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

The ceiling came into focus slowly, and Mediah blinked, disoriented. The faint scent of something earthy drifted up from downstairs—coffee? No, something deeper, more acrid. His fingers curled against the soft sheets as muted voices reached him, low and abrupt. He strained to piece together what was being said. Still, he only caught the occasional word, their tone enough to set his pulse racing—bad, nasty energy.

He sat up abruptly, the fog in his mind clearing just enough for a single thought to take hold. Muru. Could he have returned?

The house had carried an oppressive silence for over a week, broken only by Doriana's fleeting presence. She was like a shadow—always felt, rarely seen. Her magic lingered like a persistent breeze, comforting yet disquieting, and while he couldn't complain, he also couldn't ignore how much he loved it and how she had found permanent residency in his mind.

Since the night at the beach, their conversations had been sparse, reduced to passing words and polite exchanges. It wasn't outright avoidance, but the space between them felt intentional and carefully maintained.

Mediah noticed how Doriana always seemed to be just out of reach—leaving a room as he entered, speaking only when necessary, her gaze never lingering long enough for him to read her.

He couldn't decide if it was because she didn't want to talk to him or if, somehow, he had given her the impression that he didn't want to talk to her.

But now, with the unmistakable clamour below, his chest tightened. If Muru had returned, it would mean coins. Or consequences.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stood, the floor creaking under his weight. The voices grew louder, rougher, cutting through the house's stillness. Hastily, Mediah tugged on his pants and shrugged into his white blouse, his fingers fumbling with the buttons as he moved to the door.

At the top of the staircase, he could see three figures—White Cloaks.

"Go ahead," Doriana said, standing tall, her chin high, facing the intruders head-on. But Mediah could sense it for what it was—a fragile front that was stretched thin. "Look wherever you want. I have nothing to hide."

"The one called Mama Alana confessed she sent three pregnant women your way!"

"Go ahead, and good luck!"

Mediah gripped the bannister, his knuckles whitening against the polished wood. His lips pressed into a thin line as he realized the implications. His fingers instinctively brushed his forehead, the ridge of the Ophius mark burning like a brand under his touch. "Shit," he hissed, spinning on his heel and retreating into the shadows of the upstairs hallway. Being a Magi sometimes didn't play in his favour.

Back in his room, Mediah's gaze swept the space. His eyes landed on a crumpled towel draped carelessly over the back of a chair. Perfect.

He snatched it up without hesitation, wrapping it around his head and long hair and arranging the folds to hang low enough to shadow his brow. The Ophius disappeared beneath the fabric's cover.

Crossing the porcelain basin in the corner, he leaned forward, splashing cold water onto his face. Droplets clung to his skin, dripping down his neck and soaking into the loose fabric of his shirt. His reflection in the basin's mirror stared back at him—wet, dishevelled, but convincing. He looked like a man caught off guard in the middle of a bath, not a Magi desperate to avoid a trip to Whitestone's infamous Dungeon.

Straightening his posture, he adjusted the towel one last time, his expression hardening. It's just an act, he told himself. Keep calm. Keep it simple. Fake it until you make it!

With a final glance at the mirror, he turned toward the door, his shoulders squared, and prepared to descend into the dragon's den.

He stepped into the hallway and descended the stairs. As he reached the bottom, he asked loud enough, "What is happening?"

Doriana's eyes flicked to him, her expression unreadable for a fleeting moment before she plastered on a smile so sweet it felt like poison.

"Darling," she said warmly, motioning toward the cloaked figures, "these gentlemen believe they need to search our house. An inspection, they claim."

Mediah tilted his head, one brow arching in exaggerated curiosity. His gaze swept the intruders with slow disdain, watching as their confidence barely faltered. "Papers?"

The lead figure stiffened, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his blade. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"How dare you ask me who I am? How can you possibly not know who I am!" Mediah straightened his posture. He adjusted the towel over his head, ensuring the mark was concealed. "I'm Muru Ann," he said. "Oldest and only heir of the Ann dynasty. Please, educate yourself!"

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The name landed heavily, making one of the men shift uncomfortably.

Mediah let the pause linger before continuing. "You are in my house! And inspections of this nature require authorization from Whitestone! Always! Where are your papers?"

The White Cloaks exchanged glances. One of them mumbled something inaudible. Mediah stepped closer, his voice gaining an edge of fury. "Interrupting my honeymoon," he hissed, gesturing dramatically to the towel on his head, "and dragging me from the bath—without papers?" He let out an intentional fake laugh. "Absolutely intolerable."

He stepped forward, finger-snapping up to point at one of the men without any thought. "You!" he barked. "What is your name?"

The man stiffened, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air as though even his own name had suddenly eluded him.

"I need names," he barked, his tone brooking no argument. His glare swept over the White Cloaks, pinning each of them. "So I can escalate this to your supervisors and ensure you finally learn how to do your jobs properly! Tell me," he continued, voice rising with each word, "where on the Map have you seen people invading homes without so much as a bloody paper to justify it? You're acting like humans!" His emphasis on the last word was laced with the known disdain Muru had for all creatures that weren't Blue Blooded.

