Obligatory Invitation
“Hey, hey. Why are you always wearing a turban?”
“. . . .”
“Doctor Ran! Are you ignoring me again?”
“If you insist on loitering, at least do it quietly.”
It had been two weeks since Laura joined the same ward as Randia, and in that short span of time, her reputation had already calcified: erratically brilliant, infuriatingly whimsical. She was notorious for being choosy with patients—refusing to lift a finger unless the case piqued her interest. Anything less than exotic symptoms or poetic tragedy, and she'd rather read her dog-eared romance books or badger her colleagues, Randia being her favorite target.
“Don’t be so prickly,” Laura chimed again, dangling her legs from the stool as she watched a nearby patient wail dramatically. “Also, it’s honey urine. We can’t do anything about that.”
“N-No! Am I possessed by dark powers?! Please, help me, Doctor! I don’t want to die!” cried the corpulent nobleman, flailing with his gilded cuffs soaked in sweat.
Laura, still nursing her tea, lazily picked up a scroll and began scribbling with the speed of someone who should’ve started hours ago. Her writing hand moved in a blur, and without pausing, she sealed the script with an elegant signature and tossed it onto the nobleman’s lap like it was yesterday’s weather forecast.
Willard, another medevist on duty, audibly exhaled. It was the first time Laura had done anything useful all day.
“The only thing killing you is your gluttony,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Read that carefully. It lists the only food you’re allowed to eat for the rest of your miserable, sedentary life.”
The nobleman clutched the scroll like a death sentence and scanned it with trembling eyes. Fatty meats—gone. Sugary delicacies—absolutely forbidden. Even harmless-seeming items like potatoes, corn, and peas were missing. The exercise regimen listed below, with words like ‘daily’ and ‘sweating,’ made his double chin quiver.
Randia, standing nearby, calmly finished dressing the nobleman’s ulcerated leg with a pungent salve made from marigold extract and salt-root. His tone was flat but firm.
“Prolonged detachment from physical labor—common among bureaucrats—tends to degrade your health faster than you think. Add to that the explosion of sugary indulgences in Seraina these days, and your lack of restraint becomes more than dangerous. It becomes suicidal.”
The nobleman whimpered as Randia washed his hands in a basin, the scent of antiseptic herbs lingering faintly in the air.
“Doctor Ran,” Laura muttered, crossing her arms, “you really need to lighten up. People die every day, you know. Might as well enjoy dessert before the grave.” she eyed to the nobleman, as if to mock.
After the nobleman left with his attendant—still grumbling, still sweating—he deposited a generous sum into the alms coffer, as was customary for the well-to-do seeking both healing and absolution.
The room fell into a momentary silence. Willard leaned on his staff with a tired sigh, only to tense again as Laura resumed her favorite pastime: bothering Randia.
She rummaged through his satchel without invitation, humming to herself. Then she pulled out the elephant plague mask—Viena’s favorite toy. Slipping it on with a grin, she spun the snout playfully toward Randia’s face, wiggling it back and forth with deliberate mischief.
"Snrrrt-snrrrt! Doctor Grump, the patient is terminally boring!"
"Enough of this," Randia snapped, seizing the snout and pulling it away. “I’m filing a complaint to Bishop Hervet. You’re more troublesome than the patients. Willard—notify the deacon.”
“A-Ah, but—”
“Go on, Willy,” Laura chimed, lips curled in a devilish smile. “I’m curious too. What is he going to do about it, I wonder?”
“. . . If you say so, milady,” Willard muttered with reluctant obedience, casting Randia a look before slipping out the door.
Silence settled like dust. Milla was out on an errand to restock herbs and linens, leaving only Randia and Laura in the room. Randia shoved the mask into his bag with more force than necessary. The irritation still clung to his face like a bad rash. This was the first time Laura had dared to take something from his satchel, and though she’d expected some reaction, the severity of his anger caught her off guard.
“Wow,” she said at last, still seated. “You’re even grumpier than usual.”
Randia said nothing. He continued to tidy the workspace with efficient, stiff movements, packing up for the day like he was sealing away frustration with every folded cloth and capped bottle.
“Was it because I played with your daughter’s toy?”
His hands froze mid-motion. Slowly, he turned to face her, his gaze sharp and cold—almost a threat in the way it pinned her.
“What is your game, Laura Clarentine?”
Laura stood and pulled on her coat, humming softly. That same ever-chipper smile played on her lips, as though the past exchange hadn't rattled a single hair on her head.
But just before her hand touched the door handle, she cast Randia a sidelong glance.
The smile remained—but her eyes had changed. Cold. Sharp. Like polished glass that had once reflected sunlight, now catching the glint of a dagger. Gone was the playful mask. In its place: something else, something veiled. Disdain, perhaps. Or scorn. Or something even more dangerous—curiosity.
"Nothing," she said, answering his earlier question as though he'd only just asked it. "I’m just so bored these days. I came here as a locum hoping for thrilling cases—maybe a corpse that walks or a hexed noble with horns—but instead I get this... unnecessarily massive cathedral full of gouty bureaucrats and fainting maids."
