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

Mediah's bare feet shifted from the soft sand to the cobbled streets. Each turn pulled him deeper into childhood memories—of the years spent here with Muru and Ulencia, laughing, struggling, dreaming.

The lack of coins in his pocket pulled his focus back to his responsibilities. After all he was the Headmaster of the Trial of Elements. The camp demanded more resources and couldn't continue without them. Hence, his intentions wandered to Muru who was known to be gifted with a cunning golden touch. If anyone could sponsor the Magis, it was him. Yet, a sour twist in Mediah's gut reminded him of the truth—Muru had abandoned his Black Robe, cast it aside as if it were nothing but a shameful burden.

Turning a corner, Mediah slowed his pace. Muru's childhood house stood in ruin. The walls' paint flaked and faded to a dull grey covered with dry seaweed. The windows were shattered, jagged shards of glass, while the door hung crooked on rusted hinges. Mediah stepped closer, his feet crunching on the broken debris scattered across the doorstep.

He took a step back, his gaze sweeping the neglected yard, hoping for something—a clue, a mark, anything—but there was nothing but weeds reclaiming the ground. Where was Muru?

"Mediah?"

The soft, wavering voice startled him. He turned, his hand instinctively holding the edge of the red shawl around his neck. Standing a few paces away was an elderly woman, her frame hunched as she leaned heavily on a cane.

"Mrs. Nene?"

"In the flesh and still alive!" she quipped, her toothless grin stretching. "What brings you back, boy? I heard you've made yourself a Magi now."

"You heard correctly," Mediah replied with a faint edge of pride.

Mrs. Nene's smile dimmed slightly as she gestured toward the abandoned house, her cane tapping against the cobblestones. "Muru doesn't live here anymore," she said. "The waves of the Great Exodus swept through, cleansing the shore—and as you can see, the house barely held on. Those Ann were lucky, lucky dogs."

"Oh, I see," Mediah replied, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the shawl draped around his neck. "Do you know where he moved to?"

Mrs Nene tilted her head as she leaned on her cane. "I only know that he moved," she said. Then, she added casually, "And when are you thinking of wearing the white cloak?"

The question struck like a lightning bolt. Mediah's breath caught, his face draining of colour as though the blood itself had turned to ice. "Beg your pardon?"

"The white cloak, son," she said. Her grip on the cane tightened as she leaned closer. "It's time to serve our true Dame. Veilla is long gone."

Mediah's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his side.

"Folks nowadays are rambling about the Sun rising," she went on, her tone edged with disdain, "but they're blind, blind to the truth. The Winterdame is at work, cleansing the land of the impure and the weak. Look at me," she gestured to herself, standing tall despite her frail frame, her toothless smile replaced by a defiant smirk. "I survived the Great Exodus. The Dame spared me and kept me strong. She's doing the work, and so is Muru."

The mention of Muru's name struck like a whip, sending a jolt through Mediah's spine. Mrs Nene leaned in, her voice softening just enough to make the words sink deeper. "You should talk to him, son. Learn from him. The Dame's path isn't for everyone—but it might be yours."

Mediah straightened, his fingers brushing instinctively over the fabric of his black robe, a reflex more than a conscious act. Had she always been like this? The thought gnawed at him as he studied her hunched figure, her gnarled hands gripping the cane as though it were a sceptre of authority. Memories flashed in his mind of an old woman with a kind smile and always a treat hidden in her apron. Back then, she'd seemed harmless.

But now? Now, her words dripped with zealotry.

Winters had passed since his last steps here, and though the district hadn't changed much, it felt foreign to him now, as if the time away had carved a chasm he couldn't cross.

This wasn't his home—never had been—but it was here, among the shifting sands and creaking docks, that his childhood had unfolded. He, Ulencia and Muru had spent endless days running the shores, sticks in hand, slashing at invisible foes. They imagined themselves heroes, future wearers of the black robes they so admired.

Born in Antares, Spiyles, his birth came at a cost. The loss of his human mother cast a long shadow, one that seemed to stretch into every corner of his existence. It wasn't uncommon, they said, for such births to claim lives; an incubus child's from a human. She never stood a chance to survive.

Still, the weight of it crushed his father in ways that words couldn't describe.

