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

The air in the grand corridor of the Pollux Palace felt odd. Each step didn't echo, there was but a very faint hum of life—guards barely murmuring, almost no servants bustling and no cadets laughing—everything was strangely muted.

Zora's boots tapped against the floor, the sound intrusive in the eerie quiet. Her eyes darted to the faces she passed, searching for normalcy. But every gaze seemed to slide away too quickly to hold. Servants scurried past her, heads bowed, their hands clutching trays or scrolls as if they'd suddenly found purpose in avoiding her. A pair of cadets rounded a corner, their conversation dying mid-sentence as they caught sight of her. They straightened, nodded briskly, and then walked away with hurried steps that felt more like retreating.

She glanced toward another group of soldiers standing near an arched window, their posture stiff and their voices low. One of them turned his head, saw her, and quickly shifted his gaze to the courtyard beyond.

Zora was forced to shake off the uneasy feeling prickling at her skin. It's just nerves, she told herself, absently touching the flat curve of her stomach. Or the pregnancy. She pressed forward, focusing on reaching the training grounds without letting paranoia get the better of her.

But then, from the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar figure striding toward her. Jaer's dark hair was slightly dishevelled, and his eyes held a focus that made her spine straighten instinctively. His arm looped around her shoulder before she could open her mouth to greet him.

"Walk," he commanded in a low whisper, his body already pivoting them in the opposite direction.

"What is going on?" Zora asked, her steps faltering as she tried to glimpse his expression. This wasn't like Jaer. He wasn't the type to act on impulse, much less to grab someone and pull them away without a word of explanation.

"Just walk."

Zora's heart thudded in her chest as she matched his hurried pace, her questions piling up with every step.

"You're leaving Sorgenstein today," Jaer said.

"What? But I don't have the King's seal," Zora argued, her steps faltering for a moment. "I need the papers in order so I can—"

"Fuck the papers," Jaer snapped as he quickened their pace. "We're going to your chambers. Pack your things and leave immediately."

"What's going on, Jaer?" Zora's steps came to an abrupt halt, her boots scuffing slightly against the polished floor as she turned to face Jaer. "What is happening?"

"Finnegan is happening," he said bluntly, the words clipped as though they burned his tongue. His hand pressed against her shoulder, his grip firm but not forceful. "Please, just trust me."

Before she could protest further, Jaer spun her around again, urging her forward. "He knows who you are."

"What do you mean…"

"He knows," Jaer said, almost too calm.

Zora's stomach twisted. She studied his face, searching for any flicker of anger, disappointment, or even pity—anything to tell her what he was thinking. But there was nothing. His stoicism felt heavier than words, only making her uneasy.

Was he mad? Disappointed? And how much did he know? The words echoed in her mind, spiralling into a dozen questions that had no answers.

What did Finnegan know?

She had been so careful, or so she thought. The name Zora—her true name—was the only fragment she had kept buried.

Her connection to the Dagurstea family, her upbringing in their shadow, her bond with Orlo—all of it had remained locked away as well, hidden beneath the layers she had built to survive in this world as Magi.

And yet, Jaer's words felt like a key turning in a lock she hadn't realized was exposed.

They finally reached her quarters, and Zora's eyes darted toward the half-packed belongings scattered across the room—a life not yet entirely tidy.

Jaer wasted no time. He strode across the space, his hands grabbing whatever he could reach, tossing them unceremoniously onto the bed.

"Jaer, calm down!" Zora said, her hands raised in a futile attempt to slow him. "This probably has an explanation. I did lie about—"

"Not a word!" he hissed. "Not a single word." He repeated. "Sorgenstein hevet Munas!"

Before Jaer could finish his sentence, the door creaked open. Two soldiers stepped inside, their boots thudding heavily against the stone floor as they stationed themselves in the doorway.

And then, Finnegan entered.

His smirk was a wide, knowing curve that tugged at the corners of his mouth—a predator's grin. His silver hair gleamed faintly under the light, his piercing green eyes glinting with a victorious sheen as though he had already claimed whatever prize this moment promised.

"Well, I see Jaer has already informed you… Zora," he drawled, smoothly yet dripping with condescension.

Zora's chest tightened as though an invisible hand had wrapped around her lungs. The words didn't fully register at first.

