Ersia: Raven Dawn

A company of mounted knights from Rosmayne had been dispatched to investigate the strange reports surrounding the disabled men and women who had left the city. They carried out their watch from a careful distance, for none among them dared approach too closely. Even the boldest of their number would venture no nearer than three and a half miles from the place where the dragon lay.

Yet distance offered little comfort.

Even from that far, they could not shake the unnerving certainty that the creature was fully aware of them. It seemed to know exactly where they hid among the trees and hills, and had simply chosen to let them remain where they were, as a man might tolerate the presence of birds at the edge of his field.

After some time, one of the scouts concealed in the underbrush caught sight of a group descending the hillside. They came laughing and singing as though returning from a festival rather than from the presence of a dragon. Among them, he recognized an elderly man who sold hand-spun wool in a modest shop in one of the southern districts of Fleurein.

The knight remembered him well. The old man was perpetually afflicted by a harsh cough and would sometimes spit blood into his handkerchief, forcing him to pause his work until his strength returned.

The scout was still staring in disbelief when he became aware that someone was standing directly behind him.

“Greetings, Your Lordship.”

He wheeled around and drew his sword in a single motion. The blade came within an inch of the breast of the woman who had addressed him.

She did not flinch.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“My name is Renée,” she said with quiet composure. “I bear a message for the Queen.”

---

[A place at the edge of a forest]

At the edge of the forest, beneath a canopy that softened the afternoon light, Renée stood flanked by two broad-shouldered knights. Before her, arranged in a loose circle upon sturdy wooden chairs, sat the nobles of the court. Their attention settled upon her not as one regards a person, but as one evaluates a matter to be weighed and measured. They examined her lineage, her credibility, her worth—each detail assessed with the quiet rigor of those accustomed to power.

At the center of this assembly sat Queen Catalina Rosalia.

For the first time in her life, Renée beheld the queen not as a distant figure of rumor or decree, but as a presence of flesh and breath. Catalina’s beauty was of a rare and composed kind, the sort that commanded stillness rather than admiration. For a brief moment, Renée found herself caught in it, suspended between awe and disbelief. But the memory of her own suffering returned swiftly, and with it the long absence of the crown during her darkest hours. What might have been reverence gave way instead to a slow, rising bitterness that settled deep within her chest.

“Greetings to the Queen of Rosmayne.”

She spoke without bowing, without kneeling, without offering even the smallest gesture of deference. The breach did not go unnoticed.

“Show respect to the crown, lady!”

“How uncouth.”

“Do not judge too harshly. Not all are taught the manners of the court—least of all those of low birth.”

The murmurs spread, but Catalina remained silent, her gaze steady as she waited for Renée to continue.

“I will not bend,” Renée said, her voice unshaken, “to one who turns the other cheek from the poor and the meek.”

That was enough. The knights at her side forced her down, pressing her to the ground with practiced efficiency.

“You have gone too far!”

Her body seized without warning, her limbs contorting in ways that defied the natural order of movement. It was not violence that overtook her, but something colder, more deliberate—an intrusion that moved through her like a current. Those present recoiled, unease giving way to fear as they watched her struggle against an unseen force.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the convulsion ceased.

When Renée lifted her head, her eyes had turned the color of fresh-spilled blood. Strength returned to her in unnatural measure, enough to break free of the knights’ hold as though it had never been there. She rose, composed and still, her expression emptied of all but the faintest trace of self.

Only then did Catalina stand, raising a hand to signal the guards to withdraw.

"Queen Catalina .... Descendant of Carlemont."

Renée’s voice had changed. It had deepened slightly, steadied, and whatever emotion once lingered within it had been drawn away, leaving something calm and distant in its place.

“Whom do I address?” the Queen asked, her tone measured.

“Please do come to the lake,” the voice replied. “Bring the sword. There, we will speak further.”

Catalina’s brow furrowed slightly. “And if I refuse?”

“Carlemont was wise,” the voice said, quiet and unhurried. “I trust that you will prove no less so. You have three hours to decide.”

