Ersia: Raven Dawn

The Great Gardenia was a masterpiece of architecture.

It was the first structure ever conceived to adapt to the spectacle performed upon it. Its construction cost was obscene—devouring nearly a quarter of Rosmayne’s annual budget—and its completion demanded patience measured in decades. Ten full years passed between the laying of the first stone and the moment the Great Gardenia finally stood complete, enduring without rest beneath storm-lashed skies and the dry, punishing winds of summer.

It was raised during an age of prosperity, in the fifteenth year of Queen Luseya’s reign. Experts were summoned from every corner of Ersia: master sculptors, structural theorists, arcane engineers. Those craftsmen lived well, honored by society, for the Great Gardenia was a union of Classical Engineering and Structural Arcanomechanics—a living structure capable of reshaping itself to host stage performances, charity exhibitions, even full-scale naval battle simulations.

Within the Great Gardenia existed one chamber that was utterly forbidden.

The Central Chamber.

Here lay the heart of the structure: arcane devices, measuring arrays, statistical instruments, control levers, sigils, and command panels capable of altering the arena’s form, function, and defenses at will. Its importance was such that it was guarded by Rosmayne’s finest—warriors said to rival, if not surpass, the personal guards of the royal family themselves.

And yet—

Someone was dismantling that order with surgical precision.

He was a tall, lean man, nearing forty, his movements measured and elegant. A jeweled cane topped with amethyst tapped softly against the marble floor, each sound deliberate, almost courteous. His brown hair fell to his shoulders, immaculately kept, framing a face marked by round spectacles and a neat Van Dyke beard. His attire bordered on ostentatious refinement: a tailored coat, pristine gloves untouched by honest labor, and a blue-and-white polka-dotted ascot tied with impeccable care.

This man was Sual, the Question Man.

“Who are you?!” barked one of the guards—a broad-shouldered brute encased head to toe in steel armor, a single set likely worth the combined wealth of several villages. “This place is off-limits!”

“Stop right there or I’ll—ugh… I—what is—”

His voice faltered.

The man bent forward, stiffly, as if some unseen hand had wound him down like a broken automaton. He froze, hunched, eyes empty—no longer a man, merely a statue deprived of purpose.

Seeing this, his partner—a mage gripping a staff—immediately began chanting a defensive spell, layers of magic wrapping tightly around his body.

Mental magic? Petrification? Whatever it is, I’m not so weak, the mage reassured himself. I am a top graduate—bachelor rank—from Tir Ghael.

He never finished the thought.

A blade pierced through his ribs, slid upward, and burst from the side of his neck.

The one holding the sword was his own partner.

The mage collapsed, dead before he could even scream.

The pattern repeated itself—again and again—through every corridor, every junction leading toward the Central Chamber. Guards fell not to an invading force, but to each other, compelled into murder by a will they could neither resist nor comprehend.

At last, Sual arrived at his destination.

He instructed the guards under his control to unlock the Central Chamber door—a process requiring blood verification and anima resonance from authorized sentinels. Once the door opened, once their purpose was fulfilled, he calmly commanded them to take their own lives.

Inside, technicians and mages worked feverishly, hands dancing over control panels. They regulated the arena’s barriers, corridor access, spatial transformations—everything. All commands ultimately converged upon a single device at the room’s center: an octagonal slab of marble-like stone, etched with sigils, its surface faintly pulsing with light.

“Sual.”

An woman stood beside the control slab.

She spoke his name softly.

Sual recognized her instantly.

“Ma chère mère,” (my dearest mother) he murmured, tapping his cane once against the marble.

“The years have been… unforgivably long.”

“Move! Now! You useless vermin!”

Every official apparatus of Rosmayne snapped into a state of maximum alert. Orders rippled outward in sharp, overlapping commands as the state attempted to respond to the unfolding crisis within Great Gardenia. Knightly orders were mobilized en masse—some dispatched directly from the Crown Guard, others hastily summoned from the nearest neighboring dukedoms. Their movements were swift, disciplined, and decisive. Within seven minutes of the arena barrier’s anomalous collapse, armed units had already converged on the structure.

And yet, the moment they attempted entry, the impossible revealed itself.

Each time an assault squad passed through one of Great Gardenia’s entrances, they emerged from an entirely different gate.

