Ersia: Raven Dawn

Viena and Lisabelle sat pressed close together, arms locked tight as though the world itself might collapse without warning. By that point, the purpose that had brought them to this place had completely dissolved in Lisabelle’s mind. She no longer cared where Randia was, no longer spared a single thought to searching for him. The only thing that still mattered—the only thing—was keeping Viena safe, no matter the cost.

Lisabelle’s gaze was sharp and alert. Her eyes never rested, sweeping their surroundings again and again, tracking every movement, every shadow, every subtle shift in the crowd. She forced herself to remain calm even as her thoughts spiraled inward, tangled and chaotic, flooded by a fear she could not name and could not silence. Viena, held tightly against her, could feel it—could hear it—the wild, frantic pounding of Lisabelle’s heart, hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape.

Then it happened.

From the right, a staff came hurtling toward Viena.

Lisabelle reacted without thinking. Her body moved faster than fear ever could. She raised her arm and deflected the blow, the impact cracking against bone with a dull, brutal force. A sharp grunt tore from her throat as pain shot up her arm, white-hot and immediate, but she swallowed it whole before it could become a scream.

Viena remained in her grasp.

And that was all that mattered.

“You—! What do you think you’re doing?!” Lisabelle shouted at the man who had struck her.

The middle-aged man was drenched in sweat. His face was pale, his eyes wide and unfocused, trembling with terror and confusion. His hand shook violently as he pointed at Viena.

“I—I saw her!” he stammered. “That child—! That child is a Mistari too! This is all happening because of cursed children like her!”

There was no reason left in his gaze. Lisabelle recognized it instantly. Whatever she said now would never reach him. Worse still, his frantic outburst drew attention. Heads turned. Eyes followed his pointing finger. Murmurs rippled outward like rot spreading through water.

Someone whispered.

Another nodded.

Fear found a target.

Lisabelle tightened her hold around Viena, instinctively shifting her body to shield her, her injured arm screaming in protest as she moved. She could feel the crowd changing, the air growing heavier, sharper, as panic sought something—someone—to blame. The staff-wielding man took a step closer, emboldened now, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“She’s dangerous,” he insisted, louder this time. “You saw what happened here! You all saw it!”

Around them, some of the crowd began to stir again—not forward, not backward, but inward. Closing.

“We must sacrifice the child and beg forgiveness from the Goddess!”

“Forgive me, young one! I ... I still want to live!”

At least six people now surrounded them. Lisabelle understood instantly that she could not fight them all. If she let go of Viena for even a second, the child would be torn apart. Without hesitation, Lisabelle shoved Viena down into the narrow space between the stone benches, then threw herself over her sister’s small body, shielding her completely.

“Don’t be afraid, Vivi,” she whispered, forcing a gentle smile despite the terror burning through her chest. “No one can hurt you while your big sister is here.”

Then the beating began.

“Move, girl! Hand the child over!”

“She must be a Mistari too! Get them both!”

Fists, boots, and hands crashed into Lisabelle without mercy. Her hair was yanked violently, her temple kicked, her body struck again and again. They tried to pry her away from Viena, but every hand that reached for her sister was met with desperate resistance—Lisabelle clawed and bit like a cornered animal, tearing skin, ripping flesh, drawing blood.

“Close your eyes, Vivi,” she said hoarsely. I think I won't be as cool as usual."

Viena saw everything.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to make it stop. But her small body refused to move. Lisabelle guided Viena’s hands to cover her face, yet even through trembling fingers, Viena could still see her sister. Blood dripped from Lisabelle’s face onto Viena’s palms. The child’s sobs broke free, calling her sister’s name through choking cries.

Time stretched—long, suffocating, unbearable—until at last the attackers paused, gasping for breath. Confusion crept in. No matter what they did, they could not tear the sisters apart.

Now Viena could clearly see what they had done to Lisabelle. Her nose was broken. Two teeth were gone. Her eyes were swollen shut like bruised dough. Her eyebrow was split open. Both her arms were covered in deep bruises and torn flesh.

“Li… Lily…”

“I said—close your eyes!”

Lisabelle snapped, then spat blood onto the stone beside her. The hesitation spread. Some of the adults recoiled.

“What… what have we done?” one of them whispered. “We… we hurt children.”

Another stared at his own hands, slick with blood, his courage draining away completely.

“What are you doing?!” an old man barked. “They are enemies of the gods! Cast aside your useless mercy! The heavens will reward us greatly!”

“No—this is wrong!” the hesitant man shouted. “This is wrong! I-I won’t be part of this! A-Ah… Aaaah!”

He broke and ran, sobbing as he fled.

The remaining attackers raised themselves to continue—

And then the ravens descended.

A living storm of black wings poured down upon them. Beaks struck first—sharp, relentless—followed by talons that raked across faces and hands. Flesh tore. Skin split. Screams erupted as the birds swarmed with merciless precision, driving the attackers backward in blind terror. The crowd scattered, tripping over themselves as the ravens pursued them, their cries echoing beneath a sky that seemed to have abandoned all compassion.

Lisabelle was barely conscious.