With that, Renée collapsed where she stood. The knights moved quickly to secure her, and it was decided that she would accompany the Queen to fulfill the summons issued by the one who currently rests atop Lake Sérénité.

---

The Queen departed soon after, accompanied by those closest to her. Their number did not fall short of a hundred. At the center of the procession, borne upon a carriage, lay an artifact of immense value.

Though they traveled with urgency, even the royal carriage swaying as it moved, it took them an hour and a half to reach the lake. The horses had to be blindfolded with thick, dark coverings, for otherwise they refused to advance, seized by a fear they could neither understand nor resist. The horsemasters labored constantly to keep them steady.

At last, they reached the water’s edge.

Renée, once more, showed signs of something stirring within her. Her eyes flickered between their natural brown and that unnatural crimson, as though caught between two presences. The guards reported this quietly to the Queen.

“Bring her to me,” Catalina said.

They gathered once more along the lakeshore. The dragon lay in the distance, its gaze fixed upon them. Night had already fallen. Ten hours had passed since the chaos at the final match of the Open Duel during the Ludus Magnorum. A pale mist had begun to rise from the lake, veiling its surface in shifting layers. No one had eaten or drunk for hours; tension alone sustained them.

It was then that Renée was permitted to speak again.

“The Benevolent Master instructs that you come before him in person.”

She gestured toward a small boat lying at the shore, displaced by the violent tremors that had accompanied the dragon’s descent. It was scarcely large enough to carry four people.

This, in turn, ignited dispute among the nobles. Voices sharpened, factions clashed, and the divide between them became momentarily visible. Lord Marlan spoke with mounting aggression, while Bellero’s supporters answered in equal measure.

Then, at last, a resolution emerged.

“I will accompany Her Majesty,” Bellero said, raising his hand.

A Primate Bishop followed, then a general. Thus, the four who would board the small vessel were among the most important figures present.

“This is madness,” one noble protested. “If anything should happen to you, everything collapses with you.”

Catalina answered simply, her voice calm.

“Better that the world end tomorrow than today. I would give my life for even the smallest measure of time.”

The artifact was then brought forth.

Carefully unsealed from its ornate golden casing, encased in fused quartz, it revealed Solus—the relic blade of Asmar, the great hero, said to pierce any defense and bring ruin to all things.

It possessed a strange and undeniable allure. Even those tasked with carrying it felt the quiet pull of desire, the urge to claim it for themselves. For this reason, strict protocols had been set: no one was to gaze upon it for long.

The sword was secured within a specially crafted sheath, forged by the finest artisans of Zarim, and entrusted to the Queen.

Before their departure, Renée, still under guard, approached the four who would cross the lake.

“Do not fear, Your Majesty,” she said softly. “The Benevolent Master assures your safety.”

Catalina inclined her head in acknowledgment.

For a brief moment, as her hand came to rest upon the sheathed relic, something within her faltered. It was not doubt in the blade, nor in the path that had been set before her, but something older and more instinctive—a quiet, unbidden fear that rose from a place beneath reason. It settled in her chest, steady and cold, not as panic but as certainty. She understood, with a clarity she could not escape, that what awaited her upon the lake was not meant for mortals to meet without consequence.

She did not speak of it.

Around her stood those who looked to her not merely for command, but for assurance—men and women who would measure their courage against the steadiness of her gaze. To yield, even in the smallest way, would be to unravel more than her own resolve.

Catalina drew a slow breath, and with it, the weight of the crown returned to her as something solid and immovable. Fear did not leave her, nor did she force it away. Instead, she allowed it its place, contained and silent, like a shadow that would follow but not lead.

“Stay your posts,” she said quietly to those behind her.

Then, without further hesitation, she stepped toward the waiting boat.

Each movement that followed was measured, unhurried, as though the path ahead were no different from any other she had walked. Yet beneath that composure, her pulse carried the truth she would not show—that she advanced not in the absence of fear, but in spite of it.

For she was Queen, and whatever waited upon that darkened water would meet her as such.