Ersia: Raven Dawn

Viena stepped forward, her clear blue eyes steady and unafraid.

“Why do you both look so serious?” she asked softly.

Lisabelle folded her arms, her voice firm but gentle. “Laura thinks you’re sick. She wants to examine you.”

A flicker of discomfort crossed Viena’s face as she instinctively touched her stomach. She recalled what Randia had once told her long ago. At first, she had hoped Laura might help with this secret burden, but doubt crept in—the fear that if Randia discovered the truth, he might lose his reason to stay, especially since they had barely spent any time together recently.

“I’m fine,” Viena insisted.

“...No, you’re not,” Lisabelle replied quietly, tapping on the edge of her own eye, sending a silent signal that she had seen what Viena was hiding.

The girl glanced nervously at Laura, who holds a small empty glass vial and shrugged with casual curiosity. “It’s clearer this time. Arnazolla.”

“Tell us everything, Vivi,” Lisabelle urged softly. “We want to help you.”

Under their quiet pressure, Viena hesitated but eventually began to speak. Yet, she withheld the full truth. Instead, she said, “It’s a magic curse — something that makes the Anima inside me run wild. It started during one of our journeys. Papa’s doing everything he can to find a cure.”

She looked down, voice heavy. “Neither Papa nor I knew I had any talent for Yarna, and that only makes things worse.”

Laura frowned, thoughtful. "A magic to disrupt the Anima inside one's body . . . I don’t recall encountering that before—maybe due to my lack of experience. Still, what a nefarious magic that is."

Lisabelle glanced at Laura. “So... can you do anything?”

Laura fell silent, brows furrowing as she considered. After a slow breath, she shook her head slightly, disappointment shadowing her face. Lisabelle read the answer clearly.

“The ‘Black Burn’... it’s a grim subject, even among medevists. There is a treatment called ‘Canal Catharsis,’ developed by the master of the Third Minaret in Sindris.”

Viena brightened slightly. “Thank goodness it’s just a matter of money.”

But Laura’s expression grew more troubled as she rubbed her hips unconsciously. “It’s not just money. I’ve heard the master is... unorthodox—some say a maniac. His methods are bizarre, bordering on human experimentation. At least three out of ten patients die from his treatment. But those who survive? They regain their health fully—like the curse never touched them.”

Lisabelle and Viena exchanged silent glances. A 30% mortality rate was terrifying.

Decades ago, no one would hesitate to take such a risk when medical knowledge was scarce and hope even scarcer. But thanks to the rise of Qamar Alshifa—the first centralized institution of medical and arcane healing—the world had come to expect better. A survival rate this low was a heavy gamble.

“What happens if she doesn’t get treated?” Lisabelle wrapped an arm gently around Viena’s shoulders.

Laura’s tone turned cautious. “There won’t be any immediate consequences from the Black Burn itself. But there are higher risks down the road...”

“Such as?” Lisabelle pressed.

Laura listed softly, “Painful menstrual cycles, increased risk of miscarriage and infertility, general health risks when exposed to meta-dense areas, heightened chances of developing further arcane maladies if magic is used... and if it worsens—paraplegia.”

Lisabelle glanced at Viena and found the girl’s eyes clouded with sadness and fear. For a moment, words failed her. Then, with a sudden tug, she pinched Viena’s cheek, provoking a startled yelp.

“Ouch! Why’d you do that?!”

“To wipe that stupid mushy face of yours. Chin up, kid! We, Arbona, always smile before a challenge!”

“Huh...? But I’m—”

“Ssh! Shut up!” Lisabelle pinched Viena’s lips shut playfully.

“Whether to take the treatment is your choice,” Lisabelle continued, voice firm yet kind. “My job is to make sure you’re able to do it. Since it’s going to cost a fortune, it’ll take time. Use that time—figure out another way, or gather your courage. Understand?”

Viena nodded quietly, the weight of the moment settling over her.

Together, the three returned to the Healing House, where Viena insisted on having lunch with her father. Speaking excitedly and adorably about the meal she had prepared, she melted even Laura’s usual reserve. Despite her lingering distrust of Randia, Laura maintained composure, choosing not to interfere during their lunch break.

Randia sighed, shaking his head with a tired smile. “You just want to play with the pulley at the well, don’t you?”

Lisabelle grinned and grabbed the other dirty dishes. “I’ll go with her.”