Her vision dimmed, swimming in shadow. One eye was swollen shut, the other blurred by blood and tears. Her skull rang as though struck from within, pain blooming with every heartbeat from the kicks, the clubs, the fists that had come down on her again and again. In that fading edge of awareness, she saw the hem of a long black dress glide into view, its fabric brushing the stone like a shadow given form.

With great effort, Lisabelle lifted her head.

The world wavered and doubled, but recognition still found her. The veiled woman stood before her—the same figure she had seen earlier, the bearer of the black crystal, the silent axis around which this chaos of ravens revolved.

“Please…” Lisabelle whispered, her voice barely there. “Don’t hurt… my sister.”

Her strength gave out. Darkness claimed her.

The woman caught Lisabelle with magic before her body could fall, lifting her gently and laying her across one of the long stone benches. Every movement was careful, deliberate, almost reverent. From her gown, the woman plucked a single feather. It changed shape in her fingers, becoming a white raven, luminous against the gloom. The bird perched upon Lisabelle’s blood-matted hair and remained there, still and watchful.

After a long pause, the woman spoke at last.

“We won’t.”

She turned then to Viena.

The child was trembling, her face soaked with tears and mucus, breath hitching in shallow, panicked gasps. The veiled woman knelt and extended her hand.

“Come,” she said softly. “I will take you to your father.”

Viena hesitated. Fear rooted her to the ground. Her eyes flicked back to Lisabelle, to the white raven perched like a promise—or a threat. She believed, in her terror, that her sister had been taken hostage. She did not know that the raven had been conjured to guard Lisabelle while they were gone, not to bind her fate.

At last, with no other choice, Viena took the woman’s hand.

To her surprise, she was not led away from the arena, but toward its center, where Mr. Sunday stood with four others—the last figures remaining on the floor below.

“We need you to be restrained,” the woman said.

From her shadow, black tendrils unfurled, alive and sinuous like serpents born of darkness. They wrapped gently but firmly around Viena’s wrists, binding her hands together.

When it was done, the woman stepped back to the edge of the arena. She stood there in silence, watching as everything continued to unfold exactly as she had intended from the very beginning.

---

The sky had sunk beneath a suffocating overcast, layers of black cloud folding into one another until time itself seemed distorted. The great city clock still declared ten in the morning, yet the light told a different story—one closer to eight at night, or perhaps even later. Ravens wheeled endlessly above the Great Gardenia, their cries carried by howling winds as thunder rolled low and distant, followed by the first sharp fractures of lightning tearing through the clouds. The world resembled a painting born from the mind of a brilliant but disturbed artist, a vision where imagination and catastrophe merged seamlessly into reality.

Within the vast silence that had swallowed the sea of humanity, every gaze converged upon the arena.

“At last,” Mr. Sunday said, his voice echoing unnaturally across the stone, “we have arrived at the final act of this performance. My thanks to all of you who have endured until now.”

He spread his arms slightly, as though welcoming applause that never came.

“Now,” he continued, smiling beneath his mask, “let us receive our principal guest.”

Once more, he drew his sword and placed its cold edge against Viena’s neck.

.

.

“Come forth, Great Hero,” he called out. “We have grown terribly tired of waiting.”

Something moved.

From the right side of the arena, a Rosmayne standard came hurtling through the air at terrifying speed, its pole spinning like a thrown spear. Mr. Sunday avoided it with almost insulting ease, shifting his head a fraction to the side.

Boom.

The standard struck the ground and buried itself halfway into the stone, the force of the impact sending cracks spidering outward. No one needed to imagine what would have happened had it struck flesh. Every eye turned toward the direction from which it had been thrown, driven by the same unspoken question.

What kind of monster could do that?

A tall, broad-shouldered figure descended into the arena, falling slowly—as if gravity itself had loosened its grip—like a feather drifting through still air. As he descended, the wind surged, tearing back the hood and the cloth that had long concealed his hair.

And there he was.

Seen again after sixteen long years.

The Great Hero Randia.

Alive. Breathing. Yet unmistakably marked by time—not worn down by it, but shaped by it, as though he had passed through trials that lay beyond legend itself.

Silver hair spilled down around his shoulders, luminous and untainted, like moonlight on the first clear night after the winter solstice—cold, pure, and eternal. His frame was tall and powerfully built, a physique that seemed less sculpted by training alone and more by an unforgiving destiny that had demanded strength simply to survive. His presence carried weight, not the loud kind born of intimidation, but the quiet gravity of something solemn and immovable.

His eyes were a deep, unwavering blue, vast and silent like the Azureas Sea at the height of summer—beautiful, unreachable, and concealing unseen currents beneath their calm surface. From him drifted a strangely soothing scent: the fullness of late autumn forests, damp earth and sweet decay, warm firewood and cool moss, harvest fruits—apples and berries—woven together with hints of nutmeg and cinnamon, as though the autumn season itself had chosen to linger upon his skin.

And his face—too striking to be described as merely handsome—held an almost unbearable allure, a presence that could awaken spring in the heart of anyone who dared meet his gaze.

Mr. Sunday’s breath caught.

“…At last,” he said, his voice rough, trembling on the edge of something that sounded dangerously close to emotion. “I always knew you would come.”