The Sin
The air was wrapped in wind—cold, hollow, and still—broken only by the shrill cries of black ravens and the occasional rumble of thunder rolling from cumulonimbus clouds lined in ranks like soldiers of the sky. Morning had lost its name. Time itself seemed displaced, distorted beneath that bruised firmament.
The city would later remember this moment not for the thunder, nor the ravens, nor even the drawn blade at a child’s throat—but for the chilling dreary that followed the hero’s return. A suffocating heaviness settled over Great Gardenia, brittle and oppressive, as if the city had drawn a shallow breath and no longer dared to exhale.
'... Purge.'
'... Sanctify.'
'... Cleanse.'
'... Purify.'
'... All.'
'... Spare none.'
'... Divine intervention.'
The voices in Randia’s mind rang with cruel clarity, layered and relentless, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. A cacophony without source or mercy, clashing violently against the fragile silence draped over the arena. The storm outside screamed less loudly than the storm within him.
And yet—despite everything, despite the thunder, the ravens, the blade poised in cruelty, the sea of frozen onlookers—only one thing reflected in his deep blue eyes.
Her eyes.
Blue.
That color struck him first, before fear, before context, before reason could catch up. Blue—deep and unmistakable, mirroring his own. A color that did not belong to her by birth, yet now defined the way the world saw her. A color he himself had given.
Memory unfurled without permission.
A temporary spell, he had told himself back then. Just long enough to keep her safe. Just enough to dull the hatred, to divert the violence, to let a Mistari child pass through a cruel world unnoticed. He remembered how carefully he had woven it, how gently he had shaped the magic, turning crimson into blue as if repainting fate itself.
He remembered her smile when she saw her reflection for the first time. How she had laughed—soft, bright, unburdened—and looked up at him with pride, delighted by the sameness. As if sharing that color meant sharing belonging. As if, in that moment, she had decided—without doubt—that the man standing before her was truly her father.
What Randia had not understood then was that the spell had changed more than her eyes.
It had changed him.
Now, at the center of the arena, she sat bound and unmoving. Her small hands were restrained, her legs folded helplessly beneath her, shoulders drawn inward like a creature bracing for pain. Her lips trembled, parted as if trying—and failing—to form a sound. Her pupils were tight, not merely from shock, but from the strain of holding too much at once.
Her gaze locked onto him.
Not with fear.
Not with accusation.
But with something far heavier.
Relief—raw and overwhelming—that he was alive, that her father stood before her once more. Gratitude so fierce it ached, because for one impossible moment, the world had returned something it had stolen. And yet, tangled within that relief was everything Mr. Sunday had poured into her ears: tales of heroes bathed in blood, of repentance that came too late, of genocide and crimes so vast they could not be undone by regret alone. Words she did not fully understand, but felt nonetheless, pressing against her chest like stones.
She searched his face desperately, as children do, not for truth—but for denial.
For him to shake his head.
For him to say it was all a lie.
For him to be only her father again.
And Randia saw it.
He had always known this day would come. Every single day, every journey, every quiet night beside a campfire, he had carried this fear with him like a second heart: the terror that one day Viena would look at him and see not safety, not warmth, but the shadow of the man he had once been. The dread that her warmth would curdle into disappointment, that her small hands would one day let go.
That fear reached its peak now—sharp, absolute.
Her eyes did not condemn him.
They waited.
And in that waiting, Randia felt something inside him hollow out. A vast, suffocating emptiness, born not of judgment—but of the unbearable possibility that he might fail her without ever being forgiven.
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Then her restraint finally shattered.
“PAPA—HELP ME!”
The scream burst out of her, raw and desperate, without thought or restraint. The Vocal Seal no longer bound her—now she was in the middle of the arena. It was not a cry shaped by reason, nor a question seeking answers; it was simply the cry of a child reaching for the one place in the world she still believed could save her.
And it struck Randia harder than any blade ever could.
The emptiness inside him fractured. Not slowly, not gently, but all at once—splintering under the weight of that single word, that single voice. The storm in his mind faltered. The commands, the whispers, the divine noise recoiled as if burned.
She had not asked him to explain.
She had not asked him to deny the past.
She had asked him to be her father.
Mr. Sunday burst into laughter the moment Viena screamed.
It was a raw, ringing sound that cut through the wind and thunder, incongruous against the dead silence imposed upon the stands. Slowly, almost ceremonially, he lifted his hands and removed the cat-shaped mask from his face. As the mask came away, the storm above worsened—wind howled harder through the broken architecture of the arena, thunder rolled closer, heavier, as though the sky itself recoiled from what was about to be revealed.