.

.

.

The room fell quiet again, leaving only Randia and Laura. He could feel her eyes on him, sharp and unblinking, but he pretended not to notice and turned back to writing his daily report.

Suddenly, Laura dragged a chair close and planted a small glass phial filled with white powder right on the page he was working on.

“I found something interesting about you—and about what happened to the kid,” she said coolly.

Randia glanced over, feigning nonchalance as he set the phial aside. “Do you?”

“You’re a back-alley medevist,” Laura said sharply. “That Qamarin badge? Most likely stolen. I admit—you’re skilled, even if your methods are unusual. But your identity? That’s very questionable.”

Randia leaned back, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Then why not just ask your questions directly?”

Laura’s calm cracked. Suddenly furious, she slammed her palm down on the medical record. Randia blinked, surprised—he had expected her to be more measured.

She leaned in, voice low and dangerous. “Stop writing and LOOK at me.”

He set his quill aside and rested his hands casually on the table, waiting for her to continue.

“I advise you to answer very carefully from now on.”

“I will answer everything—if you promise me you won’t tell Viena.”

Laura held her breath, then exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. Folding her arms and crossing her legs, she fixed Randia with a cold, unwavering glare. She demanded total control of the conversation.

“Who are you?”

“I will not answer that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d be killed.”

“What did you do before coming to Rosmayne?”

Randia’s voice was quiet but steady. “I killed people.”

“For gold?”

“No.”

“For fame?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“For nothing.”

His deep blue eyes remained still—unwavering, direct—eyes that bore no lies, only a carefully sealed sorrow, a silent grief hidden beneath their calm surface.

“Why?”

“Because they told me to.”

“Who?”

“My previous... owners.”

Laura’s eyes sharpened. “So, you were a slave.”

“Yes. I was.” Randia’s words hung heavy in the air, spoken after a long, somber pause.

Laura stood abruptly and began rifling through Randia’s bag. Fortunately, ever since the accident with Viena months ago, all dangerous items had been carefully hidden away in secret pouches sealed with magic.

“Who taught you about medicine?”

“I am a disciple to many.”

“Name two of them.”

“Xiao Ying, Sri Anand Bhargava.”

“An eastern man and...?”

“An eastern woman. And a Maryan man.”

His answer shed light on the sometimes unusual methods Randia used in treating his patients. Just then, Laura’s fingers brushed over a folded map—its script foreign and completely alien to her. Slowly, her suspicion began to ease. It was increasingly likely that Randia truly was a traveler who had visited distant, unfamiliar lands.

“The girl—Viena. Is she really your daughter?”

“…She was an orphan when I found her.”

“Are you performing unethical arcane experiments on her?”

“No.”

“Are you planning to perform unethical arcane experiments on her?”

Randia’s brow furrowed slightly as he caught Laura’s question, disbelief flickering in his eyes. Did she really just ask that? his expression seemed to say. Yet Laura only raised her eyebrows, silently insisting he answer.

“No.”

“What do you know about her disease?”

“It’s a Black Burn. Her magic backfired on her.”

“Then why don’t you treat her?”

“Because it’s not my field of expertise. And I refuse to experiment on her, risking her health even further.”

“Why don’t you ask someone else to treat her?”

“Indeed, a medevist holds the power to save lives. But that same power means they can toy with it. I’ve seen the worst in people, Laura Clarentine. There’s nothing they love more than a critical patient begging for their life. They never miss a chance to stage a circus of false effort and hollow expressions—for a sack of gold.”

Randia’s words hung in the air, hard and true. Laura wanted to believe he was simply talking his way out of trouble, but the more she considered all she’d observed, the more she felt a gnawing doubt. Perhaps she was only making things harder for an honest man struggling to keep a fragile life afloat.

“...What is she to you?”

Randia’s gaze dropped to his thumbs, his voice soft and resolute. “She’s a kid. And she needs to be taken care of.”

“Isn’t that a given? All children must be cared for.”

“If the world thought the way you do, we wouldn’t need heaven.”

Laura felt the words strike her like a sudden gust. The room seemed to still around her, her cheeks flushing a slow, deep red. Those words would never come out of a cold or selfish heart. Randia was not what she had feared — and for that, she was quietly relieved.

“I-I see. Ahem. I think that’s all. You’ve convinced me. I’ll trust you... at least for now.”