Before Dawn Breaks
Randia returned home at seven in the evening.
He had earned a considerable amount of money—payment for overworking himself relentlessly these past few weeks. Tonight, he carried an assortment of dishes meant to be shared with Viena, Lisabelle, and Eleanor. And he did not hold back. He had queued for long hours to acquire the finest foods the city had to offer, all for this single night.
Yet the moment he stopped in front of the gate, his steps halted. A small box lay on the ground near his feet—plain, unassuming, and somehow far too intentional.
A ripple of unease shot through Randia’s chest. He felt it before he could rationalize it. Instead of taking the box inside and handing it to Eleanor as the owner of the house, Randia crouched down and decided to open it.
The breath left his lungs.
Inside were two objects: a folded letter, and a woman’s choker—one he knew with absolute certainty.
“… Ara?”
The name slipped out from Randia’s lips as his fingers brushed the familiar jewelry: a delicately woven line of pearls embroidered with white gold, crowned at the center with a tear-shaped emerald. This was no ordinary noblewoman’s trinket. It was a piece that only the highest-ranking aristocrats of Varnaria could possess—one custom-made, unmistakable, singular.
And Randia knew exactly who it belonged to.
His pulse quickened. Randia snatched the choker and slipped it carefully into his coat while scanning the empty street, searching every shadow, every rooftop, every lantern-lit corner. Seeing nothing, he turned back to the box and unfolded the letter.
A single sentence greeted him, written with chilling elegance:
I will be waiting in the grandest finale.
The moment he finished reading, Randia folded the letter sharply and tucked it into his pocket. His emotions churned—fear, anger, confusion, longing, guilt—an unholy storm that he forced deep down into the quiet dark of himself.
He refused to let anything disturb the peace inside that home.
Tonight was supposed to be a night of rest.
Dinner was lively—at least on the surface.
Randia presented the feast, and the reactions varied just as he expected. Lisabelle looked genuinely excited, devouring food with the enthusiasm of a teenage boy who had been starved for days. Eleanor, initially reluctant, eventually found herself enjoying the strange, extravagant dishes Randia had brought home, sampling flavors she had never tried in her entire life.
But Viena… Viena barely ate.
Randia noticed. Of course he noticed. Something weighed on the little girl’s mind, but he chose not to confront her during the meal. Not yet. Not when everyone was supposed to enjoy the rare warmness of an ordinary evening.
Only much later—after dinner had been cleared, and after Randia had washed up—did he seek her out.
Viena was curled up on the family room sofa, reading beneath the dim golden glow of two beeswax candle lamps. She usually preferred her bedroom at this hour, so seeing her here, small and quiet in the flickering light, made Randia’s chest tighten.
He approached her.
“You didn’t eat much.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
Her short answer, spoken without even glancing in his direction, struck him deeper than it should have. Something inside Randia flinched—something raw and unprepared. Her unusual tone, her withdrawn posture, the distance in her voice… it all made his chest itch, sting, and burn with an emotion he could not begin to name.
He closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself before speaking again.
“Did something happen?”
“… Yes.”
Viena’s little fingers kept folding and unfolding the corner of her page—slowly, repeatedly—betraying her unsettled state.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Viena closed her book with a soft thud. When she looked up, her voice emerged rough, trembling, and her eyes glimmered wet.
“… Is it true that you have killed many people, Papa?”
The question pierced him cleanly—sharp enough to stop breath, honest enough to make his bones feel cold.
His past had caught up with him far sooner than he expected.
His sins now spoke through the lips of his daughter—manifesting in the air she breathed, reflected in the trembling glassiness of her gaze. A punishment he could neither outrun nor defy.
“I was.”
“… Were they red-eyed like me?”
“Yes,” Randia answered quietly, “and more.”
At that, Viena lost her battle to hold back. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she wiped them in frantic little motions, her breaths hitching between muffled sobs.
“But why?”
She hid her face with her arms as she hugged her knees close to her chest. A small, fragile creature trying to protect herself from a world suddenly too large, too cruel.
Randia took a slow breath.
“Do you remember when we were working for the Bakers Guild?”
