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

The portal opened into the hallway, the light spilling from the ceiling lamp, a steady hum of electricity faint as a welcome home. The silence stretched, amplifying the creak of Zora's boots against the polished floor.

She paused, listening for the familiar scratch of Orlo's pen against paper, but the house remained still as though it had been holding its breath in her absence.

Sliding down from Lolth's back, Zora's hand brushed over the spider's smooth surface as her Spirit began to shrink. Lolth's towering form folded in on itself, limbs curling delicately until she was no larger than a cat. The spider gave an annoyed twitch of her legs before skittering off into the shadows.

Zora's gaze dropped to the floor, and her steps faltered. Petals were scattered along the hall length.

Her stomach twisted; she already knew what this meant before she even reached the living room. The scent of roses mingled with the smell of a meal long cold. Orlo had prepared something—for her, for them—and she hadn't been here. Again.

Zora's boots tiptoed across the floor, following the scattered trail of petals as they led her down the hallway. The scent of roses grew stronger with each step, guiding her toward the dining room. The glow of the ceiling lamp spilt softly into the space, illuminating the table.

The petals ended at the table's leg, where a simple meal had been set. Plates gleamed under the artificial light, perfectly arranged with untouched food.

She stepped closer, her fingers brushing against the back of her chair. As her eyes dropped to her plate, she noticed a card. She reached for it. In Orlo's familiar handwriting, the words stared back at her:

"Please wake me up when you arrive. Love you, O."

Zora sighed, her thumb brushing over the ink as a faint smile tugged at Zora's lips while her gaze drifted across the room. The thought was almost ludicrous—this careful setup, the scattered petals, the neatly arranged table—for an apartment shared by just the two of them, and he still signed the note with his name like there was anyone else who lived here and would make such a lovely gesture.

Well, not just the two of them.

Her eyes flicked to the corner, where a scuffling sound broke the silence. A small, whiskered nose peeked out from beneath the coach. The Little Mouse twitched her nose in her direction before disappearing. Zora shook her head, amused despite herself.

And then there was Maggie.

She glanced toward the perched potted plant loomed. The vibrant green leaves spilt lazily over the edges of its ceramic pot as if the plant had grown just enough to remind them it was still thriving under Orlo's care.

Zora tugged at the clasp of her black robe, the heavy fabric sliding from her shoulders. Beneath, the polished plates of her elven armour caught the artificial light. She worked the buckles slowly, careful not to let the metal creak or clink. She didn't want to wake up Orlo.

Piece by piece, she eased the armour off, laying it quietly over the back of her chair.

Finally, she turned to her boots. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she crouched, wrestling with the laces. The soles thudded as she set them at the feet of the table, and she cursed silently under her breath for not taking them off first.

She straightened, her muscles aching with dull exhaustion, and her gaze landed on the dessert waiting at the centre of the table—a fresh chocolate cake. A small grin tugged at her lips as she reached for a fork. "He knows me so well."

The sudden glare of light flooded the room, catching her mid-motion. She squinted, startled, the fork frozen in her hand.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

Zora turned, her gaze meeting his as Orlo stood in the doorway.

The guilt settled back over, and Zora froze mid-bite, her cheeks puffed with cake. The fork dangled from her hand, caught in the act. Her wide eyes met Orlo's as he stepped into the light.

"Is it good?" he asked, adjusting his eye-patch, his tone even, but his brow arched in quiet amusement.

Zora nodded quickly, her throat working furiously to swallow. The dryness clung stubbornly, turning the bite into an adamant bland lump.

"It's delicious!" she managed, the words tumbling out as she finally forced the bite down. Her voice betrayed her, a bit too cheerful, a bit too quick.

Orlo's lips twitched, a small, knowing smile forming as he closed the distance between them. He tilted his head, his eye dropping briefly to the fork still in her grip.

Orlo closed the gap between them.

Before Zora could react, he plucked the fork from her hand with an air of mischief and took a bite of the cake. His expression shifted instantly, his face twisting as though he'd bitten into pure bitterness. He grabbed a napkin, spitting out the piece with dramatic flair.

