Ersia: Raven Dawn

Half of the forty events held during the Ludus Magnorum have already concluded. Champions have been crowned, and participants who have finished competing now carry the pride of their nations as they join in celebrating this great festival of skill. So successful were the spectacles that the population of Fleurein nearly tripled, forcing the city to mobilize its visitors with great effort.

Countless local nobles and landholders reaped vast profits from the booming economy of Rosmayne. Yet, as expected, a few issues arose—especially in the second week—concerning public order and the availability of food and clean water. However, the crisis was resolved in less than a single day and has never recurred since.

Seeing the immense benefits of hosting such a grand occasion, diplomats began entering negotiations over the future hosting of the festival. But amid the many events that brought joy and excitement to the people, it was bittersweet that the Queen of Rosmayne herself did not have a single moment to witness the festivities—her days consumed instead by the unending tide of political intrigue and overflowing diplomacy.

On the thirty-first night, Queen Catalina Rosalia was still buried in her work. Midnight had long passed, and the chill of the air seeped into her bones despite the flames roaring in her hearth. Her head throbbed with a fever, the relentless weight of her duties grinding against her body already weakened by a lingering cold.

She wanted to scream, to hurl her pen across the chamber—but every time her temper flared, her eyes lifted to the portrait hanging high above the exit. It was the likeness of her late aunt, Queen Luseya, the eighth monarch of Rosmayne, whose steady gaze seemed to watch over her successor even from the grave.

“My dearest aunt… this crown is heavier than I imagined. How did you endure it for so long while each day I feel as though it will crush me to dust beneath its weight?”

Her whisper vanished into the silence. Catalina rubbed her face with both hands before finally rising, her stiff muscles aching from hours hunched at the desk. She stretched, then drifted toward the balcony doors. The guards stationed outside startled when the door creaked open—her Majesty rarely wandered at such hours without escort.

“Your Majesty,” they greeted in unison, bowing deeply.

“Gau. Troy. At ease.”

“You remember our names! We are honored!” one said with pride.

“Shall we accompany you, Your Majesty?” asked the other.

Before she could answer, a long, lazy yawn drifted across the courtyard. The guards instantly unsheathed their blades, steel flashing in the moonlight.

“Who goes there?”

“Troy—sound the gong!” Catalina commanded sharply.

But before either guard could move, their bodies stiffened as though gripped by invisible chains. Their arms locked, their swords clattered uselessly to the stone. They stood frozen—statues carved in an instant, trapped in time itself.

“Your Majesty… ah, bothersome. Too long and too much of hassle. I’ll just call you by your name.”

A voice, cracked with age but rich with amusement, floated through the night. An old man materialized before the Queen, lounging upon a massive silvery cushion that hovered effortlessly in the air as if carried by unseen currents.

Catalina narrowed her eyes, her posture rigid though her heart pounded.

“And who are you, insolent elder, to address me so?”

The man smirked, scratching his beard with languid disdain.

“Haah… that Luseya of yours. She was even more senile than I am. How come she didn't tell you anything about me?”

Catalina’s composure snapped, her fury cutting through the cold night air.

“How dare you! You dare speak so of my late aunt?! I will not tolerate—”

But her voice faltered. The words broke apart in her throat, fading into silence. No matter how she strained, no sound would come forth.

“You chatter too much, brat,” the old man drawled, waving a lazy hand. “Come. There are things that I want to ask.”

Reclining upon his great floating cushion, the stranger drifted toward the edge of the balcony. Catalina hesitated, her pulse hammering in her ears. Every instinct screamed at her to resist, yet she knew—this man, with power enough to still her guards and steal her voice, could have harmed her already had he wished. And yet he had not. Thus, it would be wiser for her to comply for the time being.

Reluctantly, she followed.

Side by side, though with a cautious distance between them, they stood upon the moonlit balcony. Below stretched the jeweled sprawl of Fleurein, its streets aglow with golden lanternlight, glimmering like scattered gems beneath the velvet shroud of night.

“I wish to ask you about your aunt, Luseya. How was her relationship with her children?”

“… They were a harmonious family.”

The moment Catalina uttered those words, the palm of her right hand split open, a thin line of blood welling forth. She winced, biting down the pain, forcing herself to endure.