He paused—gathering words as though each one carried weight enough to crack him open.
“… You said I was the kind of person who turns into a good dog at the mere notion of pride, kindness, and honor. Truthfully, I was so surprised at that time. Because I am exactly what you said I am.”
He spoke softly. Steadily. With the kind of honesty that cut deeper for how calmly it was delivered.
After that, Viena continued to cry—wordlessly, helplessly—until Randia finally rose to his feet.
He turned away and left her there alone, retreating to his room.
Behind him, from the shadows near the dining room, Lisabelle exhaled a long, conflicted breath. She had overheard everything. With a softened expression rarely seen on her face, she stepped toward Viena, scooped the crying girl gently into her arms, and carried her to her bedroom to console her.
With each item he removed and folded neatly, memories resurfaced in vivid flashes—quiet moments, laughter by campfires, nights spent sharing stories, mornings where she tugged his sleeve to wake him earlier than necessary. Their journey had been short, barely a year in total. A single year. And yet somehow, it had eclipsed the fifteen years before it so completely that he could barely recall what he had done with his life before Viena existed in it.
But Randia knew—he had always known—that all things eventually reached an end.
A wretched, sinful man like him was never meant to play house. Never meant to enjoy something fragile and warm. Never meant to cradle hope.
His conclusion was firm, almost painfully calm:
His role was finished. Viena no longer needed him.
That night, when the entire household fell asleep, Randia intended to slip away from the Arbona residence and continue his journey alone. But before he left, he prepared two things—his final requests, his last thank-you, and perhaps the only gifts he could still offer.
In the early dawn, after Lisabelle had finally convinced Viena to speak with Randia again, the two of them made their way to his room.
Viena knocked softly.
“Papa?”
No answer.
“Come on,” Lisabelle whispered, nudging her gently, “try again.”
Though hesitant, Viena raised her hand and knocked once more.
“Papa… may I come in?”
Despite her effort, the silence remained—an oppressive stillness, not even the faintest rustle behind the door. Viena’s small frame sagged with resignation; she rested her forehead against the wooden surface. The shift of her weight pushed the door open, revealing that it had not been latched at all.
Inside, the room was empty.
Nothing remained—
Except a cluster of items laid neatly on Viena’s bed.
Her breath caught.
“This… this is Papa’s elephant mask?
My lucky pebbles are here too…? My clothes?
M-My pillow?”
Panic struck her all at once. Her breathing quickened, short and rapid, her eyes wide and shimmering with dread. Tears threatened to spill.
Lisabelle immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“Hey, hey. Calm down. Maybe he really needed to empty his bags.”
“Then where are his things?! Why are only my things here?!”
Viena’s emotions spiraled dangerously close to breaking—her body trembling, her breaths shallow, nearly convulsive. Even Lisabelle, usually collected and sharp-tongued, felt a ripple of panic beneath her calm expression.
“This is the last day of Open Duel, right? There’ll probably be lots of work. Maybe that’s why he needs all his stuff. He didn’t even come home for days before, remember?”
Luckily, her argument worked—if only barely. Viena’s shoulders eased a little, and her breathing slowed.
“Let’s look around,” Lisabelle instructed gently. “There might be clues. I’ll start with that bag. You check under the bed or anywhere else, okay?”
Viena nodded weakly, and the two began their search.
Lisabelle began by checking the small travel bag sitting on the low wooden table near the bed. The moment she lifted the flap and peeked inside, her eyes widened.
There was money—far more than she expected.
A sum large enough to purchase a modest house on the outskirts of the city. Neatly arranged, carefully tied, unmistakably intentional.
And beneath the money sat two items:
- A medication recipe and a detailed transcription of the spell to change eye color—“Irisveil.”
- A folded letter, sealed but not closed with wax.
“I deeply apologize for this sudden notice, but I must leave on my own for a time.
I have left behind some money to help provide for my daughter, though I know it is unbearably rude and shameless of me—even after all the kindness you have shown us.
But I beg you… I beg the Arbona family to care for my daughter, at least until the day she can stand on her own.
May the heavens forever rain blessings upon your household.”