North became south. East folded into west. Even when all twenty general entrances were breached simultaneously, the units spilled out through one another’s points of entry, disoriented and furious, their formations shattered without a single blade drawn.

“Damn it all! What in hell is happening?!” the knights shouted, frustration mounting as tactics failed them again and again.

Among those present was a high-ranking noble—lord of the Dukedom of Anthia—who had been enjoying a leisurely lunch with nine of his personal attendants after attending his favorite sport: wrestling.

Alvon Valeróne de Saint-Anthiel.

Sixty years of age, a notorious womanizer, and—against all expectations—still physically formidable. Despite his excesses, his keen intelligence and aggressively territorial nature commanded respect among the elite. Few dared underestimate him. Fewer still crossed him without consequence.

“Paula.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied his favored attendant.

She was elegant, striking, bespectacled—her chignon braid immaculate despite the chaos. Barely twenty, she carried herself with composed grace, and her eyes sharp behind the lenses.

“It appears our little terrorist cabal has secured the services of a truly exceptional high-tier spellcaster,” Alvon said calmly, watching the looping entrances with narrowed eyes. “Go. Fetch Lord Andersen—before reckless stupidity begins claiming lives.”

“At once, my lord.”

“Return within ten minutes,” he added, squeezing her plump backside with casual ownership, “or we shall be wrestling through the entire night.”

“My lord,” Paula said sharply, embarrassment mixing with irritation as she pulled away, “please preserve your dignity—and restrain yourself.”

Not long after, Lord Court Mage Andersen arrived.

Without exchanging greetings—without even acknowledging those around him—he immediately set to work, examining the magic that had rendered Rosmayne’s attempts to retake control utterly ineffective.

The longer he studied it, the more his initial surprise gave way to something subtler.

Admiration.

“The spell itself is nothing too complex,” Andersen finally said, eyes narrowed in focus.

“But its application is… extraordinarily ingenious.”

“So?” asked Duke Alvon. “Can you explain it to us, Lord Court Mage?”

To do so, Andersen gathered all senior officials and security commanders present. A large sheet of parchment was spread across a table, and they clustered around it as he began to diagram with swift, precise strokes.

“This magic trims and manipulates direction and space,” he explained. “It is remarkably resilient—highly resistant to temperance. Even the highest-tier mages would need at least half a day to dismantle it safely.”

A murmur of unease spread through the group.

“However,” Andersen continued, tapping the parchment, “it does possess one weakness.”

“Do pray tell, Lord Court Mage,” said one of the knight-commanders.

“It requires energy anchors—objects, or perhaps multiple objects—that continuously sustain the spell. They feed it power, allowing it to persist.”

He looked up.

“And those anchors must be located close to where the spell is active. In other words—

they are somewhere around us.”

“Our personnel are without a doubt, numerous,” one official said cautiously, “but the Great Gardenia complex is also a vast place. Is there a more time-efficient method to locate these anchors?”

Andersen did not answer immediately.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest. Seconds stretched into an uncomfortable silence.

“Is there truly no faster way, Lord Andersen?” asked a knight officer.

“Could we perhaps create a new point of entry?”

“With what?” Andersen snapped. “Smashing through the walls with boulders? You could try—but you’d likely spend the next hour cleaning spectators’ body parts off the rubble.”

“A-Ah… then what about magic?”

“Magic?” Andersen scoffed. “You jest. The Great Gardenia is essentially a fortress. Its walls are constructed with anti-magic properties embedded into both material and structure. These bad guys knew that. That is precisely why they chose to seal the twenty entrances instead, despite the obvious hassle.”

Doubt spread among the gathered officials. Some began quietly issuing orders to their subordinates to begin a brute-force search regardless.

“Wait.”

Andersen spoke suddenly, cutting through the noise.

“My students and I can perform a resonance synthesis,” he said.

“We will need—at the very least—five minutes.”

He paused, then added:

“During that time, I want you to gather as many swords as possible.”

The room blinked.

“You do not need to understand how it works,” Andersen continued.

“When the ritual is complete, you will use those swords to locate the energy anchors. They will glow—and grow cold—when they are near one.”

“And we must find all of them,” he emphasized, his tone grim.

“I do not yet know how efficient the caster’s formula is. Judging by the intelligence of this particular spellcaster… in the worst-case scenario, neutralizing only some of the anchors may not be enough to completely tear down the spell.”