His father travelled back to Ormgrund and left Mediah at the first orphanage he found in the Fisherman District. There, among other children who had also been left behind or lost, Mediah grew up—his true power unknown to him for much of his early life, his origins shrouded in the hazy details of a story too common in such a place.

He was just Nameless like many others.

Growing up as an orphan on these beaches, Mediah never truly felt a sense of belonging, despite the playful childhood days with Muru and their dreams of heroism and honour.

Ormgrund hevet Munas

Phrase

Translation: The homeland hears the moons, or can be replaced by any other location.

Definition: "Ormgrund hevet Muna" is a proverb in Menschen suggesting that just as the homeland (Ormgrund) is aware of all that transpires within its bounds, similarly, the phases of the moon (Muna) signify that nothing escapes notice. This phrase metaphorically embodies the idea that the surroundings are constantly listening and observing, much like the expression "The walls have ears." It is used to caution against speaking freely in situations where confidentiality is expected or required.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

Mediah stopped. Finally, there it was—an ageing, stoic structure that seemed smaller than it had in his memories. The orphanage's crooked roof sagged slightly, and the small patio, overgrown with dry tufts of grass and stubborn dead weeds, seemed untouched since the last time he'd seen it.

Mediah stepped forward and placed his hand on the door's worn wood. It gave with a familiar creak as he pushed it open.

Dust motes danced in the air, stirred by the swish of a broom across the well-worn floor. The woman wielding it, without looking up, spoke. "Things don't change. There's the boy, the cool kid on the block, but never knocks."

A grin spread across Mediah's face. "I missed you too, Mama Alana," he replied, leaning against the wall with an easy familiarity, his arms crossed as if he'd never left.

Her sweeping paused, the broom halting mid-stroke. She turned just enough to glance at him over her shoulder, a raised eyebrow punctuating her bemused smile. The years might have softened her edges, but her ability to make him feel seen—remained untouched.

Mama Alana's face lit up as she turned, her warm, round features softening with a smile that crinkled the corners of her bright blue eyes. The broom clattered gently against the wall as she set it aside, brushing her hands against her apron before striding over to him. Her gaze swept him from head to toe, her lips twitching into a playful smirk.

"Well, look at you," she said, tilting her head as if to size him up properly. "All tall in his fancy black robe with a fancy jewel all shiny on his dome and, oh and… what's this? A red scarf?" Her eyebrows lifted, the teasing note unmistakable. "A girlfriend's gift, perhaps? Ulencia?"

"No, not Ulencia." Mediah hesitated, realising too late that Mama Alana didn't know Ulencia's final fate. "Mama Alana... Ulencia, she... didn't make it."

"Didn't make it?"

"She's gone."

Mama Alana didn't flinch, didn't show the grief Mediah had braced for. Instead, she exhaled—slow, calm—as if she had known all along.

"So, she's joined the others in the deep night." Her tone carried no surprise, only a soft inevitability. Maybe that made it easier for Mediah. Maybe it was the only way she could bear it. "That girl shone brighter than all of us together. And she still does, doesn't she?"

"Something like that," Mediah replied, his lips quirking into a sad half-smile. "Where are the kids?" he asked. "Still sleeping? Or has old Alana gone soft over the Winters? Getting a little sloppy, maybe?"

Her eyes narrowed, the broom snapping back into her hand like a weapon reclaimed. "Soft? Sloppy?" she echoed, feigning outrage. "I should smack you with this broom, boy. I did it once, twice; I can do it again. Repeatedly!"

Mama Alana gestured with a tilt of her head. The broom left propped against the wall as she made her way to the kitchen. The faint scent of herbs and smoked fish lingered in the air as she reached for the kettle, filling it with water before setting it on the stove.

"There are no children," she said.

Mediah frowned, leaning slightly against the doorframe. "Sorry? Did you close the orphanage?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she shook her head. "No," she replied. "We're still open. The children are just... not here."

"What? Where are they?"

She met his gaze, then, in a voice that carried more emotion than her words alone, she said, "Ormgrund hevet Munas."

"What happened?" he asked. "Are they safe? Are you—what happened?"

"Winter, bloody Winterdame is what happened," Alana muttered. The kettle hissed, steam curling upward as she reached for a teapot. "It seems she's finally woken up from whatever beauty sleep she was in."