She clapped her hands once in mock cheer. “Oh! But now that I think of it, I have heard your daughter is quite the little chatterbox! Why don’t you bring her along tomorrow? We need something fresh around here, don’t we? Something alive. I’m curious to see if she has the same delightfully bland poker face as her father.”
Her smile widened. Bright. Beaming. Hollow.
And then she was gone, the click of the closing door sounding far too final.
Randia remained still. The room suddenly felt colder.
That look.
He'd never seen it before. Not from her. A flicker of something buried. Something jagged beneath the sugar.
Disdain. Scorn. And veiled interest.
He wasn’t sure which disturbed him more.
Moments later, the door creaked again. A short, stout figure entered—Goldun, Laura’s half-dwarf attendant, shuffling in with practiced silence. He began collecting her belongings without fanfare, as if routine dulled the absurdity of his mistress’s moods.
Randia broke the silence.
“Goldun, wasn’t it?”
The half-dwarf straightened. “Yes. I am.”
“Your mistress seems to have something against me,” Randia said quietly. “But I have no idea what I’ve done to earn it. Do you know anything about it?”
Goldun paused, slinging her satchel over his shoulder with a grunt. Then he shrugged.
“Beats me. She’s a pampered princess, that one. Always gets what she wants. If you don’t entertain her, you get her ire. And believe me...” He glanced toward the door as though to make sure she wasn’t lurking behind it. “That crazy witch can be very troublesome.”
The words hung in the air for a moment before Goldun shuffled out, leaving Randia alone.
The stillness settled like dust on forgotten shelves.
Randia stared at his bag for a long while, mind adrift in the past two weeks. He’d never been cruel to her. Never crossed a line. In fact, he’d kept his interactions with her as minimal as possible—an effort to avoid trouble, not stir it.
So why the hostility?
No answer came.
Which left only two conclusions: either Laura Clarentine had met Viena somewhere—somehow—or she'd had her eyes on Randia long before she ever set foot in the Great Cathedral of Aine.
And that thought didn’t sit well at all.
Randia walked home with sharpened senses. Every footstep echoed louder in his mind than it should. Every flicker of shadow in his periphery begged for scrutiny. Someone had their eyes on him—that much was certain. And that alone was a mistake. A mistake born of peace. He had let his guard down, lulled by the rhythm of ordinary days. It would not happen again.
He would fix this.
“Papa! You’re home early!”
Viena dashed up to greet him, bright-eyed and smiling. Randia handed her a heavy cloth sack, warm with the scent of smoke and meat.
“Here. Enjoy it with Lisabelle and Lady Eleanor.”
“Whoa! Smoked mutton! Are we celebrating something?!”
“Vivi—!”
Lisabelle emerged from the back room, having come to ask about her misplaced hair comb. But her question faltered when she saw Randia.
“Oh? You’re back three hours early. Did something happen?”
“Not really.”
“Ha. You and your kid are terrible liars. You’re not fooling anyone with that face full of furrows. So, what is it? Did you get fired?”
Randia didn’t answer. He walked past her in silence, heading to the basin to wash his hands and face. Viena stood beside Lisabelle now, both of them watching him with quiet expectation.
Only after he’d dried his face and poured himself a glass of water did he finally speak—seated on the worn living room sofa, staring down into the reflection rippling in the glass.
“Do you know Laura Clarentine?”
Lisabelle raised an eyebrow. “Of course. Second daughter of Lord Dion Claren, Foreign Minister of the Crown. Why?”
Randia didn’t answer. He stared deeper into the water, as if trying to read fate in the currents.
“Have either of you met her in person?”
“Oh! The Purple Lady!” Viena chimed in suddenly.
“Yes, we have,” Lisabelle added. “Months ago, back when you two had just arrived here. Remember? You asked me to babysit this midget one afternoon.”
Randia narrowed his eyes in thought.
Then why did Laura speak as if she’d never met Viena?
He weighed the possibility that she truly hadn't recognized the girl, but something about her phrasing, that deliberate provocation, didn't sit right. It felt too pointed. Too theatrical.
Coincidence? Or intent?
“Papa?” Viena’s voice brought him back. “Is something wrong?”
He looked at her—eyes so wide, so trusting—and knew he couldn’t afford to be vague anymore.
No, Laura Clarentine wasn’t just bored. The incident with the airborne knight Hirma and the analgesic powder that was mistaken for soulgar—it must have drawn her attention. A case strange enough to amuse her. And Randia, standing at the center of it, might have become her next curiosity.
So be it. If she wanted to look closer, he would let her. On his terms.
“Viena,” he said, “you’re coming with me to the cathedral tomorrow. Don’t stay up too late.”
With that, he emptied the glass and stood.
“That’s it? All that brooding for that?” Lisabelle muttered. “You’re dramatic as hell.”
“Sometimes having nothing going on is something good going on, young lady.”
“Yeah? Not on my watch. I’ll come too. We’ll be there at ten.”
Randia glanced back, brow arched. “But I thought you were under house arrest.”
“Today’s the last day.” She smiled—relieved, almost sheepish. “I’m free as a bird again.”
“. . . I see.” He looked at Viena. “Viena.”
“Yes?”
“Give the first slice to Lisabelle. Congratulations.”
“Hehe! So we are celebrating something after all!”