Ersia: Raven Dawn

“Marcus…”

“Marcus, my dear son…”

"Mother."

“…my little champion…”

“Don’t take too much of the apples.”

“Mother… I will have them pay.”

“Then… would you at least spare the little ones for me?

I'm sure they will grow sweet in time.”

“Marcus…”

“Ma—”(inaudible)

“Your Majesty. Your Majesty, please wake up.”

“Your Majesty, we are already five minutes behind schedule.”

Ethelar Aramid tore himself awake, his palm on his chest, sweating as the last threads of the dream dissolved.

Once again, it was her—his mother—gentle, soft-spoken, and impossibly kind.

The woman who died when he was fourteen, leaving him alone in a world that devours the weak.

Perhaps, the only person he had ever loved without reservation… and the only person who had ever loved him with the purest intention.

The morning air inside the imperial pavilion was cold, fresh with the petrichor scent of last night’s rain and the lingering smoke of campfires burning low. At the entrance stood a seventeen-year-old boy—one of Ethelar’s personal attendants—cradling a set of tiny wind chimes in both hands. He had used them to wake the emperor, their soft lilting notes a gentler alternative to shaking him.

The dream ended. Duty returned.

Seeing Ethelar fully conscious, the young attendant hurried forward with practiced reverence. He offered a glass of water, then knelt to wash the emperor’s feet with warm water imbued with herbs. The steam curled upward, fragrant and calming.

“It seems you dreamed something pleasant, Your Majesty,” the boy said quietly.

"What leads you to that thought?" tanya Ethelar.

“I’ve only served you for two years,” the boy replied while drying Ethelar’s feet, careful not to seem presumptuous, “but I’ve noticed that whenever Your Majesty clutch your chest and smile in your sleep, Your Majesty always wake in a great mood.”

Ethelar said nothing at first—only smiled faintly, finishing the water in one slow swallow. Then he reached out and tapped the boy’s cheek twice, followed by a light pat on the head—an elder’s wordless blessing.

"My mother roused me to work this morning… and she scolded me, as she always did."

“…May I ask what work Your Majesty’s mother used to do?”

The boy hesitated. It was bold—borderline inappropriate—to pry into an emperor’s background, especially one as enigmatic as Ethelar. But curiosity overcame his fear. Too great is his interest on the true annals of the living legend.

Ethelar shifted his gaze to the polished bronze mirror before him—mirror-gazing, studying himself with measured detachment.

“My mother was a humble fruit vendor.”

“She must have been a remarkable merchant,” the boy offered gently.

Ethelar laughed under his breath as he massaged his temples and jaw, loosening the tension.

“She was, by every measure, a terrible merchant. She refused to sell bruised fruit, threw away half her stock, bargained poorly, felt guilty about everything… and frequently gave fruit away for free to people just as poor as we were.”

Silence fell.

The attendant’s hands froze.

He had assumed the emperor came from merchant roots, perhaps a minor noble family or a caravan guild.

Never—not once—had he imagined the ruler of one-fifth of the world had been raised by a soft-hearted vendor in a forgotten market stall.

Outside, the camp stirred: soldiers tightening saddle straps, scribes shuffling parchment, officers giving crisp orders. A cold wind swept through the flap of the tent, carrying the scent of wet soil and the distant clang of armor.

Ethelar washed his face.

For some reason, he lingered longer than usual, as though forcing the water to drown out the remnants of the dream.

It was a blessing for a certain lady-in-waiting who had overslept; she managed to slip into the tent just in time, breathless but unnoticed.

“Roy,” Ethelar called as the attendants and handmaids worked efficiently, bathing and preparing him for the day.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Tell everyone we will dine while traveling.”

“At once, Your Majesty.”

“And one more thing…”

Ethelar’s eyes softened—only slightly, only for a moment.

“I want fruit for breakfast.”

---

The port clung to the cliffside like a stubborn barnacle, its stone piers carved directly from the jagged rock. Even at dusk, the glow of the strange barnacles—collected by daring cliff-divers who swore they brought luck—shimmered along the waterline like drifting stars. What had once been a humble refuge for fishermen had long ago become one of Rosmayne’s most important naval arteries, its hidden caverns swallowing ships whole from the edge of a spyglass, concealing them in echoing vaults where the tide whispered against ancient stone.

