Opening Ceremony
Viena and the others stepped into the Great Gardenia, where the corridor stretched ahead like a marble artery, its polished stone catching the light in ghostly ripples. A soft tunnel breeze swept past them, not sharp but whispering cold—like the breath of something ancient and dreaming beneath the earth.
Lisabelle’s footsteps slowed.
Her gaze drifted—not to the architecture, nor to the tapestries—but to the other visitors.
They moved like paintings in motion, dressed in silks and brocades so unlike anything she had seen. Patterns bloomed across their sleeves like foreign poetry—flowing lines, bold geometrics, textures stitched with purpose. Their colors clashed and danced in ways no Rosmesian tailor would dare.
She fell into silence.
Each hemline was a riddle. Each sleeve, a story. How many hours did those stitches take? What kind of thread? What philosophy of beauty drove these people, so different from her own?
Where were they from?
What lives did they live, to dream such garments into being?
What weather, what customs, what gods had whispered into their looms?
She barely noticed Viena tugging her hand.
“Lily? Are you cold? It’s windy here!” Viena asked, her voice full of honest concern.
Lisabelle blinked out of her trance.
“Cold?” She tossed her hair with a scoff. “Me? Please. I could swim naked through a mountain lake in winter and sleep like a baby afterward.”
Viena giggled, clearly unconvinced.
While the two girls were busy with each other, Professor Gaspard drifted slightly closer to Randia, his gait aligning with the younger man’s out of quiet observation. He had noticed, with some curiosity, that Randia had been subtly adjusting his pace to match his own—an oddly courteous gesture for a stranger. A rare one.
The professor glanced sideways, the corners of his mustached lips curling into the hint of a smile. He was a perceptive man, and already he had begun to assess this so-called medevist.
“Ran, was it?” he said, voice low and conversational. “Your daughter’s quite the chatterbox.”
“I suppose she is,” Randia replied with an easy nod, his voice calm as ever. “Please don’t take her words or behavior too personally. Viena’s... a handful. She’s difficult to manage, and often lost in her own little world.”
“Don’t worry a bit, my friend,” Gaspard chuckled, patting Randia lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll take a loud gremlin over a weepy one any day. At least you can reason with a firecracker. Crybabies, though? Nothing but chaos.”
Randia allowed himself a small smile. “Is that so? Then I’m relieved.”
Gaspard kept the conversation light, but his mind was already turning. He observed them again—Viena, flitting about like a spark in a breeze, and Randia, quiet, composed, never raising his voice, every word as deliberate as ink on parchment.
Strange, he thought. They were too different—opposites, even—for a father and daughter. Not that such things were impossible. But something about Randia didn’t quite add up.
Still, he kept his observations to himself. There were other things occupying his thoughts.
“Anyway,” the professor said, stroking his chin with one gloved hand, “Mister Ran. I take it you're supposed to be a rather gifted medevist, yes?”
“I’m not,” he answered evenly. “You must have overestimated me. Or mistook me for someone else.”
Randia’s gaze remained forward. Not a flicker of pride crossed his features.
“Well,” Professor Gaspard said with a casual air, “the thing is—I do rather enjoy the Elixir of Retrovelum.”
Randia did not flinch, but something in his gaze sharpened. The name struck a quiet chord. He remembered now—after Viena’s little birthday present adventure with Alan and Gwen, the two young knights had mentioned handing off the “blue bottle” to an acquaintance. And now, that very man was standing beside him, wearing a knowing smile.
“I see,” Randia murmured. “So they gave it to you.”
“Not quite the full story,” Gaspard said, a spark of amusement in his eyes. “Truth is, I bought it. From your daughter. A fair trade, I’d say. Quite the merchant, that one.” He chuckled, then leaned in slightly. “And here I was thinking—perhaps we could strike another deal.”
He stopped walking, his expression still friendly, but laced with something keener. A test. An offer. A tug at the veil Randia wore so carefully.
Randia halted as well.
A few paces ahead, Viena turned to glance back. She saw the professor speaking with her father, though the noise of the crowd—now thicker and livelier as they neared the inner gate—drowned out any words. The Gardenia was bustling with guests in vibrant silks, laughter echoing beneath floral arches and hanging lanterns.
“Papa is so slow,” she muttered, crossing her arms.
“Let them be,” Lisabelle said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Adults have their own fun. Come on—let’s tag the best seats before the boring people get them.”
“Okay! Let’s go!”