The clink of porcelain filled the silence as she poured the boiling water, her hands steady, though her jaw tightened with every word. "She's ordered all newborn girls—every one of them, up to one Winter old—to be brought to the palace."

Alana paused; her shoulders sagged slightly, and for a moment, her silence said more than the bitterness in her voice.

"It doesn't take much to guess," she continued, "what she plans to do with those little ones." Her hands resumed their task, but her mind was clearly elsewhere, burdened by the cruelty of a Dame who ruled from far away but reached into even the quietest corners of the Fisherman District.

"Is it because of… the prophecy?" He hesitated; the words almost stuck on his tongue as his mind raced to piece together what little he knew.

Alana stilled, her hand hovering over the teacup mid-stir. "The prophecy?" she echoed. "Ah... the one that talks about a new Dame, the Sun that will rise again."

Mama Alana let out a puff, the spoon clinking softly against the cup as she set it down. "Yes," she said finally. "They think it's her. One of those little girls. And our beloved dame…"

Alana's lips curled into a sneer. "Probably… she's grown tired of chasing fairies and decided babies were a better fit for her taste."

She turned as she poured steaming tea into another cup. "She wants to stop the Sun from rising," she said, "And this? This is her way. We do what we can. We try to send the mothers and their little ones somewhere safe, somewhere far from her reach. Far from here and near the greens."

She turned and handed him a cup, the ceramic warm against his palms.

Mediah accepted, the heat seeping into his cold hands, grounding him. He glanced at Alana. "What is the safe place?" he asked.

"Ormgrund hevet Munas," she whispered again. Her eyes darted briefly toward the door as though the walls themselves might betray her secret.

"They are safe, right?"

Alana's fingers tightened around her own cup, her gaze fixed on the rising steam.

"If they need protection, I can help, Mama," Mediah offered.

"Mir Oxé," she replied with her hand resting briefly on his arm, a gesture of thanks. "But you're not here for me or the children, are you, sunshine? What is it you need?"

Mediah shifted his weight, the cup in his hands growing cooler as he hesitated. "I went to Muru's house," he began, "But it's empty. His parents are gone, and nobody seems to know where he went. Or if they do, they're not about to tell someone wearing a black robe. So, I was thinking… maybe you might know something? Or… know someone who does?"

Alana shrugged almost dismissively as she brought the teacup to her lips. "If I knew something? He moved a while ago. I heard he got himself a young bride—very young, very pretty." She set the cup down on the table, the soft clink punctuating her sentence. "Bless her saat, poor thing."

She leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping absently against the rim of the cup. "Moved his father's company to Maria-Se," she continued. "And people around here… well, they're not exactly throwing him a farewell party. Jobs were already hard to come by, and then he up and took most of them away. Left a lot of folks here struggling. You could say he's not remembered too fondly in these parts."

"That explains a lot," Mediah said, his eyebrows arching just enough to show mild intrigue. The news didn't surprise him—it felt like the kind of move Muru would make.

"Hard time getting a hold of him?"

Mediah exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Well, I've been here four days now… so yeah," he admitted. "And I've heard things—things that worry me."

Alana set her cup down with a deliberate clink. "You go to Maria-Se," she instructed. "Look for the biggest house."

"Biggest house?"

Alana's lips twitched into a faint smirk, her voice cutting through his hesitation like a slap on the wrist. "Do you hear me stammer, boy? Biggest house. It's hard to miss."

Mediah gave a slight shake of his head, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Mir Oxé," he murmured.

But an image burned in his thoughts: one eye a deep, endless blue, the other a fiery ember that seemed to consume everything it touched. Could Mama Alana know the woman? The memory of that gaze made his chest tighten. His fingers twitch against the cup he held. The need to ask—to know—gnawed at him, but the words wouldn't come.

Countless times have I crossed paths with Mediah on that fateful day—the day my parents fell victim to Xendrix's unrelenting ambition. And just as many times, I failed to convey the words he needed to hear, the message that might have mattered. I have spoken of this before, weaving excuses to console myself, clinging to the notion that nothing I could have said or done would have averted the tragedy waiting for him at Maria-Se. Yet, deep within, I cannot escape the gnawing doubt: could even a single word, offered differently, have changed the course of fate? Is this the point of no return that I and the Howling Night so desperately seek? Who knows? —by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.