Ersia: Raven Dawn

“Jousting looks so dangerous,” Viena remarked as she peeled a roasted chestnut, the fragrant steam curling in the cool afternoon air. “I wonder what Papa would’ve said about it. I mean, they could break a bone or two if they fell from a horse running at full speed.”

“Well, what can you do? Every sport has its own risks,” Lisabelle replied, cracking open two shells by pressing them firmly against each other. The chestnuts gave a satisfying snap before she popped one into her mouth.

“What about you, Granny?” Viena turned to Eleanor, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Which part did you like the most?”

“I liked all of them,” Eleanor answered warmly, her voice carrying both excitement and fondness. “The horse racing stirred my heart so much I almost wanted to shout at the top of my lungs to cheer them on. And the dressage… ah, those horses were pure elegance and pride. The care and dedication their handlers put into them is truly admirable.”

Her gaze then drifted off toward the far edge of the arena, as if chasing a memory.

“But if I had to choose,” she continued, “I think cross-country is the most exciting to watch. Even though the course is a bit farther away from the rest of the venue.”

“Ohh! I love it too—watching them leap over obstacles and splash through water is amazing!” Viena beamed. “You’ve got great taste, Granny!”

“Not only that, little bee,” Eleanor chuckled softly. “Back in my youth, I loved riding as well. In fact, the very first time my late husband invited me on a date was after seeing me compete in a cross-country race. I was the only female jockey there.”

That sparked a string of stories from Eleanor that carried them all the way back toward the city. Lisabelle listened quietly, a faint smile lingering on her face. It wasn’t often her grandmother spoke so animatedly about her younger days, and within her tales were details Lisabelle had never heard before. It seemed that good spirits had sharpened her memory, and that thought alone made Lisabelle happy.

By the time the sun was leaning toward the western horizon, its light melting into shades of amber and gold, the city clock chimed once — half past four. The three of them had reached the city center, now just a short walk from home. Along the way, Eleanor paused before a stall selling small pots of rare plants not native to Rosmayne.

While she haggled cheerfully with the vendor, Lisabelle and Viena found a bench nearby. Viena swung her legs idly, humming to herself. Lisabelle, however, soon found herself joined by a boy in his mid-teens, who sat beside her for only a brief moment before rising to leave.

Viena didn’t notice a thing. But in truth, Lisabelle had just exchanged information with one of her lackeys. She scanned the short note hidden inside the folded newspaper he had passed her, quickly writing her response to any issue that had arisen while she’d been spending the day with her sister and grandmother. They exchanged the paper again without so much as meeting eyes, and the boy vanished into the crowd.

It was all as Alphonse had advised — keep things quiet, precise, and unshakable. No surprises. No openings for interference. With the support of the Bidau Trading Company, Lisabelle and her operatives ran their affairs with discipline and razor-sharp focus.

“Oh, look at these exotic plants!” Eleanor’s voice pulled Lisabelle back to the moment. “I feel like I’ve missed so much in just a few days of feeling under the weather! This festival really is extraordinary. Look here, Lisabelle, Viena — isn’t this one adorable?”

She held up a small pot of a spiny, round cactus.

“Whoa, what’s this plant? It looks just like the hedgehog Papa and I found once!” Viena said, leaning in to touch the cactus carefully.

“… A cactus?” Lisabelle raised an eyebrow.

“Exactly! And not just that — I also bought some vegetable and fruit saplings!”

“Ah … I don’t mind, but are you sure, Grandma? Will they survive? Rosmayne has four seasons, remember?”

Eleanor, with a little glimmer of triumph, pulled a bundle of scrolls from beneath her shawl.

“Don’t worry. Some of these plants thrive in all seasons, others can be sown in summer and harvested in autumn. And hardy ones like this cactus will grow year-round, in any weather, as long as they’re cared for properly. That’s why I also bought detailed guides.”

“Ugh, that sounds like a lot of work,” Lisabelle sighed, already picturing the upkeep. “Different care for each plant? I’d never keep up.”

“Don’t worry, Granny! I’ll help you!” Viena chirped.

“Aww, you’re such a sweet girl! Not like your sister here, who clearly wasn’t born with a green thumb,” Eleanor teased, patting Viena’s head.

Viena grinned mischievously, sticking out her tongue at Lisabelle.

“Cheeky little brat… well, fine,” Lisabelle said with mock resignation. “As long as you're happy, all is good.” She stretched her arms across the wide backrest of the bench and exhaled, feeling the hum of the city wash over her.

The festival was in full swing — the air thick with the scent of spiced pastries and roasted meats, the chatter of merchants calling out their wares, the sound of children’s laughter darting through the streets. Colorful pennants fluttered from every window, and jugglers performed for clusters of tourists while music spilled from taverns and open squares. Every corner seemed alive, every face touched with the warmth of the first day of Ludus Magnorum. In that moment, even with her other life tugging at her sleeve, Lisabelle let herself breathe it all in.

