Ersia: Raven Dawn

The ceremony continued in regal procession. Queen Catalina graciously welcomed each of the foreign delegations as they arrived. One by one, the heads of state stepped up onto the podium to stand beside the young monarch—not beneath her, not apart from her, but as equals. The second prince of Runawijaya, the blóðjarl of Hilverhold, the farba of Zarim, and everyone else all stood in solidarity forming a tableau of unity and peace.

Then came a marvel from the dwarves of Underpoint.

With practiced precision, they unveiled their latest technological wonder—a gearbound device, a concept that blends mechanical engineering and magic adopted by the citizen of Underpoint, that is capable of projecting both image and sound. In an instant, a towering visage filled the air above the arena: Brams Thermon, the bearded titan of Underpoint himself, his face suspended like a living mural. The crowd gasped and then erupted into cheers. Some laughed, waving their hands and shouting questions as though the projection could hear them.

But after a moment, a representative from the dwarven delegation stepped forward to clarify. “This,” he announced with a chuckle, “is merely a recording—captured before we left Underpoint. Lord Thermon sends his regards, but alas, he cannot hear you today.”

Still, the excitement lingered in the air like the faint hum of magic.

What followed was a grand exchange of tokens and gifts. Jewels, silks, sculptures, and relics flooded the arena like offerings to the gods. Some of the more delicate artifacts were even brought up to the stands, allowing the audience a closer glimpse. Eastern silks shimmered like sunlight on water. Sacred gems from the Natlan people glowed faintly, pulsing with spiritual energy. From the far North, came weatherworn urns and vases crafted from Hearthwood—timber that is said to never grow dull as if they were immortal. The showcase of splendor and craftsmanship drew applause after applause, a chorus of celebration that echoed into the sky.

But then, the clamor quieted. The crowd grew still as the time came for Aramia’s delegation to present themselves.

Their foreign minister, Vladmir Soloevsky, stepped forward with composed solemnity. A hush swept the stands as he stood silent for a moment, gazing at the crowd with unreadable eyes. Then, with a graceful bow, he stepped aside and gestured to the two veiled figures who had stood behind him until now—his aides.

The figures moved forward in perfect unison, their steps fluid, ethereal. When they reached the center of the stage, they removed their veils together.

A breathless silence followed.

Before the crowd now stood a pair of fraternal twins, each breathtaking in their own right—one a striking young man with features like sculpted marble and storm-gray eyes, the other a luminous young woman whose gaze held both steel and starlight. Their beauty was so uncanny, so otherworldly, that for a fleeting moment, the crowd forgot their anger. Their suspicion. Their hatred.

The audience was captivated—spellbound not by diplomacy, nor politics, but by the sheer human allure of these two.

And for that one brief instant, the name Aramia did not taste like ash in the mouths of the Rosmesians.

The young man stepped forward and unfurled a scroll sealed with the imperial insignia of Aramia, its wax glinting crimson under the morning sun. The crowd fell into a hushed silence as he raised it with ceremonial grace and began to read aloud.

“Hear now the words of the world’s greatest sovereign, His Imperial Majesty—Emperor Ethelar Aramid.”

His voice was impossibly smooth, with a cadence so rich and alluring that several women in the audience swooned on the spot. Even those who had sworn hatred for Aramia found themselves drawn, if only for a moment, to the melodic pull of his voice.

“Greetings from Aramia to the nations of Ersia. His Majesty sends his full and unshaken support for this historic gathering. As a living testament to his sincere desire for peace, he offers—of his own volition—the jewel of the southern seas: Salsilia Isle. It shall be granted in full to whosoever emerges victorious in the upcoming open duel of the Ludus Magnorum.”

The announcement struck like thunder.

A wave of stunned disbelief swept through the arena, followed by a storm of excitement. The crowd erupted into wild cheers and speculation. The list of Ludus events hadn’t even been published yet—official announcements were scheduled for later that day. And yet here they were, with one of the most coveted pieces of land in Ersia being promised as a prize.