Inside one of the port’s old storage houses—nothing more than a weathered warehouse where fishermen dumped their catch before sale—a quiet congregation was forming. The agents of Aramia gathered in staggered trickles, drifting in under disguises: porters with frayed ropes slung over their shoulders, spice traders with stained aprons, even a pair of convincingly swaying drunkards. They filled the dim interior with the muted tension of people waiting for someone of significance.

The hour was six. Outside, the harbor roared with the controlled chaos of crews preparing to set sail. Lanterns clattered in the wind. Nets slapped against wood. Ropes groaned. And then—precisely as the last streaks of sun melted into the sea—she arrived.

A young woman—dangerous, captivating, unmistakable.

Her hair was a midnight-black wave, darker than the sea caves at low tide. Her lips, painted rose-red, contrasted with the black corset and deep scarlet fluttery gown that clung to her form. The click of her high heels cut through the noise like glass tapping marble, drawing every passing glance toward the long, fishnet-clad legs that moved with predatory grace. Her lashes curled like silken blades, framing eyes the color of tea steeping under a foggy lantern.

“Good evening, Spymistress. It’s a great honor to see you in person,” murmured a wealthy-looking old man, one of the senior handlers, bowing over her hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles.

She smiled faintly.

“Proceed as planned,” she said simply.

“As you wish.”

She lifted a slender pipe to her lips, exhaling a curl of smoke that glowed faintly amber in the lamplight. Her presence was so effortlessly sensual that several workers outside nearly dropped their ropes, losing themselves in the spectacle. Six other women followed her, each beautifully dressed, each carrying her own air of dangerous refinement.

Up on a half-rigged schooner, two sailors whistled loud enough to carry across the water.

“Holy—look at them! They’re unreal!”

“By the gods, did those old merchants hire them?!”

The “merchants” below—Aramia’s agents in yet another layer of disguise—played their roles convincingly, offering gallant gestures and gentlemanly flattery as the women brushed their fans playfully, laughing behind them. One lifted the edge of her skirt just enough to make the sailors above lose their footing and swear loudly as they nearly toppled off the boom.

Two sailors shouted from a mast, nearly slipping as they leaned to gawk.

“Hey sweetheart! Why waste your time with those old bones? Come with us instead!”

“I’ll show you something bigger than this mast! Hahaha!”

Once the Aramian agents entered the warehouse, a handful of massive guards in sleeveless leather jerkins rose to full attention, their stares warning off anyone foolish enough to intrude.

Within, the real work began. A handful of agents traced runes and whispered spells, weaving magical defenses to muffle sound and seal away prying eyes. The meeting itself unfolded with practiced precision: the framework for Ludus Magnorum, lists of targets, save havens, infiltration routes, roles to be assigned. Every detail passed under the spymistress’s calm authority.

An hour later, the agents dispersed into the bustling night like ink bleeding into water, leaving only Mirabelle and her closest attendants inside.

The warehouse door creaked as she approached it.

But before she could step forward, the two hulking guards crossed their swords in front of her.

“What is the meaning of this?” she asked, her voice edged with frost.

“He wishes that you stay,” one guard replied.

A faint, unmistakable wrongness hummed in the air.

Mirabelle, after adjusting the setting of her special pipe, exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the guard’s face. His pupils flickered. Yes—something, someone, was puppeteering him. There are magic essences in congruence.

A long, relieved sigh drifted from the shadows behind them.

A man emerged from the dimness. Tall, lean, around forty. He walked with a jeweled amethyst-topped cane, each tap echoing with deliberate elegance. His brown hair—shoulder-length and immaculately kept—framed a face adorned with round spectacles and a neat Van Dyke beard. His attire was almost ostentatiously refined: a polka-dotted blue-and-white ascot, a tailored coat, gloves that had never seen honest labor.

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle Mirabelle.”

He said, his voice touched with a lilting, almost playful Rosmesian cadence. Un charmant de désastre.

“It's a pleasure to see you.”

Mirabelle’s agents instantly drew weapons—hidden knives slipping from garters, fans unfolding into razor edges, runic pins removed from headdresses.

“Who are you?!” one hissed.

