Ersia: Raven Dawn

[Two Weeks After Prima Risera – House of Arbon, Vestibule]

Outside the wrought-iron fence of the Arbon estate, Lisabelle was speaking with a courier. The man handed her a neatly sealed envelope, the edges faintly scented—floral, perhaps, though she couldn’t tell if the perfume was meant for her or had merely clung to the letter from contact with others. She turned it over once in her hand, then tucked it beneath her arm.

"Then, I’ll be on my way, my lady. Good day to you!" the courier said with a polite nod.

"Yeah. Thank you. Take care on your way," Lisabelle replied casually, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

The courier paused, lowering his voice just before stepping away.

"Oh, also—hope this stays between us—but... about the business in the flea market months back? I don’t buy a word of what they said. All just nonsense, if you ask me. I'm on your side, Miss Arbona."

Lisabelle blinked at him, a faint smile blooming on her lips—dry, but sincere. She simply gave a light wave and watched him go.

Inside, Viena was already waiting. The younger girl had been peeking through the hallway curtains since the moment the courier arrived. She knew it wasn’t academic mail. Instead of bundles of scrolls and a few books, this time, Lisabelle only got a single piece of letter.

"Oh, you're here."

"Hey, what was that?"

"Probably just a notification from the academy."

"No, it’s not. Why are you lying?"

"What makes you think I’m lying?"

"'Cause the academy seal doesn’t look like that! Come on, what are you being shy about? We've gotten, like... eight of them since Prima Risera! Or wait—don’t tell me... you like this one?!"

Lisabelle didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she flicked the envelope against Viena’s head with just enough force to earn a squeak, then dropped it into her sister’s hands.

"Here. Read it if you want. I don’t give a damn."

Viena's eyes lit up, her curiosity overpowering any sting of the smack.

"Can I really? Yes!" She tore the envelope open with the excitement of a child unwrapping a gift.

As she pulled out the letter, a faint floral scent wafted through the vestibule.

"Mhmm! This one smells like jasmine. I like it!" she said, grinning as she brought it to her nose for another whiff.

After that, Viena fell into a quiet spell for about a minute. She giggled to herself here and there, rolling back and forth on the sofa like a giddy schoolgirl—completely enamored, as if she were the one the letter was written for. Nearby, Lisabelle sipped slowly on a cup of warm honeyed ginger tea, quietly observing her little sister's performance.

"So, who was it from?" she asked at last.

"It says... Claude Valias."

"Valias? Never heard of it. Just toss it into the fireplace when you’re done playing."

"Are you sure? He’s inviting us to lunch!"

"Us? Both of us? You sure it’s not just me?"

"Nope. Says 'you and your little sister,' clear as day!"

That made Lisabelle pause. She leaned over and swiftly snatched the letter from Viena’s hands. Back during Prima Risera, she’d left the festival early—slipping away just as the commotion began to stir, hoping to defuse the tension before things escalated. For Claude Valias to have seen not just her, but also Eleanor and Viena, and still choose to reach out this way... it meant he had been paying attention.

She skimmed through the letter again, this time more carefully. The final lines left a distinct impression.

"...What a weird guy," she muttered.

"Is it normal to invite someone like that?" Viena asked, still sprawled across the cushions.

"No. But it certainly caught my attention," Lisabelle said, her lips curling into a faint smile.

"So I suppose it’s effective."

"Aha! You do like this guy, Lily!"

"Don’t be ridiculous, Vivi." Lisabelle stood, folding the letter again. "A lady mustn’t be so easily won over. Being impressed doesn’t mean I’ll let him sway me without effort. It only means I’ll give him a chance—to prove whether he’s worth anything at all."

She looked down at her little sister with that familiar sharp gaze.

"Listen carefully, Vivi. In a relationship, we women must always take the reins. Always. Do you understand?"

Viena nodded obediently. Lisabelle slipped the letter back into the torn envelope and told her to clean up. As for herself, she intended to bring the matter to Alan and Gwen. If anyone might have heard of Claude Valias, it would be them. Thanks to their work constantly rotating through the noble district, the two knights had built a surprising network among house staff and retainers.

"I can’t say I remember the name Valias exactly," Alan said as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"But if I had to guess, I’d say he belongs to a respectable branch family. Probably one tied to a major house."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because only a branch of a powerful family can afford to commission a personalized seal stamp in blue. Between the bureaucracy and the annual fee, it’s a lot of coin just for presentation."

"I already knew that much," Lisabelle replied, unconvinced. "But do you really have no idea?"

“Wait a second,” Gwen said, squinting at the parchment. “This letter looks odd. Look—the signature’s on the left side instead of the right.”

“So what?” Alan asked, half-distracted.

“Only Varnarians sign on the left side of the paper.”

Alan blinked. “Oh!”

Lisabelle’s eyes narrowed. “Varnaria?” she echoed, fingers tapping the side of her arm.

Without hesitation, she turned to Gwen. “Can you find out anything about this Claude Valias for me? Anything at all.”

“Sure thing,” Gwen said, folding the letter neatly. “Besides, I owe Eleanor a favor anyway. Or maybe several.”

Lisabelle tilted her head. “Why?”

“Well,” Gwen said, putting a hand on her hip, “it hit me when I got transferred. You know, food actually costs money. And people charge you to sleep under a roof.” She rolled her eyes. “Meanwhile, over here, I was living like a pampered cat—free meals, warm beds, fresh bread every morning…”

Alan laughed. “So this is guilt-driven intelligence work?”

Gwen gave him a wink. “Let’s just say it’s a repayment plan.”