They were just about to head home when Lisabelle suddenly came to a stop in the middle of the street.

“You two go on ahead. I just remembered—I need to buy something.”

“It’s nearly evening already,” Eleanor said, her tone tinged with disapproval.

“Sorry, Grandma. It’s something important.”

“Just because you’ve taken part in the Prima Risera doesn’t mean you can wander about and come home whenever you please, young lady.”

Lisabelle didn’t reply. She only averted her gaze, her lips pressed into a thin line. Eleanor, knowing her granddaughter’s stubborn streak all too well, sighed inwardly. No lecture in the world could make that girl change her mind once it was set.

“Oh, what am I going to do with this headstrong young lady?” Eleanor muttered, shaking her head with theatrical resignation. “At least don’t come home too late, do you hear me? Lisabelle Arbona?”

“Yes, Grandma. Will do,” Lisabelle replied with a faint smile.

Before she could take another step, Viena hurried over, tugging her sleeve so she would bend down to ear level.

“Are you going to La Muse?” Viena whispered.

“That’s right.”

“… Is there trouble?” Viena’s voice was quieter this time, laced with worry.

“There will always be trouble,” Lisabelle said with a faint smirk. “But this time, it's nothing too much. I’ll have it sorted quickly.”

“… In that case, you must be careful,” Viena insisted. “There are so many people in the city right now. Even with extra patrols, you still need to watch yourself. And don’t get into fights!”

Lisabelle laughed, ruffling her sister’s hair before gently pinching her cheeks in mock punishment. She straightened up with a grin.

“Who do you think you’re talking to, kid? I’m your big sister! Other people should be careful around me. Now—go home and read the atlas I gave you yesterday. When I get back, I’ll quiz you on it. And if you fail…” She leaned in dramatically. “… I’ll pinch you till' you cry.”

The two of them exchanged playful jabs before parting ways, their teasing echoing down the street. Eleanor, watching them with quiet amusement, felt a deep, unspoken joy. Moments like this were precious. She truly had two grandchildren now. Viena had long since become part of their family—irreplaceable in every way.

---

As they parted ways, Viena and Eleanor continued their walk home. Yet, when they reached a busy crossroad, they found themselves confronted by a group of heavily drunken men, their rowdy shouts and swaying steps spilling trouble into the street. Not wishing to draw unwanted attention, the two decided to take an alternate route—one that wound deeper into the maze of back alleys.

It was a quieter path, but they thought it was fine since there's so much patrol due to the event. The narrow streets were lined with idle loiterers, sitting on crates or leaning against doorways, their eyes albeit awake, don't look too bright.

Still, there was a strange liveliness to the place. Stalls sold little trinkets, and the scent of grilled meat and fried dough drifted through the air. Viena, true to her nature, was far too easily distracted by the colors and smells around her, hardly paying attention to where her feet were leading her.

That was when it happened—she walked straight into a broad-shouldered man, sending the freshly bought skewer of meat in her hand tumbling to the dirt.

“Well now,” the man drawled, his voice carrying a hint of menace beneath a mockery of calm. “What do we have here? My skewer just fell to the ground. Bought it just now, too. You planning to pay for that, brat?”

Viena’s eyes went wide, panic already welling in her chest. “I–I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Eleanor stepped forward, her tone measured. “If it’s food you’ve lost, then I can pay for it. How much do you need?”

But her offer was met with a sneer. “Oh, we’re past that, Granny.” His companions chuckled low, circling just enough to block escape. “This ain’t about the meat anymore.”

Another, thinner man leaned in from the side, his grin sharp. “Old hag, you’re just as disrespectful as your little idiot granddaughter here.”

Viena flinched at the insult, retreating until she was half-hidden behind Eleanor’s skirts. Eleanor’s eyes scanned the street, searching for a sympathetic glance or a guard’s presence—but it was as though the entire scene had been swallowed by indifference. Even those walking by avoided looking in their direction.

The large man tilted his head toward a narrow side alley behind him. “Why don’t you two come with us? Just for a little talk. Unless you want this day to turn very unpleasant.”

Viena’s small hand gripped Eleanor’s sleeve, trembling. Eleanor, though outwardly calm, felt her heartbeat quicken. The walls of the alley seemed to close in before they’d even stepped inside.

Suddenly, a voice called out from the veranda of a tavern not far from where they stood.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t do that. Not even if someone paid me.”

The speaker was a man wearing a half-face fox mask, lounging in his chair with a bottle of liquor in hand. Viena, taking in his oddly mismatched outfit, suddenly remembered someone she had seen long ago.

