Ersia: Raven Dawn

[Day 30 of Ludus Magnorum – Northern Gate of Rosmayne]

A young man with ginger hair guided two horses pulling a peculiar carriage, atop which rested a large mattress. His face was strikingly handsome, framed by a short stubble beard—likely the result of a long journey that had left him no time to shave or tidy himself. Beneath his right eye, a small mole added a distinct charm to his features, and his warm brown eyes scanned the surroundings with a mix of focus and unease.

The carriage itself drew immediate attention. It had no roof, no walls—everything inside was on display for anyone passing by. Silver drinkware, bottles of wine, remnants of breakfast, and scattered books filled the interior, and in the center, someone lay sleeping, a white robe covering their form and a book resting atop their face.

Its sheer oddity made it impossible for onlookers not to gawk. The young driver shifted uncomfortably on the reins, acutely aware of the curious stares upon him.

“Good morning… or noon I should say,” greeted one of the gate guards.

“Good morning to you as well,” the young man replied politely.

“Quite a crowd of strange folk has arrived in the city since the Ludus Magnorum began. But I must say… you’re one of the champions. I’ve never seen a carriage like this before,” the guard remarked with a chuckle.

“Ahahaha… my master does have… peculiar tastes. Are we in violation of any rules?” the driver asked nervously.

“Hm, not at all. There’s no official specification for carriages entering Rosmayne from abroad.”

“Oh, that’s a relief,” the driver exhaled, visibly relaxing.

“On the contrary, I wish there were more carriages like yours,” the guard added, smiling. “Though I know that’s probably impossible. Still, your unique… mattress-carriage makes inspections far easier for us.”

The guard began inspecting every side of the carriage. However, when he reached for the bottles and vessels scattered atop the mattress, the driver suddenly stopped him.

“Sir?” the guard asked, a mix of surprise in his voice.

Without explaining, the young man tossed one of his chestnut snacks—his constant companion during the drive—toward the figure lying on the mattress. As the chestnut approached, it split neatly into four pieces midair.

“I mean no disrespect, sir,” the driver said politely, “but please allow me to ask my master to deactivate his magic first. Otherwise… I fear something unfortunate might happen.”

“Oh… very well. Thank you for the warning,” the guard replied, astonished. He had narrowly avoided a fate similar to that of the chestnut.

Gently, the driver crawled onto the mattress and carefully nudged the feet of the man he called “master,” treating him with the same reverence a child shows a parent.

“Master, please wake up. The gate guard wants—”

BHAK!

The sleeping man kicked the driver squarely in the face.

“Quiet, I’m still sleepy.”

Annoyed, the driver bit down on his master’s toe. A sharp cry of pain followed, and finally, the book covering the master’s face was pushed aside.

“You fucking-!”

Before him sat an elderly man, whose eyes betrayed his uniqueness: the right was deep green, the left a vivid red. Likely close to seventy, his face still held a certain freshness, though his skin had begun to sag and the thick under-eye bags suggested he hadn’t slept in days. His hair was pure white, and his beard, long and thick, was braided into three sections, each adorned with a silver accessory featuring a small sapphire at its center.

“Feel that, you old fool! I told you not to activate protective magic after crossing the border! What if the guard had been hurt just because of your absent-mindedness? Are you trying to get us thrown out?!” the driver shouted, exasperated.

“You little punk! Weren’t you planning to pretend to be a pious, dutiful student to impress the harlots of this city and get laid?!” the old man shouted.

“To hell with that! As I thought! I knew it would be impossible for me to even pretend to respect a crazy old geezer like you!”

The elderly master, clearly irritated, snapped his fingers. In an instant, the driver was transformed into a parrot, flapping and squawking in disbelief.

“Ha! Can’t talk shit with that mouth anymore, can you, you little bastard?” the old man snapped.

“You fucking… BITCH! You fucking… BITCH!” the parrot repeated relentlessly.

With a snap of his fingers, the old man wrapped a piece of cloth around the bird, coiling it snugly so it fell silent.

The crowd watching erupted into murmurs and laughter. Some laughed at the absurd exchange, while others worried for the young man who had just been turned into a parrot. Yet a few, versed in magic, were utterly stunned. They could hardly believe their own eyes. The spell they had witnessed was Hex—one of the highest forms of magic, usually demanding an almost impossible array of conditions to succeed.

Once the old man had calmed himself, the gatekeeper cautiously approached the carriage again, having stepped back two paces in shock.

“Err… Sir, excuse me… did you just commit murder?” he asked hesitantly.

The old man said nothing. He reclined again, moving a glass and a jug with his magic. Both floated in front of him, pouring water into his mouth as if guided by invisible hands.

“Ah…” He exhaled in relief after finishing a gulp. “Relax. My foolish student isn’t that fragile.”

“Oh… alright then. If you say so,” the gatekeeper replied, still uncertain. “Since the line is getting longer, let’s get the permits sorted. Could you show me your documents, sir?”