“How did you get in?!” another snapped.

“What are—”

Before one could say more, Mirabelle’s hand snapped over her mouth.

“Don’t speak,” she whispered.

"Do not question him. And under no circumstance answer anything he asks.”

“My lady…?” one attendant whispered.

Mirabelle stepped forward, her pipe drifting smoke like a veil of caution.

“It is not courteous to appear uninvited,” she said. “Sual. The Question Man.”

A murmur rippled through the room—gasping disbelief, nervous curses. Even hardened spies blanched at the sight of the man. The Question Man. A specter of Seraina’s most notorious nightmares. A serial murderer, an enigma, a rogue mystic whose motives and capability had baffled every intelligence network—including Aramia’s own.

"It's pretty challenging to get what you want by being nice." Sual said lightly. "I'm sure your emperor and your brothers would agree, wouldn't they? Oh, by your brothers ... I mean both the dead one and the not-so-dead one, of course."

The dig struck a hidden nerve. Few in the room understood the insult, but Mirabelle did. For in truth—Sual was mocking Asmar and Randia, men who were to Mirabelle as true brothers in all but blood. Fortunately, her pipe steadied her anger.

“State your intention, Sual.”

“Ah, direct. Efficient. Très impériale.” He tapped his cane. “I wish to make a trade, if that pleases you. May I sit? My legs are dreadfully fatigued.”

Sual muttered a brief incantation—five seconds, no more—before the air beside him tore open like cloth. A pocket dimension gaped. He reached inside and withdrew a book, placing it neatly on an empty crate.

A guard approached, visibly struggling against an unseen force as he retrieved the book and handed it to Mirabelle.

She opened it the book and spent quite some time on it. Strange diagrams. Arcane circles. Intriguing illustrations. Glyphs she could not read. But one word above a picture stood out like ice on her skin:

Izar.

She had seen that name before—in the Temple of Tutiwa, during her travels with the heroes.

“The prophet…?” she whispered to herself.

“How is it?”

Sual asked.

Mirabelle slammed the book shut on reflex, slightly surprised to be woken up from her reverie.

He laughed—delighted; he knew he had her attention. He knew the book was valuable.

And he knew she knew it too.

“I’m listening,” she said.

“Marvelous.”

He stood and approached her, the amethyst cane tip tapping lightly on stone.

“I require four Mistari. Children, specifically. Along with teleportation parchment and four anchor stones. The parchments will be returned once I’m finished. Fourteen days after Ludus Magnorum.”

“I think you are under the wrong impression. All Mistari fled Seraina. We cannot meet that demand.”

Sual simply smiled.

Then he tapped his cane.

The detonation was instantaneous.

BLAST.

One of the women—the one who had questioned him earlier—fell without a scream. Her head ruptured like fruit under a hammer, blood and brain matter spraying across the nearest attendants. Panic tore through the room; several rushed toward the exit, only to be blocked by the entranced guards.

“Your emperor,” Sual said almost lovingly, “is a magnificent man. The finest soul ever crowned. Even I wished to serve him once—though he declined, quelle tragédie. But ... The point is, I know he keeps secrets that even the pantheons had overlooked.”

His voice softened, turning almost tender.

“Give me four Mistari. Children. Oui?”

Mirabelle inhaled slowly, then spoke through clenched control.

“Meet Dayan in Aryshtanbulak. Your demands will be arranged there.”

Sual clapped, delighted, the sound echoing uncomfortably long in the enclosed space.

“Magnifique. Beautiful, clever, wise. You are a jewel, mademoiselle Mirabelle, in this world of stupidity and squandered potential. Were I a younger man, I would ask for your hand en mariage.”

He bowed slightly.

“And now, as my business here concludes, I shall take my leave.”

The puppeted guards parted for him like loyal servants, swinging the massive warehouse doors open.

“Wait, Sual,” Mirabelle called.

He paused, glancing back with mild amusement.

“Explain your reason for this absurdity.”

He stroked his beard thoughtfully, eyes drifting from the floor to the rafters, as if pondering the taste of a memory.

“Like any man… I found myself a friend. Someone… intriguing enough that I wish to help.”

And with that, he tipped his hat, pivoted sharply, and walked into the night.