“Kuk kuk kuk hissss!”

The squirrel flopped onto his back dramatically, tiny limbs splayed, tongue sticking out in exaggerated death.

“A-Ah! I didn’t mean to—!” Ellis gasped, hands hovering in panic.

Minerva chuckled softly. “No need to fret, Lady Ellis. He’s merely pretending. A little drama is one of his favorite games.”

Nicholas laughed. “He does that when he likes someone.”

Minerva gave a gentle command. “Dingo, enough mischief. Come back.”

At once, the squirrel sprang to his feet, scampered back to Minerva, and with a shimmer of light, vanished into her ring. A subtle glow lingered for a moment on the gemstone before fading away.

The room burst into soft laughter, the tension in the air melting like morning frost. Even Lord Gervais allowed a grunt of amusement as he leaned back in his chair.

Queen Catalina leaned forward, eyes shining with fascination. “Do you cast a special spell to store Dingo in your ring? That was extraordinary.”

“No, Your Majesty,” Minerva replied with a small smile. “The ring was commissioned from the land of Yeon. Their artisans are unparalleled in this type of bound-magic. I simply channel my Anima into it, and the magic activates on its own. The spell is already inscribed into the metal.”

“I see…” the queen murmured, visibly intrigued.

Nicholas and the others watched as the queen and her adherents whispered animatedly to their attendants. Curious glances passed toward Minerva’s hand and her ring. It was clear—they were all enraptured by the trinket and already entertaining the idea of acquiring one for themselves.

Lady Marielle tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I wonder if the Yeon embassy still takes commissions…”

“Perhaps we should arrange a delegation,” added Lord Gervais dryly.

“A royal gift idea, maybe,” the queen mused, clearly already planning.

Nicholas exchanged a knowing glance with Minerva. Wherever her squirrel went, mischief—and a trail of admirers—was sure to follow.

“Very well, please continue, Lord Nicholas,” said the queen with a noticeably softer, more relaxed air. The earlier tension had all but dissolved.

Nicholas dipped his head in acknowledgment. “As I mentioned before, Randia has two… companions. The first is a Heralean great wolf named Stella. She’s capable of communicating with people—through Alana.”

“Telepathy?!” Lord Gervais nearly choked on his wine. “That’s absurd!”

A wave of astonished gasps and murmurs rippled through the room. Even those who had traveled with Nicholas—Lady Marielle, Ellis, and the usually imperturbable Gervais—looked at him with incredulous eyes. Only Minerva remained serenely unsurprised.

“You’re telling us this now?” Marielle narrowed her eyes. “A wolf who speaks in minds?”

“I wasn’t lying when I said Randia is full of secrets,” Nicholas replied, lifting his glass in dry amusement. “There are things about him even I only discovered by accident.”

“The other one…” He trailed off just enough to heighten the suspense.

The room stilled, all eyes drawn to him again.

“The other is a frog. A talking frog, to be precise. With a flair for the theatrical. We call him… Master Jojo.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Ellis blinked. “A frog… that talks?”

“And dressed better than Wilhelm Solksphere himself,” Nicholas added, deadpan. “With ruff, feathered cap, and all. His vocabulary is quite refined—until he gets angry. Then he starts shouting in nine different languages and quoting obscure operas.”

Lady Marielle stared. “You’re making this up.”

“I wish I were,” Nicholas said, smiling faintly. “But Master Jojo is quite real. He considers himself Randia’s philosophical advisor. Or at least, he used to. Back in those days, he mostly complained about the taste of modern flies.”

Another burst of laughter swept through the room, this time mingled with disbelief and delight. Even Queen Catalina couldn’t help a soft giggle behind her hand.

“I must meet this Master Jojo one day,” she said, eyes sparkling.

“If he allows an audience,” Nicholas said with a playful shrug. “He’s a bit... particular about who he speaks to. I recall that he once called a Helden cardinal an ‘illiterate butterball’ and refused to speak until we get the cardinal out of his sight."

Just as Nicholas was in the midst of recounting his tale, something stirred within him—a memory, sharp and sudden. A flicker of magical nuance from the town earlier that day resurfaced in his mind. It was faint, barely there, but unmistakably familiar. That aura… it bore the same subtle signature as Randia’s tamed beasts.

His words faltered. A shadow passed behind his eyes, and for a moment, he sat silent, struck by the realization.

But then, just as quickly, he forced the thought away. No, he told himself. It couldn’t be. I’m merely chasing ghosts.

He exhaled quietly, masking the lapse with a sip of wine, and offered a faint smile to smooth over the pause.

It must be nostalgia, he decided. The memories of that first visit to Rosmayne—when the heroes still walked beside us, when there were no other but the first companions taking care of each other —playing tricks on the mind.

And with that, Nicholas returned to his tale, pushing aside the unease that lingered at the edges of his thoughts.