Instead of fumbling through documents as the gatekeeper requested, the old man suddenly brushed one of his rings. In an instant, a small spatial pocket opened above his hand. He plunged his hand inside, retrieved an object, and handed it to the gatekeeper.

It was a rose-shaped medallion, the insignia of Rosmayne’s royal house—the Rosela Titulia. The very same design as Randia’s, except the blood preserved within belonged to the Fifth Monarchy of Rosmayne. Unfortunately, just as with Randia, the gatekeeper had no inkling of the incomprehensible value contained in the medallion.

“Sorry, sir… what we asked for were the travel documents issued in the previous territory,” the gatekeeper explained.

“Hah. Youth these days—you brats are the same wherever I go. Go ask your superior before you get ten laps around the courtyard for being ignorant,” the old man snapped.

Intimidated by the man’s extraordinary display of magic, the gatekeeper finally realized he was no ordinary traveler. Swallowing his nervousness, he hurried off to fetch his captain.

Soon enough, the captain arrived in a flurry, bowing deeply with the sort of deference one would reserve for a queen.

“Greetings to Your Excellency, Lord Argenis,” the captain said, his voice trembling with both awe and formality.

---

[Rosmayne City Hall - Third Floor]

“Rudan, you’re making it look as if I never feed you,” Argenis barked at his student at the far table, who was devouring the banquet spread like a starved wolf.

The old mage frowned as he watched the boy chew noisily, stuffing himself without shame. Between mouthfuls, Rudan still managed to curse and mutter insults back at his master, protesting the unfair accusation. After all, he hadn’t eaten properly in nearly three days—thanks to Argenis finishing off their entire travel ration.

A servant girl approached quietly, reaching for Argenis’s goblet to pour him some wine. Just as the ruby liquid was about to flow, her wrist was caught and stopped by another hand.

“Don’t. Master Argenis does not drink alcohol.”

“L–Lord Court Mage Andersen!”

The servant paled in shock. The man before her looked no older than his mid-twenties, yet whispers claimed his true age had long since passed fifty. His short, curly hair had the warm shade of tea, and his soft brown eyes carried the glow of a living portrait. His slender frame and delicate, almost feminine fingers lent him an otherworldly grace. Normally, Andersen wore the flowing blue-white robes that marked his station at court, but today he was dressed in startling simplicity: a plain surcoat and a light brown mantle, as though he had just stepped from the streets.

“And you are…? Who are you again?” Argenis squinted at him lazily, resting his head on one hand. His feet were propped up on the chair beside him, the very picture of insolence—as though he were in some roadside tavern instead of the city hall of Rosmayne.

Gasps and murmurs spread. Several attendants behind Andersen glared daggers at the old mage. His disregard for etiquette bordered on heresy in such a solemn hall.

“Ah… of course,” Andersen said, smiling faintly. “It has been more than forty years since we last met.”

From within his robe, Andersen drew a pendant—an intricate golden locket etched with concentric squares in geometric design. He bowed, offering it with both hands.

"Hmm?"

"Hmm ....."

Argenis struggled to recall where he had seen the necklace before. There was a nagging familiarity to it. He turned the pendant over and over in his hands, studying it from every angle. At last, his thumb pressed against the carved design etched into the metal—and the engraving shifted. Only then did the truth of the object reveal itself to him.

“Ah. One of the Celestra's memorine. So, you’re that sniveling brat from the flour mill.”

“Correct, Master. I must apologize for not properly introducing myself back then. My name is Andersen. We first met in Kadanos. You were the one who saved my village from drought and showed me the path to strength. Though most of my kin have long passed, allow me, in their stead, to thank you.”

With that, Andersen sank to one knee, clasping his hands and bowing deeply in reverence.

The room erupted in whispers of disbelief. To see Andersen the Court Mage—one of the kingdom’s highest advisors—kneeling before this foul-mouthed, undignified old man was nothing short of scandalous.

“M–My Lord Andersen, please rise! You mustn’t humble yourself like this!” his aides cried, tugging at him.

“Couldn't agree more with them,” Argenis said dryly. “I can hardly remember your face, boy. Your emotions are wasted on me. They go one-sided.”

Andersen rose again, smiling thinly, and the two began conversing casually, as though the court’s collective disbelief meant nothing. Rudan, meanwhile, had discreetly shrunk into a corner of the banquet table, eating slowly in silence, hoping no one would notice him—or his bottomless appetite.

“Then, Master,” Andersen finally asked, “if I may—what brings you to our kingdom?”

“Nothing in particular. I simply heard there was much amusement to be found here.” Argenis plucked a grape and popped it into his mouth, as though he were speaking of a carnival.

“Ah, of course. For leisure it is. In that case, allow me the honor of accompanying you during your stay.”

The old mage made a face so full of disdain it nearly spoke for itself. Ugh.

“You… and your circus of sycophants? Yeah, no.”

For a moment Andersen blinked, then comprehension slowly dawned. His master detested crowds.

“My apologies,” he said quickly. “Then perhaps… allow me to entrust someone else to you, Master.”