Salsilia, once a monstrous, uncharted island in the southeast of Rosmayne, had been deemed uninhabitable for decades. It had fallen to Aramian forces during the war twenty years ago, when its savage beasts—chief among them the dreaded Jann-Lou—had rendered it ungovernable. Aramia had since cleansed and developed it into a luxurious retreat for the ultra-wealthy. Its economic output rivaled that of two small cities. Whoever held dominion over Salsilia will undoubtedly hold access to immense wealth and unmatched prestige.

“Bastards!” a grizzled man in the crowd shouted, veins bulging on his forehead. “That island was ours! Now they hand it back like it was a gift? Like it wasn’t stolen from us in the first place?!”

“Hold on, sir,” a younger, well-dressed man interjected calmly. “You and I both know no one could control that island when it was ruled by Jann-Lou. Aramia cleared it. Stabilized it. Now they’re offering it freely. I say it’s a generous gesture—like handing us a house already rebuilt after the storm.”

“Y-Yes, I think it’s fair,” a young woman chimed in, hesitant but sincere. “At least someone’s trying to make peace...”

“You shameless wench!” the older man snapped, rounding on her. “You just say that because of that pretty boy on the stage, don’t you?!”

“Excuse me?!” she fired back, voice rising. “If you’re so hellbent on more blood and fire, then go to Aramia and fight there yourself! Don’t poison this place with your bitterness—we don’t need another warmonger at a peace summit!”

The exchange flared into shouting, drawing others into the fray. Harsh words flew, some siding with hope, others with hurt. Just as tensions began to boil over again, security officers stepped in swiftly to separate the two before it escalated into violence.

Meanwhile, on the central podium, the young woman—the twin sister of the Aramian envoy—approached Queen Catalina and bowed with fluid, practiced elegance. She presented a formal document with both hands.

The queen accepted it solemnly and read it in silence before raising her eyes to the gathering.

“This decree,” she said, voice carrying through the enchanted acoustics of the arena, “bears the imperial seal and is confirmed as authentic. The offer stands.”

“Furthermore,” the envoy continued, his voice a balm over still-aching wounds, “His Imperial Majesty pledges to return to Rosmayne the remains of the three princes—Prince Amaury, Prince Thierry, and Prince Rafael—within fourteen days of this declaration. They shall be returned with full honors, in sealed coffins crafted by the finest Aramian artisans, preserved and untouched since the day they met their valiant end.”

A stunned silence fell over the arena. Even those who had shouted moments before now sat motionless, lips parted, breath held. For twenty years, the princes had been mourned but never buried.

Back then, the world had only known of their deaths through battlefield whispers—rumors borne on bloodied winds.

It was said their lifeless bodies were paraded along the warfront, stripped of all dignity and hung like banners of humiliation. Crude crowns of tarnished brass—mockeries of the diadems they once wore—were fastened upon their heads, turning them into grotesque effigies. A calculated insult. A twisted performance meant to shatter the morale of Rosmayne’s soldiers.

Friedrich’s army, they said, had turned noble blood into theater. And the stage was soaked in ash.

Their corpses vanished soon after—swallowed whole by the fire and smoke of Aramia’s advance. No burial, no grave, no final rites. Only fury. Only grief. Only the gnawing shame of a nation forced to mourn princes who had no tombs.

At the time, many had whispered darker truths—unspeakable suspicions that the princes had not been discarded, but kept. Preserved. Displayed. Trophies of triumph. Relics of desecration.

And now, after two decades, the whispers had turned to certainty.

The Aramians had kept them.

“The final passage of this letter,” the young man declared, his voice steady, resonant, and unflinching, “is delivered word for word, unsullied and untouched, from His Imperial Majesty himself.”

‘As all is fair in war and destruction, I shall not ask for your forgiveness. I will not drape myself in apologies for a time ruled by steel and fire. But today, let it be known: just as all is fair in war, so too is all fair in peace and love.

Let us show the world that the promise of tomorrow can shine brighter than the wounds of yesterday. That reconciliation may rise where ruin once stood. That we, the children of fire, might yet choose to become the builders of light.’

—With resolve and sincerity,

Ethelar Aramid.”