"I… what…?" she stammered.

Whatever game Finnegan was playing, whatever secrets he held—it was already too late.

Finnegan's hand flicked in a subtle gesture, a silent command for the soldiers to leave. They exchanged a brief glance before stepping back as they exited. The door groaned faintly as the King pushed it closed behind them, the latch clicking, sealing the room in a suffocating cage.

He turned back to Zora, his smirk softening into something more purposeful, more calculated. His piercing eyes fixed on her, unblinking, as though he was looking straight through her, unearthing everything she had tried to bury—all her dirty little secrets.

"When I met you," he began, almost conversational but laced with a quiet arrogant edge, "I almost knew who you were. It was a feeling, faint but undeniable déjà vu. And by the might of The Green Mother, I was right, Zora."

Finnegan stepped closer like a predator circling its prey. "After all, a Night Elf? How rare. And yet," He continued, more personal, as he tilted his head slightly, studying her. "I've only ever met one. Twenty-two Winters ago."

He stopped a few paces from her, his eyes narrowing as his smirk returned, a smug now as if relishing the moment. "Born in Whitestone. The youngest daughter of the most stunning, powerful, and fierce woman I've ever had the privilege of meeting. Does that sound familiar to you, Zora? No? Would you like me to tell you about the day you were born?"

Zora's mind raced. Was he about to reveal it? The promise Darra had whispered to her in the dead of night during Muna's Dois Trae—the one question Zora always wondered. Who was she? Where did she come from?

"Finnegan, stop!"

Jaer stepped forward swiftly, placing himself firmly between the Elven King and Zora.

"This is insane! Please stop."

Finnegan raised a brow, his smirk faltering for the briefest moment before sliding back into place. His hands were clasping behind his back as he regarded Jaer.

"Insane?" Finnegan echoed, his tone almost amused. "Oh, by the Green Mother, you think, my love, the truth is insane?"

"Whatever you think you know, this isn't the way, my love. Please, let her go."

"Let her go?" The King's voice dropped, smooth and venomous, as he stepped closer to Jaer. His long fingers landed firmly on the tiefling's shoulder. With a single motion, he pushed Jaer aside as if peeling back the last layer of protection between him and Zora.

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Jaer stiffened but didn't resist. He knew better than to escalate further.

Finnegan's gaze locked onto Zora, his smirk deepening as he closed the distance between them.

"Tell me, Magi," he said with an unsettling charm. "Don't you want to know? Don't you want to know where you come from?" Finnegan continued, his eyes gleaming with pure curiosity. He studied her as if searching for cracks in her armour. "What your name truly is? Because I can offer you all of it," Finnegan said, almost seductive, though the power in it remained undeniable. He leaned closer, his breath warm against the icy wall Zora had thrown up between them.

"And more," he added, his lips curling into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "So much more."

There was something in his voice, in his presence, that, for Zora, felt like both a promise and a threat.

"All I want from you…" Finnegan trailed off, the pause lingering like an unfinished spell.

Zora's hand moved instinctively, pressing protectively over her flat belly, her fingers curling faintly against the fabric of her robe. "What do you want?"

Finnegan's smile widened, as did a predator's grin as he tilted his head. "What every King wants," he said smoothly, his tone carrying an unsettling amusement. "An heir."

Her brows knit together, her voice rising with indignation. "I don't see why you want mine!" she shot back, her hand pressing harder against her stomach as if shielding something he couldn't yet see.

"Oh, oh," Finnegan chuckled. He raised a finger, wagging it as if scolding a child. "Let me explain it to you, my dear greiline d'eiloile, my starseed."

He stepped closer, his presence bigger and darker, looming over her like the Long Night.

"You are a Mageschstea, darling," Finnegan said, drawing out the name as if savouring its taste. His eyes gleamed, the satisfaction of revealing a secret long kept. "Daughter of Veilla Mageschstea, the Fallqueen. Sister of Fiona Mageschstea, the Winterqueen, my wife."

Each word fell like a stone, pressing against Zora with the weight of a truth she had never asked for. Her heart raced, her mind spinning as the names wrapped around her like an unfamiliar shroud.