With fingers clasped and dresses fluttering, the two girls darted forward into the crush of people and petals, leaving the men behind in quiet negotiation. The girls waste not a single moment. They made their way up into the cavea—the arched, rising rows of stone seats—and hunted for the best spot they could find near the front.
Lisabelle had insisted. She knew all too well how small Viena was. If they ended up behind someone tall, her little sister wouldn’t see a thing.
“Here’s good enough. Come on, sit here, shorty,” Lisabelle said, patting the stone bench beside her.
“Huh? But why not there?” Viena pointed down excitedly to a lower terrace, much closer to the arena floor. “There’s still space!”
“Those seats right by the arena? They’re reserved,” Lisabelle replied with a knowing sigh. “For the top brass—highest-ranking nobles, foreign dignitaries, and the like. We can’t sit there. Not today, at least. But I promise you, one day, we will. Our family—Arbon—will rise again. We’ll be the most prominent house in the land, the kind everyone envies.”
She slung an arm gently around Viena’s shoulders.
Viena puffed her cheeks. “Hmph… I still don’t like it. Why not just do first come, first served? It’s unfair!”
“Well, yes. But it’s also partly a safety thing,” Lisabelle explained, her voice growing slightly more serious. “Think about it. Would you really want a kid—or a woman, like us—sitting right next to some thug from the back alleys? And some of those guests actually funded this event, one way or another. At the very least, they deserve not to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with someone who hasn’t bathed in two weeks.”
She flicked her hair over her shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd.
“And just so you know, normally people have to pay to watch anything at the Great Gardenia. And it’s not cheap. The fact that today’s show is free? People should count themselves lucky.”
Viena tilted her head, thinking it over. “Hmm… I guess that makes sense.”
“Remember this, shorty,” Lisabelle said, suddenly turning and pinching Viena’s cheek with a grin. “Fairness doesn’t always mean equality. That’s true for a lot of things in life.”
Randia eventually caught up with them and took the empty seat beside Viena.
“Where’s Professor Gaspard?” Lisabelle asked without turning her head.
“He had to return to his duties—he’s overseeing event security today,” Randia replied calmly.
Just then, a street vendor passed by, balancing a tray of steaming food and calling out to the crowd. Viena’s curiosity sparked immediately. As usual, her eyes followed the man, wondering what he was selling.
But before she could even open her mouth to ask if she could have one, Lisabelle was already waving the vendor over.
“Three, please. With extra nuts,” she said, casually but with a touch of flair.
“Right away, my fair lady. Thank you for your custom,” the vendor replied with a cheerful nod before handing over the warm parcels wrapped in waxed paper.
When Viena received hers, her eyes lit up. She held it in both hands, inspecting the texture and color with delight. Whatever it was, she had never seen anything like it—not even after months of living in the capital, Fleurein.
“What is this?” she asked, turning to Lisabelle.
“Huh? You’ve never had a date before?” Lisabelle raised an eyebrow.
Viena shook her head. “Nope.”
Lisabelle glanced over Randia’s way with a grin. “Hey, Uncle Ran, what were you feeding your daughter while gallivanting around before settling down in Fleurein?”
Randia closed his eyes briefly, then exhaled through his nose before answering.
“Dates are the fruit of Zarim. Fairly common in the major cities. One of the main exports from the Emirates Union,” he said matter-of-factly.
“How does it taste?” Viena asked, now sniffing it with interest.
“Why don’t you take a bite and find out for yourself?” Randia replied, his tone plain and straightforward. “And don’t forget to thank Lisabelle for it.”
Just as Viena was about to take her first curious bite, a drop of sticky honey threatened to slide off the edge of the paper wrapper and onto her dress.
Without a word, Randia reached out and caught it with his finger, steady and swift.
“Careful,” he murmured.
Then, without hesitation, he offered his finger to her.
Viena blinked in surprise, but instinctively leaned forward and gave it a quick lick—then a second one, slower this time, as her brow furrowed.
“Whoa… it’s really sweet,” she murmured. “But... also kind of salty? And a little spicy, like ground pepper?”
Randia gave a faint nod. “That’s the spice mix they coat the dates with. A signature blend from the southern markets. They don’t just use honey—but also cracked salt, dry pepper, sometimes even saffron, if you’re lucky.”
Viena’s eyes sparkled again. “It tastes like... a warm secret.”
Lisabelle snorted. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know,” Viena said with a small giggle, wiping her mouth. “But I like it.”