"444 days left…" by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

Mediah walked along the Fisherman District's shore, the sand cool beneath his bare feet. He tipped his head back, his gaze locked on the night sky. A handful of stars pricked around the single glowing moon as a promise which was whispered to the world.

Each night recently, the skies had brightened bit by bit, the stars daring to reappear once again. Maybe, just maybe, Summer was just around the corner. Maybe, just maybe, the sky would be whole again.

A distant song drifted through the beach, entwined with the faint crackle of bonfires. Shadows flickered and danced against the Long Night, people twirling and leaping in the festivities. Mediah slowed his steps and realised today was the 23rd day of the moon.

He chuckled—dois-trae. The thought of overflowing tables, warm beds, and free girls tugged his lips into a sly grin.

Quickening his pace, he moved toward the rising commotion, the laughter and shouts growing louder with every step. The scent of roasted meat and spiced ale hit him before he reached the clearing. The crowd flushed and wild, swayed in unison, mugs sloshing foam onto the sand.

He scanned the scene quickly and spotted the feast—platters laden with roasted fowl, steaming stews, and loaves of fresh bread. Without hesitation, he wove through the throng and claimed a seat near the banquet.

Greasy fingers tore into a hunk of meat, juices dripping down his wrist as he bit into it. Between mouthfuls, he discreetly slipped a roll and a handful of cookies into his bag, his eyes darting to make sure no one noticed.

A sudden weight pressed against his shoulder, jerking him slightly off balance. A rough arm hooked around him, pulling him into the heat and smell of sweat and ale. Before Mediah could react, the man's booming voice rose above the music and chatter.

"Look what I found—a Magi!" the stranger boomed, his breath reeking of alcohol. "And what do we say to the black robes?"

"MAY THE SUN BURN OVER LAND, SEA, AND SKY!" The intoxicated crowd roared in unison, with tankards slamming together as people raised their drinks high.

Without hesitation, they tipped their cups back, cascading the drink down their throats.

Mediah's laugh came out tight and uneven, his body still stiff under the stranger's iron grip. He shifted his weight to escape, but the arm across his shoulders held firm.

Then, a ripple of excitement passed through the throng. Heads turned as a chair rose above the crowd, swaying precariously in the hands of those lifting it. Atop it sat the birthday girl, her skirt brushed against her knees as she leaned back.

She dangled a handkerchief from her fingers, swinging it lazily back and forth across the men below. They clamoured closer, raising their mugs and calling out like moths drawn to a flame.

The stranger's grip on Mediah loosened as his attention shifted. "Sorry to leave you now, Black One," he slurred, a crooked grin spreading across his face. "But a man's got to do what a man does!"

Before Mediah could reply, the stranger plunged into the swirling crowd. Each man present was eager to catch the handkerchief and perhaps, with luck, share her company before the night was through.

Mediah chuckled, his lips curling into a knowing grin. It was impossible to be Menschen and not revel in the chaos of a Dois-Trae. The firelight flickered in his empty mug, and he turned toward the spigot. His hand froze mid-air.

A bright red handkerchief, tied snugly around his wrist, stood out against the black fabric of his robe. His brow furrowed as he twisted his arm.

His attention darted through the crowd, scanning for a flash of vivid red, a dress to match the handkerchief now bound to him. But the sea of men around the girl swayed like restless waves, their backs blocking any clear view.

Mediah went back to tear the roasted meat. Each bite was ravenous, the flavours rich and satisfying as grease dripped down his fingers. Yet, even as the food eased the ache in his stomach, something else began to stir.

It started as a faint tingling, an unfamiliar warmth curling through his veins like a whisper. His chewing slowed. The sensation grew stronger, not painful, but strange—unnatural. His body hummed as though the air itself had turned alive and seeped into his skin.

He froze mid-bite, the realisation dawning. This wasn't him. The magic was moving on its own, threading through his core, weaving into him like roots sinking into fertile soil. He wasn't drawing it—it was choosing him, feeding him in ways the food could not.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His fingers hovered over the next piece of bread, forgotten. The red handkerchief around his wrist felt tighter now. Mediah's appetite waned, replaced by an electrifying curiosity. If he'd been intrigued before, now he was utterly consumed. Something—or someone—was watching. And it wanted him to know.

