Ersia: Raven Dawn

Viena sat between her father and her sister, watching the grand opening ceremony unfold beneath the morning sun at the Great Gardenia. The trumpets blared in glorious resonance, announcing the arrival of the young queen of Rosmayne.

From the massive gates at the base of the arena, a ceremonial parade emerged—first the royal vanguard, riding with precision and pride, then the more elaborate procession bearing the banners of the Thirteen Great Realms.

“Behold! Our beloved sovereign! The ninth monarch of Rosmayne—Queen Catalina Rosalia!” the herald’s voice thundered across the colosseum, though the place had already been roaring with excitement long before.

Queen Catalina rode a snow-white horse, its silky mane glistening beneath the morning light. The beast was famous across the queendom—last year’s grand champion of the national horse beauty contest. Catalina herself looked radiant, adorned in flowing robes of white and pale blue, with a crown dusted in diamonds and sapphires.

To Viena, she looked like someone straight out of a fairy tale—one of the heroines from the books on Lisabelle’s shelves, come to life.

But the magic of the moment soon gave way to something colder. Amid the praise and cheers, Viena began to hear murmurs—discontented, bitter voices, especially from the older spectators nearby.

"Riding a horse? Truly? The world will mock us."

"I expected as much. She’s nothing like the late Queen Luseya."

"This is a disgrace. Even that fool Boronea would've done better."

Viena turned her head, confused and uneasy. Their words struck her like cold wind, and though they weren’t directed at her, she felt them all the same. Her brows knit. Her hands clutched at her skirt.

Lisabelle noticed immediately. She shifted closer on the bench.

“What’s wrong? Not enjoying the show? If you want, we can pelt them with date pits,” she said, mischief glinting in her eyes.

Lisabelle flashed a grin—but Randia, who overheard, gave a deliberate ahem and raised a brow in silent warning. Lisabelle stuck out her tongue at him in reply, unrepentant.

“Uh… it’s nothing,” Viena mumbled. “It’s just… not everyone’s here to enjoy themselves, I guess.”

Lisabelle caught her meaning right away.

“Oh, that. Yeah, I figured you’d notice eventually. You’re still a bit too small to pick up on this stuff, so let me fill you in.”

She lowered her voice slightly.

“Six years ago, Queen Luseya—the Eighth Queen of Rosmayne—passed away. Problem was, she had no successor. Her three children… were all killed during the war against Aramia. All three, one by one. And the one responsible for all their deaths was the same man—Friedrich.”

"Friedrich? That's a difficult name. Who is that?" Viena tilted her head.

“Friedrich Ronan Hardarin von Aramid,” Lisabelle said, her tone darkening. “He’s the seventh prince of Aramia—a military prodigy. He was only fifteen when he led his first campaign, and he’s almost never been defeated since. Out of all the emperor’s children, people say he’s the one who inherited Ethelar Aramid’s warlike genius the most.”

Viena’s eyes widened in shock. She couldn’t begin to imagine how one person could kill three royal siblings—let alone what that must have felt like for the queen. As her thoughts drifted, she began to understand—truly understand—why so many people in Rosmayne harbored deep hatred toward Aramia.

"That's sad . . . but what does it has to do with Queen Catalina riding a horse?"

Lisabelle leaned back slightly, tapping her fan against her palm. “Weak legitimacy,” she said flatly. “Catalina’s not Luseya’s daughter—just her niece. A lot of nobles and citizens see her as an unworthy stand-in. She inherited the crown, but not the reverence. So now, every little thing she does is scrutinized. Riding a horse might seem noble to us, but to those already looking down on her, it’s just another reason to frown.”

“To make it clearer,” Randia added, “Queen Luseya once befriended Mignir, a creature most people wouldn’t dare approach. It acknowledged her and stood beside her during some ceremonies.”

“Mignir?” Viena blinked. “What’s that?”

“A grimclaw,” Lisabelle explained. “One of the apex predators of Mount Galivier. A magical beast the size of a carriage—four-legged, feathered like a hawk, with three tails shaped like scythes and claws tinted blue from the poison that drips from them. Few survive even a glimpse of it."

Viena’s jaw dropped. “What?! That’s incredible! So . . . the royal family keeps beasts like that as pets?”

"Err . . . It's not exactly right to describe that way, but if it's easier for you to understand then I guess so."