The three White Cloaks exchanged uneasy glances. Finally, one of them stepped forward, his voice strained and apologetic.

"Please forgive the intrusion," he said, his hands half-raised in a placating gesture. "We were just... checking the whereabouts of some children, infants that have disappeared."

Mediah didn't wait for the sentence to fully land. He drew himself up, shoulders squared, and let his voice explode through the room, booming with calculated fury. "There are no babies if you keep interrupting me!" The force of his words made the men flinch, one of them visibly stepping back and Doriana holding her laugh.

"Anything else?"

One finally mustered a response. "No, sir. Please enjoy your honeymoon." Without waiting for another word, they turned on their heel. Mediah followed them to the door. He stood there, towel still draped over his head, watching as they crossed the threshold and disappeared down the path.

Only when he was certain they had left the property did he close the door with a firm, decisive click. Pulling the towel from his head, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

As he turned, his eyes fell on Doriana, standing with her arms crossed. Just behind the couch, Gale emerged slowly, his little eyes betraying the tension that lingered in the room. Mediah raised a brow, tossing the towel onto a nearby chair.

"Well," Mediah muttered, "that was... something."

"You," Doriana said with mock admiration, "are a great actor."

"What are you hiding?"

"Who needs a transformative spell with such great acting skill," Doriana turned as she gestured with a wave of her hand. "Follow me, husband."

The three of them crept along the narrow corridor, shoulders brushing against damp stone walls. Their breath clouded in the lamplight, curling away before vanishing into the cellar's coolness.

As they progressed, the space opened into rows of heavy oak casks, their cracked woods exhaling the faint memory of red wine. In the far corner, beyond the hulking barrels and dripping mortar, a secret door opened on the floor. The stairway beyond plunged deeper in a spiral as if the earth itself held more to hide.

Mediah swallowed hard, wondering what waited in the darkness below the cellar.

Gale's torch sputtered and hissed, casting restless shadows that stretched and shrank over the damp walls. At the bottom of the stairway, the torchlight faltered, overtaken by a bluish glow that shimmered across the wet stone. Mediah froze mid-stride, the chill in his bones momentarily forgotten. Before them, a cavern stretched, lit by something more gentle than flame—thin filaments of light traced along mineral veins, reflecting in the still surface of a wide, underground lake—an Ormsaat.

On the far shore, silhouettes moved around. Women cradled tiny shapes against their chests, some swaying on their feet, others whispering soft lullabies that murmured over the water. A few steps away, a toddler reached for a mother's sleeve.

Opposite them, shelves carved into the rock brimmed with slender, luminescent jars. Each container pulsed softly, their contents shifting hues so subtly Mediah couldn't name the colours. He stood there, jaw slack, heart tapping at his ribs as if he had stumbled from a dark cellar into a secret world hidden beneath the skin of the world.

Slender branches twisted along the walls with blue flowers. The same ones that Mediah saw when he had awoken after Dois Trae.

A quick motion drew his eye—Gale thrust the torch into Mediah's hand. Before he could react, Gale dropped forward, hooves scraping over the ground as he shifted form. He turned to a common goat with his coat transforming into a dark tapestry of pinpoints of silver, each twinkling like a distant star made of fire.

Gale moved with otherworldly grace, his hooves barely making a sound against the stone as he darted swiftly between the shelves.

Meanwhile, Doriana stepped closer. "I could share their names," she said, eyes shifting toward the cluster of women and children cradled near the bluish glow, "but for now, I think it best they remain unknown. Once Koimar gives my words to Sorgenstein, they'll be gone shortly."

Mediah was listening, but his attention drifted. His eyes kept sliding over her shoulder, drawn by the strange figure of Gale weaving among the shelves. The goat sniffed at the jars, careful and methodical, as if searching for one particular note of scent.

Mediah's brow furrowed. He lifted a hand, a small gesture breaking Doriana's flow of words. His finger extended toward the shimmering goat, "What is he?"

During the final days of the Long Night, countless Menschen families lost their infants, vanishing into the abyss of the hunt, never to return. Yet, a peculiar phenomenon arose in the land of elves, Sorgenstein, a sudden appearance of children bearing an unmistakable "Y" scar etched into their backs. At the time, little was said of these children; their existence was shrouded in whispers and neglect, so common in these times. That silence endured until, fifthteen Summers after the Sun's long-awaited rise, one hundred and two of these children perished in flames in Pollux—a massacre etched into history as one of the darkest stains of the era. The first known crime of the Summerqueen. I was not merely acquainted with who these children were; I knew every harrowing detail. I had heard the anguished sobs of Zora in my bed, her heart breaking under the weight of truths too grim to bear. The Long Night was a time of countless horrors, its atrocities buried deep in shadow, and the tragedy of the Y-children remains among its most sorrowful tales. But never—never—did I imagine that my own child would be one of them. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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