Mediah pushed the half-eaten plate aside, rising slowly as the strange pull gnawed at him. The taste of this magic clung to the roof of his mouth—wild berries bursting with sweetness, mingled with the earthy freshness of rain-soaked grass.

His feet moved almost of their own accord. His eyes flicked from face to face, scanning for a telltale flash of red. But no dress, scarf, or hint of crimson met his gaze.

He clenched his jaw, glancing at the handkerchief snugly tied around his wrist. How had someone slipped it onto him without his notice?

Yet, the magic's pull was undeniable, growing stronger with every step.

The lively music grew fainter. The crowd's cheers and laughter ebbed away, replaced by a new sound—deeper, more primal—the roar of waves crashing against jagged rocks.

He saw a little campfire ahead, its embers casting soft, dancing shadows on the sand. Beside it stood a tent, its fabric taut against the breeze. A woman sat near the flames, wrapped in red.

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He raised his arm. "I guess this belongs to you."

The woman remained silent, her shawl clinging to her form. She didn't nod, didn't so much as a flicker in acknowledgement. Yet her gaze locked him in place.

Her eyes—one familiar, deep blue, as any Menschen's should be, calm and steady like a summer sky—and the other burned with an otherworldly intensity, an ember alive with smouldering heat, flickering with the hues of a dying sun.

Mediah's breath caught. He was rooted to the sand as if she'd cast a spell with that single look.

"I'm Mediah."

The woman rose slowly, her shawl shifting like a ripple of liquid fire against her shoulders. She didn't glance back, didn't so much as pause. The faint light of the campfire framed her silhouette as she turned, her form slipping into the shadowed folds of the tent without a word.

There was no beckon, no gesture inviting him forward, yet the space she left behind seemed to call him nonetheless. His feet moved before his thoughts caught up as he followed her.

Inside, candles flickered on every surface, emanating a reddish glow that bathed the tent in a living warmth. The air was thick with burnt herbs and her magic, an energy that brushed against his skin, filling his lungs with each breath. It was intoxicating, a heady mixture of power and something deeper—something that stirred in his core.

Mediah's hand moved almost of its own accord, trembling, hesitant as he reached for her shawl. The fabric was soft under his fingers, cool and smooth like water flowing between his touch. His breath hitched as he gently pulled it back, inch by inch, revealing the face that had been cloaked in mystery.

Her features emerged like a secret whispered in the dark. The sharp planes of her cheekbones caught the candlelight, and her mismatched eyes—blue and fiery ember—held a depth that seemed to pierce straight through him. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. The magic that had been feeding him surged, raw and stubborn as if her very essence was binding him to her in ways he couldn't yet comprehend.

Her features, each detail, etched into his memory with a clarity that no passing Summer would ever erase from his mind.

She leaned in, and Mediah froze. When her lips finally met his, it was more than a kiss. The connection hit like a lightning strike, her magic surging through him, raw and primal. It wasn't just the heat of her flesh against his—it was the flood of energy that consumed him.

His knees nearly buckled as the force of her power swept through him, leaving no corner untouched. It wasn't pain but a pleasure so intense it bordered on overwhelming. He gasped against her mouth, his hands gripping her waist as if anchoring himself against the tide.

When she pulled away, Mediah knew, in that breathless silence, that he was no longer his own. Whatever she had given him, whatever piece of herself she had fused to his saat, he craved it already. And he feared he would always crave it until the End of Times.

Mediah's hands moved instinctively, tracing the curve of her body, each touch igniting sparks that danced beneath his fingertips. The boundaries between them blurred, flesh meeting flesh in an intoxicating rhythm that left no room for thought.

The taste of her lingered on his tongue—salted and sweet, like the ocean and wild berries.

He wanted to ask her name, the question hovering at the tip of his tongue. But as his lips parted, the words dissolved into a soft exhale. The feel of her skin beneath his mouth, the shiver of her magic coursing through him, rendered language useless. All that remained was the raw connection, a collision of bodies and power that consumed them both, leaving no space for anything but the now.