Lisabelle froze.
The words were formal, stiff, painfully apologetic—so very Randia. She turned the page over, and to her surprise, found additional writing on the back:
“P.S. To Lisabelle — let your magic flow.”
She frowned. At first she didn’t understand. But after a beat, she placed both palms on the page and allowed magic to flow gently from her hands.
As her mana seeped into the fibers of the paper, faint glowing strokes began to surface—one after another—until a hidden message revealed itself fully.
“I was hesitant—terrified, even—to tell you the truth, yet in the end, I chose to place my trust in you.
…
I pray you can love my daughter, even though she is a Mistari,
and keep her eye color hidden, so she may be spared from the sins that follow me.”
Lisabelle stood completely still.
A storm brewed silently behind her eyes—anger, frustration, disbelief, empathy, and an ache she couldn’t quite name. She wanted to curse him for leaving Viena alone. She wanted to grab him by the collar and shake sense into him. And yet, she could feel the sincerity in every uneven stroke of ink. She could imagine how much it must have cost that stiff, awkward, cold man to write words like these.
“Lily, what are you reading? Is that a letter from Papa?”
Before Lisabelle could react, Viena snatched the letter out of her hands. Her fingers trembled. Her tear-stained eyes flickered rapidly across the page—only to frown in confusion.
Of course.
Randia’s handwriting was immaculate—perfect cursive, elegant and archaic. For Viena, who had only recently learned to read, it was effectively indecipherable.
"I-I can't understand. Please tell me, Lily!"
Lisabelle hesitated. Her face turned away for a moment—an instinctive reaction, one Viena immediately read. Panic surged again in the little girl’s chest.
Her crying began anew—soft at first, then building. She moved as if she already understood the worst.
“Okay, okay! Wait—here.” Lisabelle quickly snatched the letter back, forcing her voice steady. She pretended to read.
“A-Ahem. To the Arbona family, I offer my deepest apologies for this letter.
Despite your kindness, I beg you—please take care of my little daughter until I return.
I have left you a sum of money that should be enough to feed her for a few months.
I will forever be indebted to the Arbona family, in this life and the next.”
It wasn’t the truth—not all of it. But it was close enough to shield Viena’s heart from total collapse.
And yet Viena collapsed anyway.
She cried with all her strength—as though every regret, every fear, every ounce of guilt tore free from her chest. She wept and wept until her voice rasped, until she could barely breathe. She lamented her question from the previous night. She blamed herself for pushing him away. She berated her own ignorance.
Lisabelle, caught between sympathy and shattering guilt, could only hold her and answer Viena’s accusations against herself with patient, quiet denials—one by one, as best she could.
Two full hours passed.
At some point, Eleanor awoke and joined them, wrapping Viena in her gentle grandmotherly embrace, humming soft reassurances, stroking Viena’s hair as the child cried herself sore.
The three of them remained like that, trading turns to comfort the little girl, until finally Viena’s sobs dwindled into exhausted sniffles.
Later, when Lisabelle stepped out to use the bathroom—her hair disheveled, eyes heavy—she noticed something.
A small slip of paper was caught under the bathroom door.
Curious, she bent down and pulled it free.
As soon as she saw the handwriting, her heart lurched.
It was the anonymous letter Randia had received the night before.
The one that had fallen from his pocket when he washed up.
Lisabelle gasped so loudly she nearly dropped it. Then she sprinted down the hall, burst into Viena’s room, and shouted—
“VIVI! LOOK!!”
Viena, still curled in Eleanor’s lap, wiped her swollen eyes and took the paper with trembling hands.
“W-Who wrote this …?”
“I don’t know! I found it in the bathroom!” Lisabelle said breathlessly. “But one thing’s for sure—the last person who used the bathroom last night was your dad!”
Viena shot to her feet, wiping the sticky trails of tears from her cheeks.
“Hurry up! Let’s clean up! Your dad is still here somewhere! He’ll watch the final match! We can ask him everything ourselves!”
Lisabelle grinned—full of hope, full of determination.
Viena’s small chin lifted in resolve.
“Okay!”