“Oh, I forgot to mention—” the old man shifted on his bedding, voice calm, almost indulgent, “—I have a distaste for liars.”

His single half-lidded eye gleamed.

“Now, would you tell me the truth?”

With visible reluctance, Catalina began to recount what she knew of the late Queen Luseya and her children. The truth was not of harmony but fracture. The queen’s bond with her brood had long since splintered, most bitterly with her second and third sons. The cause lay in blood: those two princes had adored their father, the rebellion leader whom Luseya herself slew with her own hand, a sacrifice to bind Rosmayne’s unity in blood.

“Prince Thierry and Prince Rafael resembled their father in every regard,” Catalina explained quietly. “They were militant to the marrow, ever aflame with zeal. Their veins boiled with fervor. They craved ceremony, symbols, the grand gestures of statecraft and war.”

The first prince, Amaury, by contrast, had been the queen’s favored son—wiser, more temperate. Yet even he could not persuade his younger brothers to reconcile with their mother. Indeed, as far as Catalina knew, the queen herself sanctioned the decision to send Thierry and Rafael to the battlefield against Aramia.

“Her Majesty was also a distant cousin of Queen Hanni, consort to Emperor Ethelar Aramid, and mother of Aramia’s seventh prince, Friedrich Ronan. She met Friedrich twice—once at a tournament during the Emperor’s tour, and once again at the Battle of Arksen, when she rode to rescue refugees caught between the armies of Aramia and Varnaria.”

Catalina paused, drawing a long breath.

“Because she knew Friedrich… she understood full well what it meant when she consented to the council’s proposal to send her sons against him. Although it was necessary, and Rosmayne, in fact, at that time, had bled itself dry of seasoned men. The Golden Lunch Incident, and the struggle that entails between Lord Raymond’s rebels and Bornoea’s loyalists, had claimed nearly every general of renown. There were none left fit to lead a war.”

The queen of Rosmayne now sat at the marble balustrade of the balcony. The stone stung her fingers with a chill, like the bite of an insect. Her memory drifted to the day she found Queen Luseya’s lifeless form—serene upon her bed, as though she had only drifted into sleep.

“I was with Her Majesty in the garden, taking tea,” Catalina continued, her voice thinning, “just days after she had dispatched her sons to war. Do you know what she said to me then?”

The old man gave no answer. He merely listened, one eye closed, as though savoring the words.

“The gods are surely dead. If not, how could the heavens permit two Ethelar Aramids to walk the earth in the same age?”

Catalina’s words fell into the night like stones into a well. Silence reigned for a time, heavy, unbroken.

“This world is truly mad, is it not?” she murmured with a bitter laugh.

The old man snapped his fingers. At once, the wound on Catalina’s palm vanished without a trace. He snapped again; beneath her feet blossomed a thick woolen carpet and an immense cushion, mirroring his own. The queen fell upon its softness, and from nowhere a blanket appeared, enfolding her slender frame in gentle warmth.

“And how,” the old man asked without pause, “did she respond when all her children lay slain?”

“She mourned so deeply she could not rise from her bed for weeks.”

“That's all?” His tone grew curious, almost coaxing.

“… She also ordered the execution of nearly a thousand Aramian war prisoners. A decree that some of us—myself included—believed a betrayal of the principles of the Goddess Aine. Yet I…” Catalina’s voice cracked, laden with shame. “I never spoke against it. I was too afraid. Afraid that the queen’s grief, and the people’s fury, would turn upon me instead.”

Her words fell ragged, heavy with thought, the confession of one who had survived yet could not claim innocence.

Amid the silence, thick with the winds of regret, Catalina turned her gaze toward the old man, who now regarded the stars with an expression untouched by the weight of her tale. A question, sharp as a thorn, pricked her heart: Who truly was this man? And what business did he have with the late queen?

“I have spoken enough,” she said at last, her voice heavy with weariness. “Now it is your turn. Who are you, old man—so bold as to make a queen relive her most bitter memories, and shatter her spirit further amidst these noisy, burdensome days that already make me feel worse off than a slave?”

“I'm Argenis,” the man replied simply. “I came only to settle a wager I once made with Luseya. And, as it happens, I won.”

Curiosity gnawed deeper at Catalina. That anyone would dare address the late queen with such casual ease unsettled her. Slowly, she lifted herself from the great cushion beneath her, unable to restrain her probing.

