Viena’s grip around Randia’s shoulder tightened — small fingers curling into his cloak like a startled kitten clutching at its mother’s fur, caught between wonder and unease. The sheer vastness of the scene, the foreign grace of the capital's sprawl, unsettled her in a way even she couldn’t quite articulate. Randia could feel the faint tremor in her hold, and for once, he softened fully. He couldn’t blame her. Despite being a daughter of Rosmayne, this was her first step into its glittering heart.
Yet even with excitement brimming to the edges of her soul, Viena reined herself in. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered her gaze. When she turned her eyes to Randia, they were shadowed with guilt, wide and dark as storm-kissed lakes.
"But I thought you didn’t want to come here?" she asked softly. "You always hated crowded places."
Randia exhaled through his nose, a slow, patient breath. His hand found her hair again, brushing aside an errant lock as naturally as a wind might stir a field of wheat.
"I read the stars," he murmured, eyes on the distant, shifting clouds. "There’s a chance of heavy rain in the coming days. It would be foolish to push on when you're like this."
Her face lit instantly. "Really? Then I’m glad I got sick!" she chirped, her smile blooming quick and bright.
Of course, Randia knew well that was a lie dressed neatly in rationality. Viena’s constitution, though slight in build, was resilient — near unyielding on most days. But it always faltered when her spirit did. Melancholy weakened her in ways swords never could. The fever, he suspected, was less the work of chill or fatigue and more the lingering shadows of the fear that had gripped her days ago.
His purpose now was singular and unspoken; to make Viena smile as much as possible.
"Don’t be a dullard," he chided lightly, straightening her cloak with a flick. "You’re forbidden from falling ill again. Ever."
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say," Viena replied, rolling her eyes. Her grin, however, betrayed how pleased she was by his fussing. "Now can you put me down? You’re not the only one getting tired, you know. Being carried all day isn’t exactly a vacation either."
With a resigned sigh, Randia lowered her to the ground and handed her the walking stick — an old, polished branch sanded smooth by his own hands long ago.
No sooner had her feet touched earth than she darted off, quick and untethered, her blanket trailing like a banner behind her.
"No running, Viena," Randia called, voice sharpened by mock sternness. "You’ll undo everything I just did if that fever returns."
But she only laughed and spun on her heel, her bare feet light on the cobbled slope as they descended into the outskirts of Fleurein.
The questions came swiftly, tumbling from her lips like pebbles scattered down a hill.
“What’s a windmill for?”
“Is that a real castle with real princes in it?”
“Why is that building shaped like a flower?”
“Do you think they sell honey the size of my head here?”
Randia answered most, and fabricated the rest, just to keep pace with her delight.
She drank in every sight as if her entire life had been lived in black and white, and Fleurein was her first glimpse of color.
"I’m telling you, Papa!" she exclaimed suddenly, spinning back toward him with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. "We’re not even there yet, but I’m super-duper sure I’m going to love this big city!"
Randia’s lips parted — a quiet scold perched on his tongue — but he stilled as her gaze drifted past him, widening slightly in the process.
“. . . I thought you were only supposed to call me that when other people are around,” he muttered
“Hm? Oh, well, then they count as ‘people,’ right?” Viena quipped, her finger lifting over his shoulder.
Randia’s brow furrowed. He turned slowly, cloak brushing the grass.
Descending from the expanse of clear blue sky, wings cutting smooth arcs against the wind, came a knight astride a grand, four-legged bird. The creature’s plumage shimmered like polished bronze, each powerful stroke of its wings displacing the air in broad, silent gusts. A long, lustrous feather crowned its head like a regal plume — a mark of its high breeding and the rider’s station. The knight’s armor gleamed silver-white, trimmed with deep cobalt enamel, the sigil of Fleurein’s aerial wardens emblazoned boldly on his chestplate.
The rider angled downward, steady and precise, his steed gliding like a falling star drawn straight toward Randia and Viena.
"This is Hirma of the 2nd Airborne Patrol Regiment speaking! I demand you to stay where you are, strangers!"
Her voice cracked like a whip through the highland wind. After circling twice more with disciplined precision, the knight guided her mount into a landing before them. Dust spiraled at her feet as the giant bird folded its wings with a shuddering rustle. Only now, up close, did Viena realize that it wasn’t just the creature that was extraordinary — the rider herself was no less arresting.
An ash-skinned woman — towering, broad-shouldered, and taller even than Randia — swung down from her steed with practiced grace. Three eyes blinked upon her face: two where nature intended, and a third perched vertically on her forehead, its iris a molten amber that shimmered with disquieting intelligence. Her armor gleamed in the midday light — polished plates of silver chased with bright cerulean enamel, as luminous as frost under sunlight. At her waist hung a short, wicked-looking blade and a slim wand; slung across her back rested an ornate recurved bow lacquered obsidian-black.