Lisabelle stretched her legs, nodding toward the arena. “So when Queen Catalina rides in on a pretty white horse—no matter how elegant it is—it just can’t compare. Not when the previous queen once stood beside death incarnate and made it an ally.”

“But the horse is really pretty,” Viena said quietly, still defending it.

“Well, yeah,” Lisabelle grinned. “If you can look past the Mignir business, it’s a really fine stallion. Honestly, if I had to name a price for that kind of steed, I’d say he could fetch at least—”

But before Lisabelle could finish, chaos erupted.

A section of the audience suddenly stood up and began shouting furiously toward the arena floor. The delegation from Aramia had just entered, their banner unmistakable. The crowd’s reaction was instant and vicious—dozens of voices rose in fury, cursing and jeering.

Viena flinched. She covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. Lisabelle immediately pulled her into a protective embrace.

Thankfully, the guards had anticipated this.

Several of them rushed to the scene, wielding short batons made of sculpted stone—each one carved with glowing magical runes. When activated, they crackled with restrained energy and stunned the most violent protesters into submission. A few in the crowd screamed in fear, and panic threatened to spread like wildfire.

Then, a single voice cut through the noise.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen! That's enough!”

A knight with only beautifully woven tunic—stepped forward and clapped his hands.

"Dear honorable citizens! Let us not shatter the fragile peace our Queen has struggled to rebuild! We do not ask you to forgive. We know that pain, and grief, and hatred do not fade with one parade. But let us at least uphold the honor of our fallen. Let us not sully the name of Rosmayne! Or have your fathers taught you to slay your guests beneath your own roof? I think not.”

As he spoke, he waved a wand through the air. The motion was slow, deliberate, hypnotic. A wave of calm seemed to spread across the section, like a subtle enchantment laced into every syllable.

Slowly, the crowd began to settle. People sat down, muttering, though many still wore expressions thick with bitterness and unrest.

“A-Are they done?” Viena whispered, eyes still closed.

“They’re quiet now. Look for yourself, Vivi,” Lisabelle said, pointing across the stands.

All around the arena, similar enchanters had been stationed—unassuming knights dressed casually. But now, it was clear they had been planted there to suppress the crowds if needed. Their incantations weren’t just words—they were laced with Alana, the magic of the inner self. Spells of tranquility and emotional dampening.

“Papa … is this Alana?” Viena asked, eyes wide.

Randia nodded. “Yes. But not just that.”

He reached out and pinched Viena’s arm. She blinked. There was no pain.

Her eyes lit up.

“Papa! Wait—does that mean?!”

“Tranquilizer,” Randia confirmed. “They must’ve applied it the moment we walked in—and only now activated it.”

“W-Wow! But how?!”

“Vivi… I think that’s how,” Lisabelle said, nudging her and pointing toward the entrance corridor.

But now, it was obvious. Those pillars weren’t just enchanted ornaments—they were safeguards.

Meanwhile, down in the arena, the foreign delegations had taken notice. They sensed something had happened among the audience, but the musicians accompanying the parade cleverly drowned it out, keeping the focus on the festivities. Before long, the crowd resumed their cheers and waves, and even the children returned to tossing flower petals with joy.

One particularly massive man from the delegation of Zarim stood out. His skin was obsidian-dark, and his frame dwarfed even Randia. He drew glances not just from the audience but from fellow diplomats as well—many of whom had never seen a man so dark in their lives.

Tears slipped down his cheeks.

Beside him, another man from Zarim—wearing an elegant white agbada—gently patted his back and smiled warmly.

“The sun smiles for the day, but why don’t your eyes do the same, Zayed, my brother?”

The giant wiped his eyes with a callused hand.

“Years ago, I could only dream of what lay beyond our horizon. But today… the sky has finally revealed the path. And there is beauty here—so much beauty these eyes have never seen. This… this is how the world should be, Jamal. No war. No tears. Just peace. And laughter.” He carefully tucked the white flower he’d caught into his chest pocket, as if it were the most sacred treasure in the world.

Back in the spectator seats,

Viena suddenly noticed the towering black figure among the Zarim delegation. Her eyes lit up, and she tugged excitedly on her father’s sleeve.

“Papa, look! That man—he’s so dark, like a shadow! He looks so funny!”

Randia’s expression hardened at once.