When the mask fully left his face, all eyes were forced upon him.
His hair was dark brown, nearly black, short and naturally curled, dampened slightly by the charged air. Thick brows shadowed eyes framed by heavy lashes, and rough stubble traced his jaw and mouth. A pale scar cut horizontally across the bridge of his nose, old and unmistakable—evidence of past duels fought without mercy. Yet none of these features unsettled the arena as deeply as his eyes.
They were red. Not bright, not glowing with sorcery, but deep and saturated, like full-bodied tempranillo held beneath candlelight. Within them burned an intensity that pressed inward, a gaze so heavy with memory and purpose that few could endure meeting it for long. Even without sound, the tension rippled outward, visible in stiffened shoulders, clenched jaws, hands tightening against stone.
“Do you recognize me, Hero Randia?” Mr. Sunday asked.
Randia remained still for a long while, his expression unreadable, the wind tugging at his cloak as if trying to pull him back into the past.
“I do not,” he answered at last. His voice was low. Final.
Mr. Sunday smiled faintly.
“Of course you don’t,” he replied softly. “To you, I was no one. Just another ordinary face among countless others.”
His voice wavered—not with rage, but with something far more fragile.
“But to me,” he continued, “you were always extraordinary.”
Tears began to fall. At first, only a few drops traced quiet paths down his face, then more followed, until they streamed freely, soaking into his beard and dripping from his chin. Yet even as he cried, his breathing remained strangely controlled, measured, as though grief had long since replaced chaos inside him.
“Extraordinary,” he said again, “how easily you learned to playing house after destroying so many homes.”
His eyes never left Randia.
“All the women you made widows. The children you made orphans. The infants who learned how to scream fluently before they ever learned how to ask for milk.”
"Seventeen years ago,” he went on, “There was a village called Gracefield on the outskirt of Lisbon, Western Varnaria. It was my village, and you burned it to the ground."
"That night still feels like yesterday. It returns every time I close my eyes ... Sigh, and it grows more vivid beneath skies like this.”
His hands trembled—not weakly, but with restraint born of endurance.
“I remember every movement of your hands, Randia. When Corvus impaled my brother with a heated spear, from his groin until it burst through his skull. When Lucien shattered my mother’s bones one by one with his hammer, before ending her with a single blow that still wakes me from sleep.”
His voice faltered, just for a breath.
“And you,” he whispered. “You, Randia … with your own hands.”
He swallowed.
“You drove your blade into the stomach of my little brother. He was five.”
Mr. Sunday fell silent.
For a long stretch of time, he wept in silence, shoulders shaking, tears falling freely, until at last he inhaled deeply and wiped his face. When he looked up again, something colder had settled into place.
“I thought that would be the end,” he said quietly. “But it wasn’t.”
“You threw him to the ground,” he continued, “and you crushed him beneath your boots—again and again—until his entrails spilled from the wound you made.”
Across the arena, Randia said nothing.
His head lowered. His gaze fell to the stone beneath his boots.
He remembered it all.
Every word Mr. Sunday spoke was true. That night, Randia had been furious over a dispute that he ironically couldn't even recall, and he had unleashed that rage during the Night of Absolution. He had been cruel beyond excuse. Beyond justification.
Then, Mr. Sunday reached out and gently brushed Viena’s hair.
Randia’s breath caught.
“Wait,” he said, his voice strained. “Please… wait.”
Mr. Sunday paused.
Randia raised his hand and began to chant. The air shifted. The enchantment unraveled.
The spell of Velcrum dissolved, and the blue in Viena’s eyes faded, revealing the deep crimson beneath. Mistari eyes—undeniable, exposed beneath the storm-dark sky.
No sound rose from the stands. The Vocal Seal held firm.
But bodies reacted.
Hands flew to mouths that could not cry out. Scholars froze mid-motion. Knights stiffened as if struck. Nobles recoiled, faces draining of color. Even the ravens faltered in their circling for a single heartbeat.
A Hero of Rosmayne.
The Great Hero.
Had raised a Mistari child as his own.
“She is not my daughter,” Randia said at last, his voice steady in a way that felt almost rehearsed. “She is a Mistari who happened to follow me, nothing more. And she is an orphan.”
He lifted his gaze to meet Mr. Sunday’s, forcing himself to remain unmoved.
“You are right,” he continued. “I remember leading an expedition to the western reaches of Varnaria. It is possible—likely, even—that much of what you have said is ... true.”
A brief pause followed, not from hesitation, but restraint.
“But even so,” Randia went on, “I ask you to let the child go, and keep this matter between us. She is a Mistari, just like you, and she carries the same burdens you once did. I beg you—for mercy.”
