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

She did snore.

From beneath a cascade of branches twined with soft-petaled blue flowers, Doriana sprawled across the bedding. The dim moonlight caught on those flowers as though captured in a painting of fairytales.

Yet, instead of faeries or gentle lullabies, a deep, guttural snore rose. It burst forth in uneven, rumbling waves, rattling the petals and jarring the peace.

Mediah stirred, eyelids still heavy, shoulders quivering as he pressed a fist to his mouth. A muffled chuckle built in his chest, desperate to escape, but he bit it back.

The makeshift sanctuary of blankets and pillows had cradled them for three nights now. Their world shrunk down to sweet whispers, love promises, sweat and sex.

Her presence remained as irresistible as the first evening—perhaps more so. Even with her snoring, he felt as if he was too deep in love.

She blinked the sleep from her eyes, knuckles brushing across her lashes as she asked. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah, I am."

"I should call Gale," she murmured, glancing toward the door, "to bring us something to eat." Yet she made no move to leave the comfort of their nest.

Before the thought could take root, he slipped an arm around her waist, guiding her head to rest on his chest. "Let's leave him alone a bit longer," he said, fingers idly combing through her hair, coaxing her to stay.

She lingered there, and her cheek pressed to his warm skin while his chest rose and fell like a lullaby. "You're not hungry?"

Mediah's chuckle slipped between them as if laughter had been fighting to escape all morning. Doriana stirred, lifting her head. Strands of hair fell in a wild tangle around her face, and the sheen of sweat made her skin catch the light. She squinted at him, still half-tethered to sleep's warmth.

"What?"

He let a quiet moment stretch before answering. "You snore."

"I do not!" She pushed herself up, hair swinging forward. He could almost feel the ripples of wounded pride rolling off her as she brushed the back of her hand across her forehead.

"You do," he said with smiling, letting his gaze linger on her tangled hair and flushed cheeks, trying not to trail too long along her naked skin.

"Really?" Doriana leaned closer, searching his eyes for a hint of teasing, something to prove he was joking. Instead, his hand drifted up, thumb brushing the curve of her cheek, warm skin on warm skin.

"I don't mind," he murmured. "I'll hex you."

Her posture went still. In the hush that followed, the shadows of branches and flowers danced silently across the walls, sprouting new flowers, just like Yeso.

Doriana's eyes narrowed, a question forming on her lips. "Are you serious?"

"I am."

"What made you change your mind?"

Mediah shifted, propped on one elbow. A playful light danced behind his eyes as he answered, "We've been in this bed for two moons, and the fact you snore like a sailor doesn't bother me." He grinned, bracing himself for the smack of a pillow or a bite of sarcasm.

Instead, she jerked upright, blankets slipping off her shoulders. Her eyes darted across the space as if something crucial might be hiding just out of reach. "Where is it?"

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

He moved too, rising behind her, pressing his chin lightly to her shoulder. Her hair tickled his cheek. "What are you looking for?" he asked, curious. He could sense the fizz of impatience under her skin.

"Where is the book he gave you?" Doriana's tone cut through the calm. She sounded like a child expecting all the gifts she'd been promised.

"It's in my room. Or what is supposed to be my room."

Doriana shifted, swinging one leg off the bedding as if the blankets were ropes she needed to escape. Before she could stand, Mediah's arm slipped around her elbow, a gentle but firm tether, pulling her back until her shoulder settled against his chest.

"After I speak with Muru," he said.

She angled her face upward, puzzled lines creasing her brow. "Why?" she asked. "What difference now or then?"

He stroked her arm absently. "Because tomorrow, you might wake and realise this life isn't what you imagined," he began. "We barely know each other, Doriana. And the Hexe…"

He drew a breath, weighing his words before setting them free. "It's not just some spell—it's a bond that tightens around two lives. I've seen it twist love and fear together into something both brilliant and harmful. You'd feel my pain as if it were yours. Your laugh would echo in my mind, and my fear would keep you awake at night... I mean, I don't know, but... It's not just your emotions anymore—they become ours."

He reached for a strand of hair and slid it away from her cheek, his thumb lingering at her jawline as if pleading for understanding. "I want this," he murmured, dipping his head to kiss her forehead, "but I want to do it right. I need to talk to Muru. I need him to know where I stand, where we stand. I won't hide behind excuses. I won't run off without understanding what this means for all of us. And after that? We face reality. I'll have nothing to bring to a camp except my empty hands and broken promises. Life on the camp means no warm walls and no cushioned mattresses. Think of Noctavia—she left Whitestone Court for tents and open skies. It's possible, but it's not easy."

Mediah ran a hand through his hair, gaze drifting somewhere randomly. In his mind, he pictured the camp as it was when he left: makeshift tents swaying under the Long Night, wooden frames half-raised in the mud, a scatter of tools and planks waiting for someone to shape them into proper shelters. The ground was uneven, the wind tasted of sawdust, and nights were lit by little more than a shared fire and a few stubborn hearts.

"That's what I have," he said. "A clearing where we're trying to turn a few logs into cabins, and maybe—someday—a solid vila for the officers. It's rough, still half-wild, nothing polished or adorned. No jewellery, no shining corridors or marble floors, no high ceilings to keep out the cold."

He looked at Doriana. "I can't promise you comfort like this place. All I can offer is the work of my own hands and magic and the hope that we can make something worth calling home. But my priority will be an army for the Summerqueen."

"Will you be there?"

"What?"

"Will you be there with me?" Doriana's finger curled into the fabric at her knees. "I don't need those things," she said. "I swear, I don't need it. I need you... that's all."

"We don't have an ormsaat," he said. "The closest one is half a day's walk, buried deep in a grove I've never even seen. I have nothing to give you," he finally admitted. A half-smile traced his lips as he let the words settle: "Besides that… I only have... I mean, I love you."

Doriana's lashes fluttered. She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. Her eyes gleamed in the soft light, moisture gathering at the corners, and her breath caught in her throat as if words were tangled there, fighting to escape. She lifted her chin, trying to shape a reply, something beyond silence, something that would match what he'd just laid bare.

Doriana's lips parted without sound. She drew a shallow breath, hands curling in the blankets. "I don't need anything," she managed, voice catching on the last syllable. "I just need—" And she was suddenly interrupted by blue flowers sprouting around them. She didn't realise how happy she was.

Mediah didn't wait for the rest. His arm slipped around her shoulders, pulling her close until the side of her face pressed against his chest. The quiet rise and fall of his breathing steadied her. "Then we'll wait," he whispered, forehead resting lightly against her hair. "We'll do it after we've spoken with Muru. After that, I'll promise you, I'll hex you."

In the hush that followed, a sudden thud rattled the doorframe, breaking the spell. Gale's clear and clipped voice filtered through: "Mrs. Ann, your husband has arrived."

Travelling through worlds, realities, and time is an endeavour far simpler than the daunting task of changing a Magi's mind. I knew all the outcomes, mapped the probabilities, and calculated every variable. Yet, despite my exhaustive efforts, I could not fathom why Mediah refused to hex Doriana Ann.

What man, I pondered, would willingly reject a love so perfect, so undeniable, and so eternal? A love that promised forever? What did he see that I, in all my calculations and foresight, failed to grasp? His choice defied logic, a mystery I cannot yet comprehend.

Lucky for him—or perhaps for me—I made a copy of that book. No, enough copies to fill an entire library. And still, as I stand amidst those countless tomes, I wonder: is it enough? Enough to overcome the relentless stubbornness of this Magi? ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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