The Day the Quiet Was Disturbed
That day was bright in a manner most unsettling—
the sky too blue, the wind too merry, and the grounds of House Zeneris far too alive for a place ordinarily steeped in the echoes of servants' footsteps and the murmurs of the past. The laughter of a child shattered a silence that had taken root for years, ringing through the outer corridors like a small bell unacquainted with time.
"Young Miss—! Pray, stop at once—!"
The cry came too late.
A small figure with hair of green fading into gold darted round the garden bend, her dress fluttering, her steps uneven yet brimming with confidence—the peculiar confidence of children who believe the world exists to be chased, not obeyed.
Vleresia Zeneris had reached her fourth year.
An age meant to be filled with simple play and laughter without meaning; yet for her—whose soul had wandered through too much awareness—four years marked the opening act of something greater. Even so, her temperament stubbornly refused to follow the quiet maturity growing within her thoughts. She remained cheerful, mischievous, and forever running for no reason beyond the simple truth that her legs would carry her.
The servants were at their wits' end.
Not for want of speed, but because the little girl moved as though the Zeneris estate were her rightful domain—as though stone, shrub, and shadow had conspired to hide her.
"Lady Vleresia!" cried one servant, breathless. "Her Ladyship Friesy will—"
"—be angry?" Vleresia laughed, glancing back with eyes bright and impish. "Mama will not be angry~!"
And indeed, she would not.
In the kitchens of the main house, Friesy could only sigh as she stirred the soup with slow patience. Her silver hair was tied simply, her face calm yet bearing the gentle fatigue of a mother who yields not from defeat, but from love.
"The cooks have been at work since dawn…" she murmured. "Yet our young lady insists upon her mother's hand alone."
She smiled faintly, though another sigh escaped her.
Outside, Vleresia came to an abrupt halt.
Her laughter faded.
Before her, behind a low hedge seldom noticed, lay a young raven upon the ground. One wing hung at an unnatural angle; its black feathers were dulled by dust and dried blood. Its eyes were open—sharp, vigilant—yet heavy with a pain it could not conceal.
Vleresia crouched.
Her expression changed.
Not panic. Not disgust. But focus.
"Why are you alone?" she asked softly, as though the bird might answer in the tongue of men.
She extended her small hand with exquisite care, almost like a seasoned physician. The raven hissed faintly, yet did not strike—seeming to sense that the hand, though small, bore no malice.
At that moment, someone finally caught up to her.
"My Lady."
The voice was firm, yet gentle.
Vliria—newly appointed as Vleresia's personal attendant—stood a few steps behind. Her hair was neatly bound, her uniform immaculate. Her breathing was slightly laboured, yet her gaze remained alert, heavy with responsibility.
"I have at last found you."
Vleresia glanced back, then returned her gaze to the raven.
"He is hurt," she said simply.
Vliria followed her line of sight, her brow furrowing.
"…His wing is broken."
Vleresia nodded.
"Can he be healed?"
Vliria hesitated, then drew a breath.
"We may take him north," she said at last. "To Lady Rhesia."
The name made Vleresia's eyes shine.
"Aunt Rhesia?"
"Indeed, my Lady."
Without hesitation, Vleresia gathered the raven to her chest—a motion that made Vliria step forward in alarm, only to halt when she saw the bird grow still, accepting the embrace.
They proceeded toward the northern quarter of the Zeneris estate.
For the first time, Vleresia beheld that region not as a distant shadow glimpsed from a window, but as a world newly opened before her. The buildings there were quieter, more austere—the air thick with the scents of herbs, medicinal spirits, and something sharp yet clean.
A great wooden door opened.
Within, a woman with dark, reddish hair and slender spectacles bent over a research table, writing with fervent concentration. At the sound of footsteps, she looked up—and her face brightened at once.
"Vleresia?"
In an instant she was before them.
"Oh, my little niece!" she cried, embracing Vleresia warmly yet carefully. "What breeze carries my small angel into this most tedious of realms?"
Vleresia lifted the raven proudly.
"He is hurt," she said. "Please heal him."
Rhesia paused, then smiled broadly.
"A most… Zeneris request."
She moved at once, retrieving a small vial of shimmering greenish liquid—a potent draught born of years of study. With deft movements, she dripped the potion upon the raven's wing.
The fractured bone knit itself together.
Within minutes.
Vleresia stared in wonder.
"Oh…"
The raven flapped its wings, stood upright, and—without warning—leapt onto Vleresia's shoulder.
"Eh?"
The bird emitted a low sound, almost a satisfied hum.
Rhesia laughed softly.
"It seems," she said with a knowing smile, "he has chosen his master."
Vliria watched with mixed feelings—admiration, bewilderment, and a foreboding she could not yet name.
Upon the shoulder of a small child—
A raven stood.
And in a world woven of narrative, such symbols seldom appear without meaning.
Far away, fate began to pen its opening line.
The joy came in the simplest of forms.