Lisabelle gave her a nod of approval. “Then do what you can. Quietly, if possible. I’d like to know more about the man before we show up at his lunch invitation.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Gwen said, tucking the letter away in her coat.

"You have contracted syphilis," Randia said flatly.

“Syph—what?”

“The lover’s pox,” he clarified, not even glancing up from his tools. “A disease spread, most commonly, through sexual relations with multiple partners.”

“That’s impossible! I—I’ve been faithful for years!”

“And unfaithful for a night or two, judging by the fading ring mark on your finger—and the bruises.” His voice remained as cold as the steel tray beside him.

He set his instruments aside and moved to wash his hands. Behind him, Willard began grinding minerals, while Milla organized a neat array of citrus extract, crystallized salts, rare ores, and viscous tinctures. Syphilis was common—its cure was not. The concoction was time-consuming, the ingredients hard to source, and the procedure dangerously easy to botch.

“When was the last time you had sex?”

“I didn’t! Why are you accusing me?!”

“If you didn’t, then I don’t know what this is,” he replied without emotion. “You’re free to find another medevist. But if I’m right, and you ignore treatment, expect loss of sensation, progressive skin decay, miscarriage, and eventual systemic collapse. Best case? You live another thirty years. Worst case? You die in ten. Painfully.”

Silence settled over the room. The woman stared at the floor, her breath shaking. A quiet sob escaped her throat. Randia showed no reaction. There were more patients to tend to. Sympathy was a luxury he refused to afford.

“Milla, send this one off and bring in the next.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Wait—!”

“I… I’ve been seeing someone,” she confessed at last. “My husband, he’s been hurting me for years. I couldn’t take it anymore. And now… now I think I’m pregnant with another man’s child…”

"I don't need nor care about the details. When was the last time you had intercourse?" Cold words came from Randia's cold stare.

The woman averted her gaze, undaring to see the medevist eye to eye. "A week ago ..."

Randia didn’t even blink. He turned away, helping Willard prepare the next mixture with the same clinical calm he always wore. The woman’s trembling voice, her shame, her desperation—they were just echoes in a room full of sickness.

“Divorce would have been the obvious decision,” Randia muttered, wiping his hands dry. “But I suppose not everyone uses their head. Now, be thankful to your unborn child. If not for them, I wouldn’t have wasted such a precious cure on the likes of you. Pay the alms and get out of my sight.”

The woman left with trembling steps, her shame trailing behind like smoke. As Milla stepped forward to call in the next patient, the door creaked open from the other side. Standing there was a familiar figure.

Doctor Cynthia.

A fellow medevist of the Cathedral, Cynthia had served for over seven years. She was in her thirties, plump with a warm face behind round spectacles, and wore the mild exhaustion of motherhood with a practiced smile.

“Harsh as always, aren’t you, Doctor Ran?” she said, half-jesting.

“Social sanctions prevent stupidity. Less stupidity prevents scarcity. Scarcity kept at bay ensures a sustainable community. I’m merely applying a socio-economic principle.”

She chuckled. “Ever the philosopher.”

“But isn't utilitarianism equal in weight to deontology?” she prodded, lips curled into a teasing smirk.

Randia looked up from his seat and fixed his gaze on her. Cold, unreadable.

“There are people waiting outside, Doctor Cynthia. Surely you didn’t come all this way just to amuse yourself at my expense?”

“Hah! You’re as edgy as ever—so unlike your daughter. Still fun to tease you both, though,” she said, unbothered. “Don’t get your nerves all twisted, Doctor Ran. I’m here on business. I’d like to introduce someone.”

“Introduce someone?”

“She’ll be working here for about a few months or so. I'm sure you two will get along splendidly.”

Randia narrowed his eyes. “I already have Willard and Milla. They’re capable. Why don’t you keep her under your wing instead?”

Willard and Milla, quietly flattered, exchanged subtle grins. Cynthia, meanwhile, ignored the jab with a patient sigh.

“The truth is… she’s my junior from Princevas. Exceptionally bright. Inspired. Spirited. All that.” Cynthia paused, folding her arms. “I would keep her, but I’ve got two children of my own, and I can't really be late for dinner nowadays."

"She is so unpredictable and bizarre, that you couldn't afford to take care of an extra child. No, Doctor Cynthia. Just shoo her away back to Princevas, I don't want any more trouble,"

He exhaled slowly, already imagining the chaos. His thoughts flicked briefly to Viena—and the migraine that had become his life since her arrival.

Suddenly, a series of sharp knocks rapped at the door. Then, a cheerful voice rang out, syrupy and bright, seeping through the cracks like sunlight through tattered curtains.

“Yuhuu! Helloo~ Cynthiaa? Are you in there?”

Randia froze. The cheer in that voice felt like an incoming headache. Doctor Cynthia, meanwhile, merely smiled and stepped closer, placing a firm, almost maternal hand on his shoulder.

“I think you misunderstood, Doctor Ran,” she said gently. “I’m not asking for your permission… I’m informing you. The arrangement’s already been made. The cathedral reached an agreement with her family.”

Randia’s brows furrowed. “Her family? Wait. You mean she’s a noble?”

“Oh—did I forget to mention?” Cynthia replied with a mock gasp. “Yes, quite a prestigious house, in fact. That’s why it would be wonderful if you two hit it off!”

He gave her a withering glare.

She leaned in, whispering with a mischievous grin, “You know… every child needs a mother. Including yours.”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The knocks turned to full-on pounding.

"Cynthiaa! It's me, Laura!"

.

"Well then, Doctor Ran, please have fun and be nice with her. Good luck."