He beckoned toward the doors. A young woman stepped forward—a striking figure. Her chestnut hair was tied neatly into a high ponytail, her almond-shaped blue eyes gleamed behind thick brows and scholarly glasses. Every movement carried dignity, every step measured.

“This is Elva,” Andersen said. “My adopted daughter, and my assistant. I have raised her to serve beside me, and her knowledge is abundance - though nothing compared to yours. I believe she may prove of use to you, Master.”

“Eh… fine. If you insist. I suppose it won’t hurt to have a guide who can show me around.”

Andersen’s face broke into a wide smile—rare enough to stun his attendants.

“Well then, I’ve talked far too long. It’s making me drowsy.” Argenis stretched, yawning, then patted the banquet table as if it were the softest bed. “This surface feels surprisingly comfortable. Could you all leave now? We’ll chat again later. Oh, and Elva—be a dear and fetch me a pillow.”

“Yes, Master Argenis,” she replied at once.

But before anyone could move, one of Andersen’s guards stomped forward, armor clanging. His face burned with anger.

This insolent cur has mocked us long enough! Maybe you did something once to earn Lord Andersen’s gratitude, but you’ve shown nothing but disrespect since you walked in here. Let me teach you some manners, old man!

He charged.

He never reached his mark.

Brilliant chains of light erupted from the air, coiling around the guard’s throat and wrenching him to a halt. His eyes bulged as he clawed at the strangling bonds, choking, gasping—until at last he collapsed unconscious at Andersen’s feet.

A horrified silence fell over the hall.

Andersen bowed deeply, his face tight with shame. The glowing chains unraveled, then dissolved into sparks at the wave of his hand.

“My deepest apologies, Master. I should have controlled my men better.” He dragged the unconscious guard back with a flick of his glowing fingertip, like pulling a dog on a leash.

Argenis, meanwhile, simply yawned again. His half-lidded eyes flicked toward Andersen with utter disinterest, and he waved a lazy hand as if to say: Don’t trouble yourself.

---

A few moments later, the guard who had earlier shown open hostility toward Argenis stirred awake. He found himself slumped upon the marble veranda of the city hall, amidst Andersen’s retinue. Before him, the Court Mage stood absorbed in fascination, scrutinizing the horse-drawn carriage that Argenis and his pupil Rudan had traveled in.

Every detail seized his interest: the breed and condition of the steeds, the timber and cloth shaping the frame and bedding, and—most critically—the wards and hidden enchantments woven into the very bones of the carriage, invisible to common eyes yet radiant to one trained in the arcane.

“Miss a single detail,” Andersen warned coldly, his voice carrying like steel in the wind, “and I will cut your salary and research stipends for two full months.”

The entourage hastened to obey, quills scratching, hands tracing, whispers flitting. Amid their activity, the wounded guard groaned and dragged himself upright. Andersen turned, at last noticing him, and strode over.

“You’ve woken?” he asked.

“M–Master Andersen. What… what just—”

The words had barely left his lips before Andersen’s hand cracked across his face. Once. Then again. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed, sharp as a whip. A few aides flinched and averted their eyes.

“You want to know what just happened?” Andersen’s voice was low, dangerous.

The guard clutched his stinging cheek, mute in terror.

“What happened,” Andersen said, his eyes flashing with contempt, “is that I saved your worthless life. You should already be dead—like the dumb stray cur you are.”

“M-my apologies, Lord Andersen,” the guard stammered, bowing his head.

Andersen exhaled sharply, then seated himself with deliberate calm. He raised a hand, commanding his followers to cease their work and gather. They drew close, kneeling in a fearful half-circle. For though they all knew Andersen’s temper—his sharp tongue, his biting words—few had ever seen him raise hand or spell in discipline.

“You fools,” Andersen said, his tone heavy as thunder. “Do you even comprehend who that was?”

Silence. None dared answer.

“Do you think I would abase myself before some nameless wanderer?!” His voice rose, lashing them like wind across a barren plain. Several quailed, clutching at their hands or closing their eyes in dread.

“Were your ears deaf when I addressed him as Master?!”

The air stilled. Andersen’s breath steamed faintly in the cooling dusk as he composed himself, then spoke again, quieter, yet far more terrible:

“Listen well, you insignificant worms. If you claim to honor me, then you will honor him a thousandfold.”

He rose to his feet, his presence swelling like a storm. The retainers shrank further.

"That man is no mere mortal. He is basically God among men. Even were you granted ten lives, you would not stand upon the same ground as he does ... Nor could I.”

A hush fell. Only the wind moved, rattling the banners above the veranda.

“He is the author of half the grimoires you have ever read. He is the hand that taught Seraina the very language of magic. None know whence he came, nor his true age, nor the names of his parents. But all who walk the path of arcane know the titles that follow him, despite his insistence to keep a low profile all the time.”

Andersen’s gaze swept over them, his voice reverberating like prophecy.

He is The Five-Century Magus.

The Sage of the West.

The Lux Prima.

Argenis the Silver.”