Vleresia did not leap, nor shout, nor run as she so often did. She merely stood still, gazing at the black raven perched upon her shoulder, as though afraid the moment might shatter should she breathe too deeply.
"Her master…"
The word echoed within her.
"So…" she murmured, almost to herself, "I have a friend?"
Rhesia, standing a short distance away, smiled faintly—the smile of a scholar long estranged from human feeling, yet wise enough to recognise a rare moment.
"More than a friend," her aunt replied, arms crossed. "Ravens do not choose lightly. They are loyal, vengeful, and possess remarkable memories—especially for faces."
Throughout her short life—though she was but four—Vleresia had learned one lesson no one ever taught her: animals did not like her. Not from cruelty, nor from violence, but from something far quieter and more merciless—the scent of her soul.
That scent, sweet and alluring to narrative beings, rang like a death knell to animals. Their ancient instincts screamed warnings of unseen danger. Horses shied away. Dogs growled, then fled. Even insects chose to keep their distance.
It hurt.
Not as a wound of flesh, but as one that grew slowly, like mould in the dark chamber of a child's heart.
Yet now, a raven—
Did not flee.
Did not strike.
Did not fear.
Vleresia slowly raised her small hand, to be certain the bird was real.
"You… will not leave?" she whispered.
The raven turned its head, black eyes reflecting the laboratory light, and gave a low sound—not a threat, but an acknowledgement.
Vleresia smiled.
That was enough.
"I have a friend now," she said softly, as though the world needed to know.
"I shall protect you," she murmured to the raven. "Your name is…"
She paused, brow furrowing.
"Scelox."
The name fell into place as though it had always existed.
Rhesia nodded. "A fine name."
Yet her attention soon wandered.
Rhesia, observing the scene from afar, grew still.
Something within her cracked—not with emotion, but with an idea.
Her eyes, long accustomed only to formulas, cell structures, and measured destruction, now beheld the simple bond between child and bird—and found within it a beautiful contradiction.
"Fascinating…" she murmured.
She turned back to her table.
There—amid glass tubes, shards of Clexil, and sketches of weapons meant for war—a thought long stalled finally broke free.
For years, Rhesia had laboured upon Project Threukir—a concept of absolute destruction. Not mere explosion, but death by existential disruption.
Clexil, an anomalous stone found within Fletcher's crust, emitted unstable energy—neither heat nor pure sorcery, but pressure upon the deepest structure of matter itself. When shattered at precise ratios, it released waves that caused the smallest components of living bodies to lose their agreement to remain whole.
Rhesia wrote swiftly.
"Not fire that burns,"
"but a body that forgets how to be a body."
She recalculated.
One gram of refined Clexil—compressed and triggered by resonant pressure—could initiate a chain reaction. Not combustion, but the collapse of atomic harmony, forcing cells to divide violently until they burst from within.
She named the effect: Destructive Fusion.
If Threukir were a weapon of nations, then its smaller form—a grenade—would be the preliminary experiment. Gravnar, she wrote, adding a small note beside it:
"A grenade that does not burn a city,
but kills all that breathe at its centre."
The ink trembled.
Rhesia smiled.
Across the room, Vleresia watched her aunt sink once more into her genius-born madness.
"Auntie… has begun again," she murmured, releasing a sigh far too mature for one her age.
She slid down from the bench.
"Come, Scelox," she said, patting her shoulder.
The raven fluttered lightly.
They departed before the laboratory could become the birthplace of yet another god of ruin.
Her stomach growled.
Hunger.
With quick steps, Vleresia left the medical wing, Scelox still perched loyally upon her shoulder, while Vliria followed half a pace behind, puzzled at how so small a girl could move with such adult purpose.
The dining hall of House Zeneris was warm and bright.
The scent of food greeted her before she even crossed the threshold.
"Blerfirda…"
Her eyes shone.
Fresh vegetables, finely cut, mixed with Mangrea fruit—softly sweet with a bright, sour edge—dressed in fermented tomato sauce that danced upon the tongue. Beside it lay heavier fare:
Cherkaben.
Great cuts of giant fowl, fried crisp, seasoned with dried red pepper, coated in Marfelus—a smooth white sauce with gentle acidity—and at the centre of the table… dragon meat.
Slow-roasted over Zrevhornia wood, its aroma was like royal incense, rendering tough flesh tender and gleaming.
Vleresia's mouth watered shamelessly.
Friesy entered, wiping her hands.
"You ran off again, did you not?"
Vleresia sat properly—briefly.
"I met Scelox!" she declared, mouth already full.
"Scelox?"
"My bird!"
Vliria promptly dabbed Vleresia's cheek with a napkin.
"My Lady, pray eat more slowly."
"I cannot!" Vleresia laughed. "I am hungry and happy!"
Friesy laughed softly, watching her daughter with eyes full of light.
The table grew lively. Servants sat alongside. There was no hierarchy. No distance.
Only family.
And upon the shoulder of a child—a black raven watched the world.
At peace.
For now.