"This is awful," he said.

Zora straightened, her face impassive as she shrugged. "I like it," she lied, though the twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. She could feel his warmth now, his body almost brushing hers as he leaned over the table.

Orlo raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. "You're an awful, awful liar," he murmured, his voice low as he dipped his head. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his breath warm against her skin.

The faint heat rising to her cheeks wasn't from the cake.

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"Talk to me," Orlo murmured, his fingers gentle as they brushed a strand of damp hair from Zora's face. His touch was warm and inviting.

She nestled closer, her cheek resting against his bare chest, the slow rhythm of his heartbeat a quiet balm to her restless thoughts. His wings wrapped around her, creating a cocoon shielding her from everything beyond this moment. The sweat on her skin clung to him, but he didn't seem to care. Neither did she.

Zora closed her eyes, letting the rise and fall of his breath soothe the ache that lingered in her muscles. She didn't want to speak—not yet. Not when the rare quiet between them felt so good.

Her stolen escapes to Ostesh had become fewer and farther between. The Shadow World had grown more treacherous with each passage, the dangers pressing closer every time she traversed its paths. And Pollux… Pollux demanded more of her with each passing day. The weight of it followed her, even here, even now.

She tightened her hold on him, her fingers tracing patterns over his wing. "I don't think I want to renew my contract with the Elven King," Zora murmured.

Orlo's hand paused mid-stroke against her back, his wings shifting slightly around them. He didn't speak right away, letting her words settle.

"We haven't received any reply from the Ostesh Military Office," he said. "I've been checking every day. But I guess I could go to the bureau myself and see if there's any update on your candidacy."

His fingers resumed their gentle motion, tracing over her damp skin, but there was a subtle tension beneath his touch. Orlo's wings shifted again, drawing her closer. He didn't press her further, but he could feel that behind her words and hesitation, there was a strange, dark gut feeling haunting her.

Orlo murmured, "Whenever you're ready."

His hand rested lightly on her back, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat through her skin inside his chest. The faint scent of her lingered between them, the unmistakable warmth of sweat and sex clinging to her body. Her breath, slow and even now, whispered against his collarbone.

And yet, there was something beneath it all—something he couldn't name. He couldn't reach. Couldn't reach her. Her thoughts were locked behind a barrier he couldn't break.

"What if…" Zora shifted against him, her fingers continuing to brush over his wing as though grounding herself. "What if I don't want to be a battlemage anymore?"

Orlo stilled, the question catching him off guard. His brow furrowed, his wings shifting once more, and he tilted his head just enough to glance at her.

"But you love it," he said carefully. "You're a captain now. What changed your mind?"

He angled his neck to meet her gaze, expecting the usual spark of certainty in her expression. Instead, he found her eyes glistening, the faint shimmer of unshed tears catching the soft light.

"Do you remember the kids I'm escorting to Pollux?"

He nodded, his hand brushing gently along her arm. "Yeah, of course. Did something happen?"

She hesitated, her breath catching, and when she spoke again, the words came slowly, as though forcing them out made them more real. "They… Finnegan ordered their wings to be cut."

The room seemed to shrink, and Orlo froze, his hand halting mid-motion. No words came to his lips, no sound at all. His mind grappled for something to say, but nothing felt right.

"I saw it," Zora began, her voice tight, the words trembling as they escaped her lips. "I saw it firsthand… They don't use a knife. They pull the wings out, like… like a child pulling the wings off a fly."

Her hands tightened into fists against his chest. "The wings," she continued, her voice faltering, "they're not just surface things. They have roots… attached to the spine. And… most of the babies don't survive. Sometimes... Sometimes, the spine comes out with them. I saw…" She squeezed her eyes shut, the image too vivid, too raw. "I saw a baby, and the wings came out with a saatgut. It was this tiny, glowing pouch… and then it went... dark."

Her following words were barely audible. "The baby stopped crying… because it was... dead."

Orlo's arms tightened around her instinctively, his wings shifting to shield her tighter from a truth he couldn't unsee either. "Zora…"

"I don't even know which side I'm on anymore," Zora said. "This… this can't be the good guys. I don't want to be... on this side. It feels wrong. It feels evil..."