Orders were relayed instantly.

Everything that followed unfolded with ruthless efficiency. Knights dispersed. Blades were confiscated, borrowed, demanded—within minutes, hundreds of swords lay stacked and ready.

Elsewhere, Andersen and his students worked feverishly, unraveling the resonance code embedded in the spatial magic. Several times, distant rumblings echoed from within the arena, deep and ominous—but they forced themselves to remain focused.

Seven minutes later, the ritual concluded.

Without hesitation, the knights immediately began distributing the newly enchanted blades among themselves.

Then—something utterly unforeseen happened.

In the grip of one knight, a sword flared brilliantly to life.

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the gathered forces. Shock froze the air—then instantly curdled into suspicion.

“Secure him!” one of the lieutenants shouted.

“W–What?! No! I’m not—!”

At first, the surrounding knights hesitated. Doubt flickered across their faces. But the moment the lieutenant drew his sword from its sheath, training overrode uncertainty. They moved as one.

Before the young knight could defend himself, he was seized, twisted down, and slammed into the ground.

“You!” the lieutenant roared. “Are you a traitor?!”

“No! Sir, no!” the young man cried, terror breaking his voice, tears welling.

“I swear by Aine! I’ve done nothing—nothing at all!”

The knights exchanged uneasy glances.

Then Duke Alvon stood.

“All of you,” he commanded sharply, “check one another. The enemy is hiding among us.”

And so, in an irony thick enough to choke on, steel was drawn not against an outside foe—but against comrades. Swords were raised with trembling hands, suspicion battling instinct and loyalty.

Meanwhile, the young knight—still pinned and bruised—was dragged before the commanding officers. He was interrogated harshly, threatened openly with execution on the spot.

And yet, something far more horrifying unfolded.

“Found one! We’ve identified another traitor!”

“Here too!”

“We’ve secured two more suspects!”

There were more. Far more than anyone expected.

Confusion spiraled into panic. Fear fed on itself.

“This is outrageous!” someone shouted.

“Execute them all!”

“Wait.”

Andersen’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

He ordered all the suspects gathered together. One by one, he and his students took hold of the knights’ heads, forcing them to meet their gaze, peering deep into their eyes.

“They are not under mental interference,” Andersen announced.

“They are fully conscious. No mind control. No coercion.”

The suspected knights were then stripped and searched thoroughly.

Yet, again, there was nothing.

No charms. No relics. No hidden devices.

Doubt began to fester—now directed at Andersen himself and his magic.

And then, Alvon spoke, his voice low and deliberate.

“What if…” he said slowly, “…the objects are inside them?”

At once, Andersen ordered his students to examine the magical flow within the suspects’ bodies. Circles of magic bloomed into existence, weaving intricate sigils as they probed the knights’ anima streams.

“M–Master!” one student stammered.

“Lord Alvon is right! We’re detecting the same resonance—but…”

Andersen stepped forward, studying the results himself.

What he saw left him momentarily speechless.

The energy anchors were not objects.

They were the knights themselves.

The essence sustaining the spatial magic had fused seamlessly into their anima—woven so perfectly into their life force that it could not be separated without destroying them.

The suspects were interrogated again.

And again, their answers never changed. They knew nothing.

They sobbed, begged for mercy, swore oaths by their goddess, by their parents, by everything sacred they could name—desperate to convince those around them that they were not traitors.

All the while, Duke Alvon sank back into his chair, pressing his fingers into his temples. He exhaled slowly, staring into the unfolding nightmare, trying—and failing—to unravel the mystery now sitting before him.

“Paula,” Alvon asked quietly, his voice tight with strain, “do you have any ideas?”

“Unfortunately, no, my lord.”

“How could those terrorists turn our knights into tools without their knowledge?” he pressed.

“Did they receive some kind of gift? Or were they made to chant a spell while drunk one night?”

“If that were the case,” Paula replied after a moment’s thought, “then it would be nearly impossible for them to turn dozens of people into energy anchors. Each method would require individual contact. And these are active-duty knights—”

“You’re right,” Andersen interjected, having followed the exchange closely.

“The gap between the method and the effect is too wide. It doesn’t fit the chronology we’re seeing. Magic of this nature is extremely sensitive to timing. If too much time passes, the resonant energy should dissipate naturally.”