"Your little bean sprout," Finnegan continued, "owns Whitestone and the whole world as we know it."

Zora's lips parted, but no words came.

"A Mageschstea who is… an elf," Finnegan added, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine. He took another step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that still felt deafening. "How powerful is that? An elf in the centre of the Map! And they will be mine! My golden legacy!"

Zora couldn't reply. Her lips parted as if to form words, but nothing came.

And yet, amid the chaos, threads of clarity began to emerge, unwelcome but undeniable.

The way the Dagurstea family had treated her, not as a true daughter but as a guest they carefully pampered, now made sense. Muna's not-so-secret hatred towards her—it all fit into a puzzle she hadn't realized she was piecing together. Her Spirit, Lolth, is the same as the Fallqueen's. How could she have missed the significance? Why didn't her own Spirit tell her about who she was?

But none of it mattered. None of it. Not when a darker, more urgent fear clawed at her chest.

Did Finnegan know about Orlo?

Her heart stuttered at the thought, her mind flashing back to the phone call. That stupid phone. Had her recklessness put him in danger? The thought of his name, his voice, on Finnegan's lips sent a wave of nausea rolling through her. She had been so careless. She hadn't thought. She had called him, and now...

Orlo.

Her hand pressed instinctively against her belly again, grounding herself against the storm inside her. Her breath hitched as the memory of his voice came rushing back, the warmth and smile woven into every word he'd spoken. The way he'd laughed, the way his excitement had spilt over when she told him...

This life growing within her—it wasn't just hers. It was his, too. Their child. A little piece of both of them, a fragile spark of hope and sun—a Sternach.

Her fingers curled slightly against her stomach as if shielding that tiny, unspoken bond. She didn't care about her bloodline or the weight of her lineage. She didn't care about Whitestone or the power Finnegan claimed she carried.

What mattered was Orlo. And the new little life they had created together.

Whatever game the King was playing, whatever power he thought he had, she wouldn't let him touch what truly mattered.

Not Orlo. Not their child.

"No."

The word spilt from her lips. It wasn't just an answer—it was a barrier, a desperate shield against the catastrophe he was unleashing.

Finnegan's smirk widened, cruel and calculating, his gaze boring into her as though dissecting her resolve piece by piece. His hand drifted to his belt, almost languid. The dagger gleamed as he unsheathed it, the blade catching the light and reflecting it in sharp, cold flashes.

"'No,' you say?" he drawled, the mockery in his tone unmistakable. He stepped closer. The dagger tilted in his grasp, its point levelling toward her chest.

"Do you know how you were born, child?" His voice was low, venomous, each word dripping with malice. He took another step, the dagger's point a silent threat hanging between them. "Because I was there."

Finnegan leaned closer. "We killed your mother," he hissed. "Ripped you from her womb while she died."

She staggered back a step. The dagger followed her movement, its tip unwavering as Finnegan's eyes burned with a twisted satisfaction.

Zora's lips parted but sealed by a maelstrom of emotions churned within her—fear, anger, despair—all battling for control.

"Finnegan, stop!" Jaer's voice cracked through. But his words barely seemed to reach Finnegan. The King stood unwavering, the dagger in his hand poised with cruel intent, his smirk widening as though the entire moment was a game he'd already won.

Jaer froze, his heart hammering in his chest, terror clawing at his ribs. Forcing himself on Finnegan would be a death sentence. He knew that. Finnegan's power was not greater than his, but his army was too big to bear single-handed. And worse—any action could bring the King's fury crashing down on Zora.

Jaer's mind raced, his hands twitching by his sides as he searched for a way to intervene. But then… something shifted.

The room seemed to unravel in front of him, like a tapestry suddenly fraying at the edges, revealing hidden threads he hadn't seen before. Time slowed, the weight of the moment stretching into something neat.

His gaze fell on Zora, his breath catching as clarity washed over him like a sudden burst of light.

Her eyes—he hadn't noticed before, not truly. But now, the faint strikes of gold shimmering in their depths were unmistakable. They were the same as Zonnestra's—the eye of the Hexe.

Zora wasn't afraid—not for herself. That much was clear now. Her gaze wasn't on the dagger hovering near her, nor was it on Finnegan. Instead, it was fixed on something beyond herself. Her stance was rigid, her hand pressed protectively against her stomach, but her face… her face betrayed something deeper.

