Ersia: Raven Dawn

The city of Fleurein pulsed with life, even as the clock struck nine.

Though night had fallen, the noise of celebration echoed from every corner, seeping into the quiet neighborhoods — even reaching the quiet walls of the Arbona Estate. The opening ceremony of the Ludus Magnorum had sparked a fire of festivity that refused to die down. Torchlights flickered through the streets, music carried on the wind, and laughter rose like fireworks into the summer air. Visitors had poured into Rosmayne from all directions; by some estimates, the city's population had more than doubled over the week compared to last year's census. Fleurein was packed to its borders — swollen with anticipation, joy, and the chaos of so many lives crammed into a single celebration.

Amid the noise of the distant revelry, Randia stood quietly in the kitchen.

He was stirring a cup of tea, slowly and absently, after adding a spoonful of honey — Viena’s favorite. The kettle had long since cooled. In the parlor, Lisabelle sat cross-legged on the floor, gently massaging her grandmother’s feet with a warm towel. Beside her, Viena was learning to read aloud, carefully tracing the characters on an adventure book from Lisabelle's personal library.

At one point, Lisabelle grew thirsty and asked her little sister for a glass of water. Viena cheerfully got up and skipped toward the kitchen. But when she arrived, she stopped in the doorway.

Her father was still there — still stirring the tea.

“Papa?” she asked, puzzled. “Isn’t the tea ready yet?”

Randia didn’t answer. He didn’t even glance at her, his eyes fixed on something far beyond the steamless cup. His hand moved slowly in circles, mechanical, like a pendulum that had forgotten time.

Viena tilted her head and approached him. Still no response. She stood beside him now, her small figure dwarfed by his presence.

“Papa?”

This time, Randia flinched slightly, as if snapping out of a deep trance. His gaze dropped to Viena at last, dazed, as if surprised to find her standing there.

She reached out and touched the cup in his hand. It was cold.

“Papa, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Why are you here? Go sit down and wait. I’ll bring the tea in a moment.”

“But you look like you were daydreaming,” Viena replied. “What were you thinking about? Maybe I can help! Two heads are always better than one, right?”

“Enough chatter. Go on now — and stay away from the hot water.”

Viena smirked. “But they are not even hot anymore …”

He paused.

Then, with a flick of his finger, a small circle of glyphs lit beneath the kettle — and steam rose once more. The scent of honey and roasted tea leaves returned to the air.

Moments later, the two of them returned to the sitting room.

Randia carried a lacquered tray with a teapot and four cups, alongside neatly cut smoked fish sandwiches with lemon zest. It's the very tea set that was received from Liam during Lisabelle and Viena visit in Neims. It's a tea set from a distant land of Xin — porcelain crafted by the famed Master Zhang Yuan.

Then Viena began recounting all the wonders she had seen that day to Eleanor, her words tumbling out in a stream of excitement. Lisabelle soon chimed in too, eager to add her own commentary and impressions. Meanwhile, Randia remained mostly silent, offering only the occasional, clipped response — classic him.

---

The hour of sleep had come, and the house had long since fallen silent. Everyone was asleep—everyone, except Randia.

He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, turning from side to side in restless silence. Sleep eluded him, slipping through his grasp no matter how tightly he tried to hold on.

Then, without quite knowing how or why, he found himself kneeling beside Viena’s bed.

His hand moved on its own — a gentle stroke through her hair, softer than a whisper. He brushed her arm with tender fingers and adjusted the blanket that had slipped from her shoulder. The child slept on, unaware, serene.

But inside him, a storm was suddenly beginning to swell.

A tide of emotion surged in his chest — sharp, aching, unbearable. His breath grew shallow. His heart pounded in disarray, as if trying to break free of a cage that was once a man.

And then — perhaps out of madness, or something deeper than reason — he cast a spell. A simple one, to lull Viena into an even deeper sleep.

He lifted her in his arms and held her close, pressing her gently to his chest as he began to pace the room in slow, careful steps. Back and forth, again and again — like he used to, in days that seemed long past, when they wandered the roads with nothing but starlight and each other.

“... Daughter.”

The word slipped from him, unbidden, no louder than a breath. It drifted through the dim room like incense, brushing past the gauzy curtain lace that danced silently in the breath of the night wind.

He stopped walking. The trance shattered.

With trembling hands, he returned her to the bed and tucked her in once more, as if laying something sacred to rest. He didn’t understand what had just overtaken him—what force had stirred so suddenly, so violently within his chest.

But slowly… steadily… the storm passed.

His heartbeat softened.

His breath calmed.

And in the hush of that moonlit hour, peace returned to him — not because he had earned it, but because she somehow brought it back.

Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, Randia reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew the sealed letter—the anonymous message that had arrived earlier that day, carried by the hands of a sugar-stained child.

He sat upon the edge of his bed in silence, his back straight, the night pressing gently against the windows. With careful fingers and wary eyes, he unfolded the paper and began to read it again, each word a pebble dropped into a dark pool.

To the Great Hero, Randia of Aderia,

Only I know, your past and your answer.

Come to the final day of the Open Duel Championship.

Everything will be revealed there.

Randia read the letter once.

Twice.

A third time.

He turned the paper over, studied the back, held it to the candlelight and even the window’s moonlit glow. He tested it with faint spells—charmwork and arcane scans, the sort of things only a seasoned wielder of hidden arts would know. He remembered the old spy tricks too: how lemon juice and oxidation could hide secrets in plain sight.

But there was nothing.

No hidden ink. No latent spell.

Not even a trace of a fingerprint.

The parchment was immaculate—too immaculate.

Randia stared at it in his lap, his mind spiraling into silence.

The highest price … is no price at all.

Whoever had sent this letter had offered him help—an open hand.

But had asked for nothing in return.

That was what disturbed him the most.

In Randia’s experience, those who sought nothing often hid the greatest ambitions.

And then there was the other thing.

Not a single word about Viena.

Not even a mention.

If this person had truly known who he was—if they had observed him long enough to uncover his carefully concealed identity—then surely they would have seen the girl. Surely they would have known she was more than a traveling companion. Surely they would have thought that she was his daughter.

And yet ... silence.

Was that a mercy, or a threat yet to be unmasked?

Randia could not say.

All he knew was this:

He would have to distance himself from Viena—at least for a while.

Whoever had written that letter must see only him.

If there was a snare being laid, let it be for him alone.

He folded the letter once more with solemn hands and exhaled slowly.

The night was long, and the tangled garden of his thoughts had to remain sealed—lest he lose himself wandering within.