“Viena, don’t say things like that,” he said sternly.

The shift in his tone caught her off guard. Her excitement dimmed into confusion. She looked up at him, blinking.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked softly.

“You said the same kind of thing when we first met Hirma. Do you remember what I told you back then?”

Viena scrunched her brows, trying to recall—but all that came to mind were Hirma’s stories about her homeland. The lesson itself, whatever it was, had slipped through the cracks. Randia saw her expression and sighed.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so Lisabelle wouldn’t overhear.

“Listen carefully. Many people from Zarim were sold as slaves. You might never see a slave walking openly in Rosmayne—unless, of course, you’re kidnapped to be turned into one, like you were. But if you ever travel to other regions, especially in Varnaria, you’ll see them. Everywhere.”

Viena’s breath caught.

She remembered now—the people who were with her when she was taken by the mountain bandits. How they were treated like animals, stripped of dignity, waiting to be sold like lifeless objects. Strangely, she had never thought to ask Randia about it until now—why she had been kidnapped to be sold as a slave, yet had never seen a single slave in Rosmayne.

“Why aren’t there any slaves here, Papa?”

“Because Queen Luseya outlawed slavery decades ago,” Randia replied. “That’s why so many slaves from other nations risk everything to escape here. To seek refuge.”

“Theo and his mother were some of them,” Lisabelle chimed in suddenly, finally succeeding in eavesdropping from the other side.

Viena gasped and covered her mouth. She stared at Lisabelle, who simply nodded once, solemnly, her eyes serious.

“O-Oh. But… what does that have to do with skin color?” Viena asked, still unsettled.

Randia glanced at Lisabelle, offering her the chance to explain—but she waved him off with a satisfied smile. Clearly, she was enjoying watching Randia play the teacher.

“In the continent of Seraina,” Randia began, “most of the slaves have darker skin, while their masters tend to be of lighter colors. Over time, a certain insult was born—shaped by what people saw, not what they understood. Because of the social divide between them, people began to use skin color as a weapon. ‘You filthy black!’ they’d shout—not just to insult, but to reduce them to something less than human.”

Viena’s face tightened. “So if I say someone’s black, they’ll be offended? But I didn’t mean it as an insult…”

“They might get angry, yes. But not because they hate the truth of who they are,” Randia explained patiently. “They get angry because words like that—those exact ones—have been hurled at them during their worst moments. It's not you, Viena. It's what your words awaken in their memory.”

“In short,” Lisabelle added, crossing her arms, “generational trauma. Fear and hatred passed down like heirlooms.”

“But … how can I ever be friends with them,” Viena asked quietly, “if they’re already angry just by looking at my skin and think I’m no different from the people who hurt them?”

Lisabelle paused, then gave a slow flick of her fan. “Hmm… that, Vivi, is the essence of racism. It’s a very good question—but not an easy one to answer. There’s no single way to deal with it. You’ll have to learn through experience and adjust along the way. Everyone has a different fuse, a different threshold for pain.”

“I agree,” Randia added, his voice low and thoughtful. “Some things can’t be taught through words alone. You have to live through them. I think … as long as you’re genuine and speak to people from the depths of your heart, they will feel it. Sooner or later, sincerity reaches even the most guarded soul.”

Viena smiles to her father and nodded repeatedly showing how she perfectly understood all that has been said. Then, once again, their conversation was interrupted by a booming voice echoing across the colosseum.

“Now presenting… the honored delegations from the Thirteen Great Realms!”

The herald’s voice rang with theatrical grandeur, accompanied by a flourish of trumpets. Viena’s attention snapped back to the arena below, where the next wave of the ceremony began to unfold.

Her eyes widened in wonder.

One by one, the delegations entered—each more dazzling and unique than the last. And it wasn’t just people from Zarim anymore. There were pale-skinned nobles cloaked in fur-lined silks, warriors with unique tattoos etched into their arms and faces, men and women with narrow, slanted eyes dressed in flowing robes, and others draped in armor made of feathers, shells, and bone. Some even shouldered a beast she had never seen before. Colors, cultures, languages—everything blended into a living tapestry.

Viena couldn’t contain herself. She clapped and clapped, her hands never stopping, her eyes shimmering with joy.

“This is so amazing!” she gasped, beaming. “The books told me the world was big…” she whispered breathlessly, “but they never told me it could feel like this!”