The words struck Mr. Sunday like kindling to flame.
His expression darkened as something old and feral stirred behind his eyes. He perceived Randia’s words as another attempt of his many deceptions, pretenses, and hypocrisies—a denial that only sharpened the hatred that had long festered within him. Viena being a Mistari meant nothing to him. Her nature, her suffering, her innocence—none of it mattered. If she had been a beast instead of a child, if she had been anything at all, it would have changed nothing.
All that mattered was Randia’s pain.
Anything that could wound him, unravel him, carve even a fraction of the agony Mr. Sunday had carried for seventeen years—such a thing was a delight beyond measure.
For a brief, dangerous moment, hatred took full control.
Mr. Sunday’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.
Then—a sudden rush of air.
A raven swept past his face at blinding speed, its wings nearly brushing his cheek before it landed directly in front of Viena. It let out a sharp, piercing cry, then another, its black eyes fixed unblinking upon him.
Mr. Sunday froze.
More ravens followed, descending from above in growing numbers, filling the arena floor with a living ring of black feathers. They clustered around him, around Viena, around the other captives held behind them, their presence suffocating and unmistakably deliberate.
Slowly, Mr. Sunday turned.
Atop the arena’s podium stood the dark-veiled woman, unmoving, her silhouette framed against the storm-wracked sky.
“Lady Morwenn,” Mr. Sunday said, his voice carefully measured.
Understanding dawned at once.
This was not a suggestion. It was a warning. A real one.
Mr. Sunday exhaled, then drove his sword into the stone at his feet, the impact ringing dully through the arena. He took a single step back—away from Viena.
“I understand,” he said, his tone controlled, almost deferential. “Please, compose yourself, my lady.”
“You have promised.”
Lady Morwenn spoke only a few words.
Yet her voice did not arrive as sound.
It was nothing like the voice she had used when addressing Viena earlier—nothing of that softness, that near-gentleness. This voice was ancient. It pressed itself into the air, layered and wrong, as though another throat whispered beneath her own. Dry. Low. Echoing. Like words scraped from the inside of a hollow bone.
A chill crawled through Great Gardenia. No one there had ever heard a voice like that before.
After a long pause, Mr. Sunday finally released them. One by one, the bindings unraveled—until even Viena was free.
“Go,” he said quietly. “Before my grief makes me foolish.”
But Viena did not move.
The child stood there, small and unsteady, not knowing where away was meant to be.
“…Ah. I see,” Mr. Sunday murmured. “Then let me tell you an old saying from the west: When you are lost in the wood, follow the ravens, and the Mother will take you home.”
As if summoned by the words, a raven hopped down before Viena. It tilted its head, watching her, then hopped forward again—waiting.
Hesitant and awkward, Viena followed.
The raven walked. Viena followed. And slowly, the others followed too, until they reached the edge of the arena wall directly beneath Lady Morwenn.
From the woman’s shadow, black tendrils unfurled and rose, twisting and interlocking until they formed a staircase. One by one, they climbed.
Above, the podium was crowded with ravens—black feathers packed thick as a living shroud—save for a single long seat left bare. Reluctantly, those who had once been taken hostage were made to sit there, surrounded by watchful, unblinking eyes.
Randia, who had been watching everything unfold in silence, finally understood who the woman before him truly was.
The certainty came not as revelation, but as instinct—deep, immediate, and absolute.
She was the sovereign of Lullabin Forest.
A woodland that lay on the western edge of Ersia, whose biome defied the logic of the lands surrounding it. A place riddled with anomalies no scholar had ever fully explained, where seasons bled into one another and the laws of nature bent without apology. And above all else, the forest was said to be ruled by an entity unimaginably old—ancient beyond records, beyond myth, beyond even the patience of the gods.
During his past journeys, the ruler of Lullabin had been the only figure who ever denied the heroes passage into her domain.
And the gods themselves had been unable to force her hand.
“Lady Morwenn, thank you,” Randia said at last.
His voice was quiet, stripped of ceremony. He offered a gesture of gratitude native to the mountain folk of Urs—bringing his palms together before his chin, fingers straight and unmoving, the tips of his index fingers touching his glabella. It was not a gesture of submission, but of solemn respect.
“Do not befoul my name with your tongue, Randia of Aderia,” Morwenn replied.
Her tone was flat. Final.
“For your sin is the greatest, and every gate of redemption is closed to you — in this world and every world beyond,” she continued, her presence pressing down upon the arena like the weight of an ancient forest canopy.
“And today, you will be judged.”