Jaer had seen that look before.

It was the same expression she wore when she confronted Shuri. A fierce—not born of fear, but of protection.

The realization struck Jaer like a jolt that left him breathless. This wasn't just about Zora anymore. Her fear wasn't hers alone—it was for something, someone she was shielding with every fibre of her being. She was protecting her Hexe.

Orlo. The name hit Jaer like a blow to the chest. He had met Yeso's child once, long ago, in Faewood. A quiet, unassuming baby who spent most of its time sleeping, always curled up with a white mouse nestled at its side.

The memory struck with undeniable clarity—how hadn't he seen it before? How hadn't he pieced it together? Zora carried Yeso's bloodline. It was as plain as the gold glinting in her eyes, as unmistakable as the power that emanated from her.

"Finnegan, stop!" Jaer's voice rang out louder and fiercer than before, filled with an authority that surprised even him. But this time, it wasn't just a desperate plea—it was a warning, charged with a raw power that only a Magi could yield.

A sudden heat flared from his palm, and a swirling ball of fire grew steadily. The flames licked at the air, alive and pulsing with his rage. The light reflected in his crimson skin, his tiefling horns catching the glow as his body radiated an energy that threatened to consume the room.

"I swear by the stars," Jaer growled. His blue eyes burned with intensity as he took a step forward, positioning himself between Zora and the King. "If anything happens to her or her child…" He held the fire aloft. Its heat crackled with unbridled power. "You will not live the first light of Summer."

Finnegan's smirk faltered, the dagger in his hand lowering as his gaze flicked between the raging fireball and Jaer's face, etched with a ferocity he hadn't anticipated.

"Let her go."

"Fine, fine," Finnegan drawled, waving his hand as though dismissing a minor inconvenience. "No need to be a drama queen." His lips curved into a sly smirk as he turned back toward Zora, his tone light and almost playful, though the menace beneath it lingered. "You will stay here. I will adopt your child, and nobody loses their life. Happy now?"

He turned his attention to Jaer, raising an eyebrow as if trying to reason with a temperamental child. "Jaer, you need to understand—it's just politics. Damn you, always taking the fun out of everything. I wasn't going to hurt her. She is about to be a mamavida! Right? That is how you say it in the Blue-Ones tongue?" His voice dripped with mock innocence, almost offended. "You think I'm some kind of evil villain king? Like that human... what was his name? Kendrix, Zendrix... ah, Xendrix, that's the name."

Zora's hand pressed firmly over her stomach; her fear hadn't dissipated, but in its place grew something that her summers would simmer—strategy. Finnegan's arrogance might have just given her an opening.

"He knows!" she blurted suddenly.

Finnegan paused mid-turn, his head snapping back to Zora. His brows knit together, "Who?" he asked.

"The father of the child," Zora said firmly, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that dared him to challenge her.

"Well then," he said, his voice light but edged with a dangerous undertone. "It seems we have another call to make."

Zora's stomach twisted, her words settling over her like a stone. This could free Orlo from the burden tied to her and their child, granting him the safety of anonymity once more. It would be for the best.

It was at that moment, standing there with Jaer's fire still crackling in the background and Finnegan's smirk burning into her memory, that Zora felt a new kind of hatred. A hatred so visceral it clawed its way into her chest and settled there, burning like a brand.

From that day forward, she hated Finnegan Berdorf more than she had ever hated anyone. His smugness, his manipulations, the way he played people like pieces on a chessboard—it all fueled a rage that simmered quietly beneath her skin.

But what she hated most—what would stick with her for the rest of her life, all those centuries—was the thing that had made it all possible.

Phones.

I don't know her phone number. I don't have her email. She has no presence on social media and no digital trace to follow. I am completely in the dark, waiting—always waiting—until the day she decides to call me.

And when she does, it is always on her terms. A voice from an untraceable number, fleeting and distant, disappearing as quickly as it came.

There is no one to whom I can truly confide. No one to tell how each day without her gnaws at me, how the uncertainty burrows deeper with every passing moment. I am left with nothing but the dread—a silence not just empty, but profoundly cruel. Does she still hate me? — by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

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