Randia and Viena walked in silence, their footsteps the only sound on the quiet road stretching southward. Since leaving the tavern, neither had said much. The tension between them was palpable—Randia was accustomed to solitude, but for some reason, today, the silence felt heavier.
"Do you understand why I was angry?" Randia’s voice broke through the stillness, his tone more weary than harsh.
"I'm sorry."
“Don’t apologize. Just answer me.”
Viena hesitated, biting her lip. She stared at her feet as she walked. “Because… somebody might overhear, and they could try to steal your medallion.”
Randia halted, turning to face her. His hand dipped into his bag, retrieving the medallion. He held it out to her, the sapphire gleaming in the sunlight.
"That's only a part of it." He let her take it from him, watching her delicate fingers brush the surface.
Viena turned the medallion over in her hands, examining every side, every curve. She marveled at the craftsmanship—the way the sapphire caught the light, casting soft reflections on her skin. She couldn’t help but feel a shiver run through her as she looked closer.
"It's beautiful."
"It is." Randia’s voice softened slightly, but his gaze remained steady. "But the true worth lies inside."
He pressed the rose-shaped gem at its center, and the sapphire split open like a flower. A hidden compartment revealed a small black fingerprint, encased in a thin glass casing.
"What is that? A stain?"
Randia’s voice grew even more serious. "That’s not a stain. It’s Luseya’s fingerprint."
"Luseya?" Viena’s eyes widened.
"The eighth monarch of Rosmayne. Queen Luseya Rosalia."
Viena blinked, her mouth falling open. "So that’s why the guards were so scared… How do you know her?"
Randia gave a small, rueful smile. “Let’s just say we’ve crossed paths. Long ago.”
He raised his hand, and the medallion glowed with a soft, bluish light. It wasn’t just the sapphire that illuminated; the inscription around the fingerprint shimmered with an otherworldly glow.
Viena gasped. "What...?"
"It’s a mark of friendship. Those contracted by the medallion are bound by it. It ensures immunity—no steel in Rosmayne can harm me."
She looked at him, her voice barely a whisper. "The ones contracted... you mean, only you can use the medallion’s power? So, what’s the point if someone steals it?"
Randia placed the medallion back in his bag with a swift motion, his eyes darkening slightly. "Because it’s more than just protection. It’s a permit—an unrestricted pass to move freely through Rosmayne. As long as the medallion is in your possession, you are above the law. You can demand access to anything, anyone. You’re practically untouchable, as if you were the queen herself."
Viena thought about that, furrowing her brow. "Why would they make such a rule?"
Randia paused. The weight of her question pressed on him. He wasn’t sure if he should tell her the truth—his truth. What would it mean if she discovered the full extent of his past? Could he trust her with the details of his life?
"Because," he said at last, his voice low, "they deemed it necessary."
Unsatisfied with Randia’s vague answer, Viena raised an eyebrow. But Randia, determined to end the conversation, simply ignored her and stowed the medallion back in his bag. His movements were swift and deliberate.
“All you need to know is that it’s impossible to counterfeit the Titulia. Anyone who’s ever seen one, or even knows what it looks like, will do whatever it takes to possess it.”
Randia rubbed the side of his bag, his gaze sharpening as he scanned the road ahead and the shadows behind them.
“No,” he continued, his voice lower now, “even those who don’t know what it is—just its beauty alone will stir greed and jealousy, even in the noblest heart.”
Viena hesitated, glancing at him. “Then isn’t it already dangerous, like when you showed it to the town guard?”
Randia gave a dry exhale. “Yeah. You’re right about that. Next time, we’ll handle things differently.”
They spent the next few days crossing villages, restocking their supplies—cured meats, hardtacks, and spices. At each stop, Randia took the time to teach Viena how to haggle, how to estimate their needs, and how to distinguish good from bad. He never rushed her, allowing her to absorb the lessons at her own pace.
When they reached the market, Randia handed her six rios with a small, almost playful smile.
“Go and buy us some apples.”
Viena blinked, surprised. “You’re not coming?”
Randia’s only response was a silent, steady gaze. His expression was unreadable, but Viena knew what it meant: she was doing this alone.
With a deep breath, Viena straightened her back and marched toward the greengrocer. Her confidence bloomed as she realized nothing could go wrong. If trouble arose, Randia would be there.
Watching her, Randia’s stern expression softened. He stared at her for a long moment, a mixture of responsibility and something deeper—a quiet emotion—filling his chest. It was a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge for a long time. The transition between his serious demeanor and the feeling of pride that flickered at the edges of his eyes was subtle, but it carried the weight of something profound—an emotion he had long buried, now slowly surfacing.
It was affection, and it was probably greater than he had ever experienced—a parental affection.
Randia was so immersed in the unfamiliar sensation—this strange, almost unsettling affection—that he didn’t notice a group of riders approaching. By the time his instincts screamed for him to act, it was already too late. He looked up just in time to see two horsemen snatch Viena off her feet, galloping away with her in tow.
"Papa! Papa help me…!"
Randia’s heart skipped. He lunged forward, but his desperation clouded his judgment. Dropping his heavy bag, he rushed toward the spot where she had been, too caught up in the moment to realize another danger was closing in on him. His focus was all on Viena, and it cost him.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the shadow of another rider. Before he could react, the club came down hard on the back of his neck with a sickening thud.
"Ha! Too easy!" The rider’s cruel laughter echoed in Randia’s ears as his vision blurred.