For the first time, Mediah forgot what he was—forgot the hunger that marked him as an incubus, the dark thread of his existence that could steal life with a touch.

Her power was endless, wrapping around him in waves, pulling him deeper. Not once did the thought cross his mind that he might harm her. How could he, when every part of her seemed boundless, untouchable, a force far greater than his own? Her magic fed him without him needing to take a gift, and it was so pure that it made him shiver.

They made love as if the world outside was gone. The fires burned low, the ale drained to the dregs, the meat picked clean. Beyond the tent, the songs faded, leaving only the distant roar of the sea. And still, they remained entwined, bodies and magic mingling until their bodies fell into deep sleep.

Mediah was, for the first time in his life, happy.

"443 days left…" by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

The crash of waves pulled Mediah from the depths of sleep. He stirred, the cool breeze brushing his skin and carrying with it a potent, sweet scent—wild berries and wet grass. His eyelids fluttered open.

For a moment, his mind hovered in the haze of dreams, the sensations of the night before lingering like the faint traces of magic on his skin. Then it all rushed back—the tent, the fire, her.

Mediah shifted, his hand reaching out, ready to find the warmth of her skin against his. Instead, his fingers met nothing but the cool, rumpled fabric of the bedding. His body tilted as he rolled further, landing flat against the empty space beside him. The realisation hit like a jolt, and he shot upright, the blanket slipping from his shoulders.

His eyes scanned the tent, darting to every corner. The walls were lined with intertwining branches, tightly together like an organic tapestry. Sprouting from the branches were delicate blue flowers, their petals faintly glowing in the Long Night.

The fire embers had faded to a faint glow, and the scent of berries still hung in the air, teasing him with her lingering presence. But she was gone. His gaze caught on her red shawl, draped neatly over the back of a chair. It was the only trace of her, left behind like an unfinished thought.

Frantic, he threw the sheets aside, his hands searching through the folds as if they might hold a clue, a note, a name—anything. His fingers paused on a spot in the middle of the makeshift bed, brushing against something damp. His heart sank as he lifted the fabric, revealing a stain of blood—a deep blue smeared against the white.

The sight of the blood stain made Mediah's breath hitch, his fingers tightening around the fabric. It was small, just a smear.

Had he hurt her? The thought clawed at him. He closed his eyes, searching the haze of the night for anything—anything—that could explain why she was gone. But all he found were flashes of heat, magic, and the sound of her moaning echoing in the recesses of his mind. The night had been perfect, seamless, and yet... this mark, this absence, told another story.

His jaw clenched as a new feeling rose to the surface, one he couldn't deny. He didn't just want answers—he wanted her. Her name, her voice, her magic coursing through him again. The thought of never seeing her, never feeling that connection again, made him miserable.

Mediah tossed the sheet aside and stood, his bare feet brushing the cool sand as he reached for her shawl. The fabric slid through his fingers like water, soft but carrying her lingering scent. He clenched it tightly as if holding it could somehow pull her back to him.

He stood there for a moment, unmoving, until a reminder cut through the haze: he was losing focus. This was pulling him away from what mattered—his mission, the Trial of Elements.

His jaw tightened as resolve replaced hesitation. He reached for his scattered belongings, pulling back his clothes.

Before stepping out, his hand brushed against the red shawl. He draped it around his neck, the soft fabric settling like a weight he didn't know how to let go of. For now, it was all he had.

With his bag slung over his shoulder and the shawl tucked close, Mediah pushed through the tent's flap, walking away from the beach.

Upon reflection, I realise I ought to have been far more precise in elucidating the nuances of the Hexe spell's use. Yet, you must grasp the crux of my perspective: such a force should never be compelled. Love, in its truest essence, should flow as freely as the river's course, bear the lightness of a breeze, and radiate the gentle warmth of a sunlit afternoon.

Convincing Mediah that wielding the spell could save countless lives might have been persuasive—perhaps even noble—but would it not also have been selfish? And here I am, chronicling the tale of the Hexe—the legacy of my father—each word etched for eternity within the annals of countless books, driven not by duty but by my own self-serving dream. A dream of a home shared with the two creatures I hold dearest—my own Hexe and the daughter I never had the chance to see grow. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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