She glanced at Orlo, her eyes clouded with something deeper than exhaustion. "And Jaer… I've never seen anyone so torn apart. He's… eaten alive by guilt, Orlo. We were supposed to save those kids, not—" Her voice faltered, her lips trembling before she forced herself to continue. "Not torture them. Not strip them of their saat."

Her hands dropped to her sides, fists clenched tightly. "Finnegan says it's to protect them. That we can't have Menschen flying around Pollux… But what does that even mean? If his wife knew he was—he was betraying her?"

Orlo leaned in, his lips brushing hers softly, not to silence her but to pull her from the depths of the sorrow that seemed to consume her.

"I want to be home," Zora murmured, breaking the kiss. She pressed her forehead against his, her breath warm against his skin. "I want to dance again."

Orlo pulled back just enough, his brow furrowing in quiet surprise. "Dance? You want to join a circus?"

She shook her head, her fingers curling against his chest as if clinging to the words she had finally spoken aloud. "No… I just want to dance. I could teach," Zora said, her fingers tracing absent patterns against Orlo's chest. "And come home every day. I'm tired of being always late. Would that be okay? I need… I need a purpose. And right now, I don't have one."

Orlo didn't answer right away, his gaze fixed on her as she spoke.

"I could wear my robe again—anytime." Her hand stilled, resting flat against his heart. "Jaer said it's common… for a Magi to take a break when their cause seemed lost. And now… now, I don't feel so lost when I'm here. Only here."

"Well, it's a plan," Orlo said. "It's a good plan. I just don't want... I don't want to trap you here with me."

Zora shifted, rising from her resting position to face him fully. "What do you mean?"

Orlo looked away for a moment, his fingers brushing against her arm as though grounding himself. "I already trapped you… with the Hexe," he said. "I don't want to—"

"What are you talking about?"

"If you and I weren't hexed…" Orlo took a deep breath before he found the strength to continue. "Would you fall in love with me?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. Zora blinked, her lips parting as though to answer, but no words came immediately. "I… well…" she stammered, her gaze dropping for a moment before meeting his again.

"You'd probably be with a girl because that is you; you like girls," he said gently. "You wouldn't be with me."

"Well, I'd rather be hexed," she declared firmly. "Orlo, I've liked many girls, but I've only loved one boy, and that's you. If I had a choice, I'd beg a thousand times to be hexed."

"I don't want to stop you from greatness," he said. "But if you need a break to find yourself, to find your purpose…" He leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. "I will always be here—Avenue Ramesonho, number forty-four, Regulus."

I used to be terribly insecure, especially when it came to Zora. Don't misunderstand—I was never lacking in confidence, and I wasn't blind to the attention I garnered from other students. But Zora… she was something else entirely. She was breathtaking, effortlessly commanding a room with her presence. And it wasn't just my breath she stole.

Zora's beauty wasn't the only thing about her that left me in awe. Her spirit, her resilience, and, yes, her past—those things consumed my thoughts. Before she met me, she was entirely Sapphic, a fact she made no attempt to hide. It was who she was, unapologetically. And I—I was tormented by it. Not by who she was, but by the nagging question that lingered like an unspoken curse: What if my father hadn't created the hex?

Would she have met me, fallen in love with me? The answer feels glaringly obvious, and it stings every time it crosses my mind. Undoubtedly, we would have been friends. And that would have been it. I know I would have fallen for her; there's no question about that. But her? Without the spell binding us, what chance would I have had?

This "but"—this small, cruel word—haunts me. Sometimes, in my darker moments, I think about finding a way to break the hex. To release her from it, to know, without a shadow of a doubt, what her heart truly feels. Would she choose me then?

So I ask myself: Am I a selfish man, clinging to this spell because it keeps me tethered to Zora and to the possibility of our daughter? Or am I simply a father desperate to set things right in whatever way I can? I don't know. Perhaps it's both. Perhaps it's neither. But the question never lets me rest. — by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

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