The force of the blow rattled through Randia’s body, short-circuiting his nervous system, crippling his body in an instant. The pain was a distant sensation, his limbs betraying him as his body crumpled under the weight of the injury. His spine felt as if it had snapped like brittle wood. The paralysis spread quickly—unforgiving and complete.
He heard shouts in the distance, the sound of guards shouting orders, but it was already too late. The horsemen were long gone. Randia’s vision dimmed, his legs useless beneath him as he sank into the darkness, the world slipping away just as the faintest sound of clattering armor reached his ears.
Randia came to, the grogginess of his awakening clouded by a sharp headache and the difficulty of each breath. His vision was hazy, but the shadows of figures gathered around him slowly took form.
"He woke up! Master! The patient is awake! Master, where are you!?"
A young man bolted from the room, his voice frantic. His necklace and attire identified him as an apprentice. He hastily calls for his master.
"Sir. Are you alright?"
Another figure, older, more solidly built, stepped forward. He was one of the guards, likely staying out of a sense of responsibility for what had happened. He had a mustache, and his physique, weak for someone in armor, suggested he wasn’t a soldier by trade.
Randia, his body screaming in protest, attempted to sit up, the strain of movement sending a jolt of agony through his spine.
"Sir, you should stay-"
"Don’t... touch me!"
Randia flinched away, pushing the guard’s hand aside as he gasped for air. His body felt alien, unresponsive. The world around him spun as he tried to steady himself, his muscles rebelling, refusing to obey his commands. His mind was sharp, but his body... his body was betraying him.
Viena’s face, her cry for help, flashed through his mind. His heart twisted in his chest. Every horrible thought he had ever known about the cruelty of men—about the evil they could commit—was swirling within him. The weight of his helplessness was unbearable.
"You should rest for a while," a voice interrupted gently.
An older man entered—the master herbalist, balancing a tray of potions and herbs. His tone was measured, but his eyes sharpened when he saw Randia struggling upright.
"I don’t even know how you’re awake and talking. Here I was getting ready to concoct some inhalants until my apprentice called me."
"Viena . . . The kid . . . where is she?"
The guard and the doctor look at each other. It's clear to see that Randia is still in a very bad condition. He can't even move his eyeballs. Everything he sees is due to his heightened sense of peripheral vision.
"We are currently doing our best to find your daughter."
"Don’t console me…!" Randia’s voice tore from his throat, ragged and thin. "I need information…! Where is she?!"
". . . And what good will knowing the answer do to you? You can't even do anything about it, and things will get worse for you—or perhaps even for all of us, if you try anything funny in your condition."
That was the match.
Randia’s pupils constricted sharply. His fingers twitched—and the air crackled. From the chilled ether, three jagged icicles formed, hovering in the air around him. His breathing became faster, harsher, fogging the cold-dense air. His pulse pounded loud enough to drown all reason.
One icicle shot forward—shhk!
It tore through the guard’s shoulder, cracking bone and biting deep into sinew before pinning itself into the wall behind him. The guard bellowed in pain and staggered back, clutching his wound.
"W-What are you doing?!" cried the apprentice, wide-eyed.
Randia didn’t answer. His brow furrowed, sweat beading along his hairline despite the dropping temperature. Another icicle materialized—steady, lethal, suspended at eye level.
"You one of them…! You are here ... to keep an eye!" His voice broke into a low, guttural growl.
"Y-You’re a fucking mage!" the guard barked, grimacing in agony.
Randia’s mind spun faster than his broken body. Every second Viena was in the bandit's hands twisted a new blade into his chest. He crafted another two icicles, now three in total, orbiting around him with deadly precision. His lips trembled as he forced the words through ragged breaths.
"Speak or die. Choose."
The icicles shimmered—growing sharper, colder. Frost crawled along the wooden beams of the room. The guard, teeth clenched, nodded quickly.
Randia’s eyes flicked to the herbalist. One of the floating shards rotated, pointing directly at the old man.
"And you, herbalist…"
The man swallowed hard. "Y-Yes, sir?"
Randia ground the words out between shallow gasps. "Grenoia… White Margrave… Huradin Tea. I will pay you."
"R-right away!" The herbalist bolted along with his disciple to gather the materials without hesitation.
In less than an hour, Randia had forced his battered body into reluctant obedience. His breathing was shallow, and every step made his spine flare with electric agony—but he could move. That was enough.
The wounded guard, pale but alive, had yielded everything he knew. Randia closed the man’s wound with Velda, his trembling fingers precise despite the pain. Once the guard slumped back, breathing heavily, Randia turned his attention to the others.
He could not risk loose tongues. Not now.
With a steadying breath, he traced the intricate sigils of Alna in the air—cocoon of jumbled thought, fine as spider silk. The weave sank into their minds: three strands, three altered memories. When they woke again, they would recall nothing of magic, of threats, or of the girl who had been taken.
By then, Randia would be long gone.
He strapped his big backpack across his shoulders that he retrieved from a guard post after a little resistance with the guardsmen. The weight on his back is biting deep into limp muscles as his fingers wrapped tightly around a rough-hewn walking stick. His gait was halting, uneven. But westward he went, boots pressing into the dusted roads with quiet, grim resolve.
Every breath hurt. Every heartbeat throbbed like a hammer against cracked glass. Yet there was no faltering in his step.
He had tasted something alien and shattering—something he thought long since buried beneath iron discipline and cold logic. Affection, raw and incandescent, had sparked within him. For the first time in his life, it had a name: Viena.
He would not lose it. Not now. Not ever.
And so Randia walked west, the horizon swallowing him whole, his mind sharper than pain, his heart harder than fear.
He was not too late.
He could not be too late.