“M–Mr. Sunday?” she whispered under her breath, barely realizing she’d spoken.

One of the thugs, irritated by the interruption, marched toward the masked man without a word. But before he could reach him—he simply collapsed, as if falling asleep mid-step. No one saw what had happened; the angle had hidden it from view.

“You—!”

The rest of the gang barely had time to react before Mr. Sunday casually tossed his half-full bottle of liquor toward a hulking brute whose skewer had fallen to the ground. The brute caught it, and the two closed the distance between them.

Eleanor, silent until now, drew Viena closer, wrapping a protective arm around her as though bracing for the conflict to escalate.

The big man crushed the thick glass bottle in his bare hand, shards falling in a glittering rain between them. Liquor dripped from his fingers as he growled,

“And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Mr. Sunday leaned back slightly, utterly unbothered.

“I’m the man trying to save your lives.”

For a heartbeat, the street was silent—then the thugs burst out laughing.

“Save our lives? From what? You?”

Mr. Sunday shook his head, raising his palm in mild exasperation.

“Not from me… from them.”

He tilted his head toward Eleanor and Viena.

That sent the laughter into overdrive.

“Hah! That old hag and the little kitten with rabbit ears? What are they gonna do—bore us to death?”

Mr. Sunday sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as though fighting a headache.

“You know, people like you make me more and more certain that muscle mass usually comes at the expense of brain cells.”

“What’d you say?”

The brute seized Mr. Sunday by the collar, fist cocked back for a punch.

“Before you swing,” Mr. Sunday said smoothly, “you might want to take a good look at the old lady’s gloves.”

Something in his voice made the brute hesitate. He glanced over at Eleanor, really seeing her for the first time. On the back of her gloves, he noticed a finely embroidered sunflower.

“Nice gloves,” the brute said with a cold smirk. “I could probably sell them for a good price… after I cut off both her hands.”

Mr. Sunday’s tone sharpened.

“That’s the emblem of the Arbon family, you idiot. Ever heard of them?”

“No. Why the hell should I care?”

“Because Vincent Bidau will make it his personal mission to kill you,” Mr. Sunday replied, his voice dropping into something colder than steel. “He’ll find you, and kill you. Then he’ll kill your family. Your friends. Your drinking buddies. Everyone you’ve ever spoken to. In this world… and in the next. Twice each.”

That name sent a ripple through the group. Several of the thugs began muttering uneasily among themselves. The brute’s grip faltered for just a moment, his expression flickering with something that looked dangerously close to fear.

Vincent Arbon was not a name to take lightly.

Le Roy du Lint—the Linen King—was the kind of man even gutter scum knew not to cross.

“You’re bluffing,” the brute snarled, though his voice lacked its earlier certainty.

Mr. Sunday met his eyes with a faint, almost amused smile.

“Why don’t you let go of my shirt… and I’ll prove it to you?”

The big man finally let go, and Mr. Sunday calmly adjusted his coat as if nothing had happened. From the inner pocket of his cloak, he produced a leather-wrapped scroll and handed it to the man.

"Can you read?" he asked casually.

“Fuck you, cunt!” the brute snarled, snatching the scroll away.

He unrolled it, revealing a parchment sealed with wax and stamped with a fresh emblem. As his eyes scanned the words, his expression faltered. Beads of sweat slid down his temple. It was an official directive from Vincent himself, assigning Mr. Sunday to oversee and protect the Arbona family during the Ludus Magnorum—complete with Vincent’s unmistakable signature and a still-damp seal.

The man knew there was no way this could be a forgery. Yet pride made him cling to bravado. He forced a grin.

“Heh… If no one knows, then it never happened, right? Dead men tell no tales, buddy.”

His hand slipped into his coat, fingers curling around the hilt of a dagger. Eleanor, sensing what was about to happen, pulled Viena close and shut her eyes.

But Mr. Sunday laughed—warmly, almost mockingly. “And what makes you think I’m alone? Do you really believe he’d send just one man to guard people who matter to him?”

The big man froze as Sunday turned his head. His eyes swept over the street—at the passersby, the ones loitering, the ones sitting idly nearby. Every single one of them, it seemed, had been quietly watching this scene unfold.

Then Sunday faced him again, his smile tinged with warning.

“They have eyes and ears everywhere, buddy.”

At that moment, the fight drained from the man’s posture. The threat had been cut down—not with a blade, but with certainty. All that remained was the act of pretending he still had a choice.

“Believe me,” Sunday added, voice low and measured, “it’s not worth it. Walk away. You can always try your luck another day, aye?”

For a long second, the man stood there, jaw clenched. Then, with a grunt, he gestured for his crew to move. One by one, they melted back into the alleys, leaving Eleanor, Viena, and Mr. Sunday standing in the suddenly quiet street.