"You have entered the hallowed ground of the blessed city, Fleurein," she declared. Her voice carried the clipped cadence of command, reverberating in her chest. "By order of Her Majesty the Queen, inspection is mandatory. State your intentions, and I shall be your judge."
Randia inclined his head with careful deference, his hand brushing Viena’s hair once — steadying her.
“Greetings, honorable knightess,” he replied evenly. “My name is Ran, and this is my daughter, Viena.”
Viena bowed, stiff but earnest, her braid slipping over her shoulder as Randia’s hand remained gently at her crown.
"What business do you have? And why are you wandering away from the main road?"
"I am a medevist," Randia answered, measured and unhurried. "We sought wild herbs to replenish my stock. As you see, my daughter sustained an injury on our travels. There are certain ingredients I required from the forest, ones the local herbalist could not provide."
Hirma's central eye narrowed, its golden iris contracting to a sliver.
“The little one is your daughter?”
“Yes, my lady. I have cared for her alone since her mother passed. I travel with her so that she may learn the ways of the Qamarin—if she one day wishes to take up the path.” He withdrew a polished medevist’s badge from beneath his cloak and displayed it in his palm, the sigil glinting under the light.
Viena offered another polite, though nervous, bow. Her knees trembled faintly beneath her skirts under the knightess’s relentless gaze.
Hirma grunted, then clicked her tongue, tugging at her steed’s reins. The beast stepped forward obediently and lowered its sharp beak, beginning to sniff intently at both Randia and Viena. Its nostrils flared audibly; its breath rolled warm and sour across their boots. Viena shrank behind Randia’s cloak, her small hands gripping at the fabric as though her life depended on it.
The bird’s glistening black claws flexed against the earth — and behind its beak, a row of curved, serrated teeth shimmered ominously.
“Fear not, little one,” Hirma said coolly, though she did not sheath her blade. “Unless your bag harbors something suspect, he’ll do you no harm. However…”
The words had scarcely left her lips when the creature jerked back abruptly, talons gouging ruts into the dirt. A piercing shriek split the air — shrill enough that Viena clapped her hands over her ears with a whimper. Spines erupted from the beast’s tail in a swift, rippling fan, glinting like cerulean needles, while its stance shifted low and predatory.
In the same breath, Hirma moved. Her sword hissed from its scabbard and leveled to Randia’s throat with mechanical precision. The blade’s edge kissed his skin — a thin, red line blossomed instantly, running delicately down to her polished crossguard.
“That is a definite red,” she said, her voice dropping an octave into something colder, steelier. “By the city’s law, I should sever your limbs here and drag you to the dungeons for interrogation. Speak truthfully before that happens.”
Her eyes flicked briefly to Viena — sharp and appraising — before snapping back to Randia.
The weight of her sword pressed incrementally deeper, and another bead of blood trailed down the blade’s flawless edge.
“There will be no second chance, medevist. Tell the child to empty the bag. I advise you not to test my patience.”
Randia’s jaw clenched, but his hands lifted slowly, palms open. His voice, when it came, was calm as still water.
“. . . Can you do as she says, Viena?”
The girl nodded hurriedly, her face pale and slick with sweat. Kneeling, she fumbled open the pack with trembling fingers. One by one, she laid out their belongings on the grass: small glass vials, bundles of dried herbs bound in twine, wrapped bread loaves, folded cloths, and wax-sealed tinctures. Her breath quickened as she delved deeper, heart hammering wildly.
Fortunately, Randia had not left his most dangerous possessions carelessly within reach. Ever since the incident at the small church—when Viena’s life had nearly been forfeit—he had taken measures he could no longer afford to neglect.
With deliberate care, he had bound those perilous items behind a series of specialized incantations. The spells removed them from casual access altogether, folding their presence into a hidden magical pocket nested within the bag itself. To anyone else, there was nothing unusual to be found—no trace, no weight, no hint that anything dangerous lay inside.
However, when she withdrew a jar of fine white powder and set it gently among the other items, the beast recoiled again with a shuddering screech.
Hirma’s eyes darkened. Her stance hardened as she pressed the sword further, the edge biting deeper into Randia’s throat — a small crimson rivulet slipping down his collarbone.
“What else do you have to say before I take your head, you wretched soulgar smuggler?” she hissed.
"Papa!" Viena cried, half-rising.
"Stay where you are, kid!" Hirma barked, her voice cracking like thunder.
Viena froze, her breath catching in her chest, and Randia remained motionless — hands raised, blood trickling steadily from the cut along his neck, though his expression never faltered. His gaze met Hirma’s evenly, unwavering.
“Please… knightess…” Randia’s voice was steady, though strained against the edge of the blade. A bead of sweat traced his temple. “It is nothing but an ingredient for painkillers. Bring me something living, and I will prove it to you. If you still think me a liar afterward… you may take my life as you see fit.”