He folded his arms, eyes narrowed in thought.

“Because anima flow always stabilizes itself,” he continued.

“It returns to its natural equilibrium.”

A heavy silence settled over them.

"Hmm ... So, it has to be something they took willingly and applied at the same time all at once," Alvon mumbled.

They fell silent once more.

Seconds stretched. Then—

Paula stiffened.

“My lord!” she exclaimed, nearly shouting.

.

.

.

“What if it's food?!” She nudged her glasses into place.

At once, Alvon rose to his feet and strode toward the group of stripped, guarded knights.

“All of you!” he barked.

“Where did you have breakfast today?!”

The answer came almost in unison.

“At the Southern Central Guardhall.”

In that instant, understanding dawned on every face present.

One of the knights spoke up hesitantly.

“During the festival, sir… we were given supplements. Usually pills. To help us endure long shifts and intense duty schedules.”

Several others nodded.

“But this morning, some of us felt kind of strange afterward,” another admitted.

“Not sick—just… drowsy. Languid. As if we’d lost our edge for a short while instead of feeling refreshed. At first, we thought it was just us enjoying the food too much, as if we were having an ordinary post-lunch slump.”

“Is everyone here who ate at the Southern Central Guardhall present now?!” Alvon demanded, his voice rising.

“I–I’m not certain, Your Grace!” one knight stammered.

“Breakfast was crowded this morning. Spirits were high—everyone was talking about today’s final events. Please forgive us! We had no idea that we have been poisoned!”

Immediately, the knight-commanders issued new orders. Every soldier recorded as having eaten at the Southern Central Guardhall was to be located and brought in.

One by one, they were gathered.

And without exception, every enchanted sword reacted.

“They glow,” someone whispered.

“All of them.”

“Damn it,” one officer spat.

“How could this possibly happen?!”

“Calm yourself,” another snapped back, forcing his voice steady.

“At least now we know the truth. They are not traitors.”

He glanced at the shaken knights, many still pale and trembling.

“And we won’t be forced to kill our own brothers.”

Yet even as those words settled, Andersen’s expression remained troubled. The number of affected knights had grown into the dozens now—far beyond what he had first anticipated. Duke Alvon noticed the tension immediately.

“So,” the duke asked, turning to him, “what comes next, Lord Andersen?”

“We must purge their anima,” Andersen replied without hesitation.

“Just enough to nullify the effectiveness of the energy anchors within them—but not so much that it endangers their lives.”

Alvon knew at once how daunting that proposal truly was. At least three obstacles loomed before them.

First, not everyone present possessed the advanced magical techniques required to rapidly drain anima—even if they were capable spellcasters.

Second, anima pools varied wildly from person to person, and more often than not, even trained mages did not know their own limits.

Third—and most critically—time was slipping away. The clock was merciless.

Each factor compounded the others, multiplying the difficulty until the task seemed nearly impossible.

Then, when the silence began to feel oppressive, Andersen spoke again.

“There is one method we can attempt,” he said carefully.

“Siphon magic.”

All eyes turned to him.

“This spell allows us to draw anima directly from them and accumulate it within ourselves.”

He paused, then continued with grim honesty.

“There are two major problems, however. First, only I and a handful of my students can perform it. Second, there is a severe risk—anima overload for us, and anima deficiency syndrome for them. Both conditions can damage physiology and metaphysical structure alike.”

“And one more thing,” he added quietly.

“It will consume our strength. Completely.”

“If this succeeds,” Andersen finished, “I can guarantee that neither I nor my students will be capable of offering further assistance afterward. We will be spent.”

Duke Alvon stepped forward, approaching Andersen’s students. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled—a smile brimming with confidence.

“You needn’t worry about what comes next, Lord Court Mage. I am certain we will manage ourselves after this.”

Around him, the knight-commanders nodded in agreement.

“Also,” Alvon continued, his tone shifting, “if you succeed—each of you will be granted four of the most beautiful women of Anthia to enjoy your company, along with a month’s supply of our finest wine.”

The reaction was immediate. Eyes widened. Shoulders straightened. Resolve returned—not born of virtue, but of desire. Not the purest motivation, but a motivation nonetheless.

And for the duke, that was more than enough.