“Argenis… To be frank, I have never heard your name. Yet you clearly share a past with Her Majesty, and I cannot deny your power. Never have I seen a sorcerer conjure such strange objects from nothing. Surely you are no ordinary man.”

“I did not create them,” Argenis corrected with a sly smile. “I merely stored them through certain arts. In truth, you are using my personal collection of rarities. Consider it… a warm gesture on my part. And you are right, kid—I am rather exceptional.” With a languid sweep of his finger, he drew constellations into the air, lines of starlight glittering briefly before fading.

Catalina hesitated. There was nothing in her to match such confidence; he seemed so utterly free of fear, as though the world itself held no consequences for him.

“… Then, Master Argenis, may I ask—what wager was it that you had with Queen Luseya?”

“Nothing of importance,” he said with a sigh. “Only that she once dismissed me. In the end, she proved no different from myself. Hmph. It seems it will be a very long time before I meet someone who can truly astonish me.”

With that, Argenis pushed himself halfway upright from his cushion and stretched his back. Tugging a strand from his beard, he rolled it between his fingers until it melted into a shimmering golden liquid. He caught it deftly in a glass vial no larger than a ring finger.

The tiny vessel drifted through the air and settled upon Catalina’s lap.

“I dislike the color—too gaudy for my taste. But the effect is useful enough. Take it.”

Catalina lifted the vial. “What is it, Master?”

“A draught for sleep. One drop stirred into your cup, and you will slumber deeply. A queen with bags beneath her eyes invites ridicule, for it means she has failed to govern her own burdens.”

The words struck harder than any blow. Catalina clenched her teeth—yet not out of anger toward Argenis. Rather, it was shame. Shame that her weakness had been laid bare so swiftly, so mercilessly, by a stranger she had only just met.

“Now that I’ve got what I came here for, I'll be taking my leave.”

At those words, Catalina panicked. The truth struck her in full: the man before her was no ordinary wanderer. If anyone could shape her into a worthier queen, it was Argenis.

“Where will you go, Master? Why not remain here? I can promise you comfort, security… In return, I—” she faltered, her voice trembling with sincerity, “—I wish to learn from you. Be my teacher.”

Argenis recoiled as if she had offered him poison. His face twisted with disgust. To him, taking on a single student was already a curse, a chain to a life he never wanted tethered. The thought of bearing a second was unbearable.

“Ewh. Absolutely not. You’d sooner get me to pluck out my own teeth. Let it sink in, kid—this sky, and all that lies beneath it, is my home. And freedom, my only crown. I’ll not shackle it for anyone, least of all a queen.”

Catalina’s defiance collapsed. Her lips pressed shut, her head bowed, but her heart hammered as if it might burst.

Argenis drifted closer, his massive cushion creaking under invisible weight. “Still… I’ll throw you three bones. Consider it satisfied customer review—for your little tournaments. Utter madness, those games of yours. Madness, but damned entertaining.”

Catalina’s breath caught. She listened as if the air itself might carry his words away.

“First: marry, and have children. Many of them. A brood to quiet the noise of your council table. They’ll stir their own noise, of course—but it’s a noise you’ll cherish more than the endless bickering of nobles.”

“Second: stop forcing yourself to be Luseya. You are not her, and she was never perfect to begin with. Find your own strength. Take your time. The world you stand in is far gentler now than the storms you imagine ... or the ones that I've been in.”

He paused then, as though weighing the final gift. His eyes narrowed, sharp with meaning.

“And third… You might want to make friend with the Red Dwarf."

Catalina frowned. “The… Red Dwarf?” The name meant nothing to her, no figure from court, no tale from history. It struck her as strange, unsettling, even absurd—yet the weight in Argenis’s voice forbade her to laugh.

When Catalina raised her eyes again, Argenis was already drifting away, borne aloft upon his vast pillow toward the boundless night. The city of Fleurein glittered beneath them like a sea of living gold, eternal and untouchable.

"Sigh. I don't even have the luxury to ask why one of his eyes is red."

Alone on the balcony, Catalina felt the chill of the wind against her face. She clenched her hands, her heart torn between awe and unease, knowing that his words—strange, uninvited, yet piercingly true—would haunt her long after his figure vanished into the dark.