Hirma’s jaw clenched, molars grinding beneath her cheekbones. Her triad of eyes scrutinized him, all three narrowing in a slow, reptilian blink. For a long, brittle breath, the silence crackled between them.
But when her gaze flicked sideways — to Viena’s bound leg, bruised and stiff beneath her skirts — a faint crack appeared in her iron composure. Her sword lowered by an inch.
With a sharp exhale through her nose, she clicked her tongue twice.
“Batrisha.”
Her beast approached obediently, massive talons sinking deep into the soft turf as it sat on its haunches before her. Hirma lifted two fingers to her lips and issued a rapid sequence of sharp, melodic whistles. The creature cocked its head, blinking its many-lidded eyes in understanding.
After a beat, it recoiled slightly, gullet bulging—then spat a viscous, glistening net of translucent goo. The web spread midair before collapsing neatly over a cluster of birds pecking at wildflowers nearby. The net pinned several hapless birds, their wings fluttering futilely against the adhesive strands.
“Keep an eye on them, girl,” Hirma ordered curtly, clanking her sword twice against her plated thigh in signal.
Batrisha prowled closer to Randia and Viena, crouching watchfully as her spiked tail curled low to the ground.
Hirma strode across the meadow, armor creaking softly as she retrieved the ensnared birds one by one, handling them with surprising efficiency despite her gauntlets. She returned moments later and unceremoniously handed the squirming bundle to Randia.
“Prove it.”
Randia inclined his head with quiet gratitude, careful not to make any abrupt movements. He set down the birds gently, then pinched a fine grain of the white powder between two fingers and dissolved it into water from his flask. Once mixed, he approached one of the struggling birds and coaxed a few drops into its beak.
Viena, lips parted anxiously, clutched at Randia’s sleeve. She flinched but could not look away.
Within seconds, the bird’s frantic movements slowed. Its wings slackened, its claws uncurled. The creature sat upright but motionless, its chest rising and falling slowly, its black bead eyes glassy and half-lidded in a waking sleep.
Randia took a thin scalpel from his pouch and, with precision, pierced the wing membrane. A thin line of crimson welled instantly—but the bird made no sound, no flinch, no twitch of pain.
“Knightess,” Randia spoke clearly, lifting the wounded wing delicately toward her view. “This is an analgesic, compounded from ingredients known for their potency as sedatives and hallucinogens. I am well aware that many such substances are heavily regulated or banned outright. Misuse can cripple, addict, or kill ... But in the correct hands — mine — they are tools of healing, not harm.”
Viena winced and covered her face, peeking through her fingers despite herself. The sight of the small bird’s limp, bleeding wing made her stomach twist, but she could see — it breathed, unharmed in spirit.
Randia lowered the wing and, with slow care, began mending the injury. His fingertips glowed faintly, runes slipping through his skin like light under water. Flesh knitted back together, feathers smoothing over anew.
Moments later, the bird stirred. Its eyes cleared. With a sharp trill, it sprang to its feet and took flight, disappearing into the vast blue sky.
A long silence settled.
Hirma’s shoulders eased fractionally. Her brow furrowed, mouth drawing into a thin, contemplative line. At last, she slid her sword back into its scabbard with a decisive hiss. Her gaze, though still hard, dimmed a shade — bloodlust receding, if not fully vanquished.
“You have proven your claim, medevist,” she said at length, her voice begrudging but even. “For now.”
Her gauntleted hand rested on her hip, fingers drumming against the pommel of her blade. A flicker of disappointment ghosted across her sharp features — the vestige of a hunt denied — but reason anchored her steps.
“Nevertheless,” she continued, “I will confiscate a sample of this powder and submit it to our alchemists. This is beyond my purview. Until a final verdict is reached, you will remain under my surveillance.”
She locked eyes with Randia, her central eye narrowing to a golden slit.
“These cases drag. Months, perhaps more. I will escort you to the gate and vouch for your entry. Know this, medevist — should this prove to be a falsehood or murky dealing… I will be the one to claim your head. And should that happen, the girl’s fate will fare no better.”
Randia’s hand fell to Viena’s shoulder, drawing her closer into the shelter of his cloak. He nodded gravely, no hint of protest crossing his face.
“We are grateful for your mercy and understanding,” he said, bowing low.
“W-We thank you…” Viena echoed, dipping into a shaky curtsy, her voice small but earnest.
Hirma grunted, neither approving nor dismissing. She bent and carefully gathered a sealed sample of the powder into a small glass vial from her kit, then tucked it into a pouch at her belt.
Without another word, she turned on her heel and mounted Batrisha in a fluid motion.
“Move and follow closely. Don't stray away.”
Her command was delivered flatly, with no threat nor bluster — only certainty.
Randia gently squeezed Viena’s hand. “Come,” he murmured to her. “We’ll be fine.”
Viena bit her lip and nodded. Together, they began walking beneath the shadow of the winged beast, the city of Fleurein’s distant spires shimmering on the horizon ahead.