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

Maria-Se came into view as the ferry drew closer. The docks buzzed with activity, fishermen unloading their hauls while merchants bargained loudly. But as Mediah stepped off the ferry and into the heart of Maria-Se, the lively atmosphere of the port quickly faded. The streets were strangely quiet, the faint hum of distant conversations and the occasional dog bark the only sounds.

The chill clung to his Black Robe, sharper than the salty breeze from the docks, seeping into Mediah's skin. He glanced around, his breath visible in faint puffs, but the streets remained deserted.

There was no one to stop, no one to ask for directions.

With no other choice, he climbed the winding path away from the docks. The cobbled streets slowly gave way to smoother stone. The further he walked, the more the dock's warmth seemed to drain away and be replaced by rime and patches of snow.

At last, he came to a stop. Before him loomed a grand façade, the railings stretching endlessly in either direction. Behind the bars, a sprawling estate rose with pale stone walls, surrounded by meticulously groomed hedges.

Mediah's gaze travelled up the length of the gate. If Muru was anywhere, it had to be here. This was the biggest house he had ever seen.

He paced along the length of the railing. He scanned the iron bars, searching for a gate, a bell, a knocker—anything to announce himself. But there was nothing. "And they wonder why I never knock... nobody makes it easy."

The drop on the other side was obscured by hedges and uneven ground, leaving the landing a question mark in his mind.

"Guess I'll figure it out when I'm down there."

Mediah glanced over his shoulder to ensure no prying eyes were watching. With an exhale, he stretched his fingers and summoned the wind. A gust swirled beneath his bare foot, spiralling with a muted hum as it lifted him upward. He moved on foot, finding balance in the invisible current until his hand reached for the steel rail.

Clinging to the cold metal, he steadied himself at the top of the railing. Just as he leaned forward to assess his landing, a feral bark pierced the silence. His eyes snapped toward the gravel patio, where a dog with three heads emerged from the shadows. His hackles rose, and his teeth bared as foam-flecked each snapping jaws. The barking grew louder and angrier.

Mediah froze, his grip tightening on the steel pole. The wind beneath him flickered, his focus faltering as panic crept in. Below, the dog paced, all his eyes gleamed, ready to tear into him the moment his feet touched the ground.

Above, the railing dug into his hands, its cold bite warning him that his hold wouldn't last much longer. He hung there, caught between the snapping jaws below and the merciless steel above.

A sudden gust whipped around him, tugging at the red shawl draped over his shoulders. Mediah's fingers twitched as he reached for it, but the fabric slipped away, carried on the wind like a crimson banner. It fluttered downward, landing softly at the feet of the snarling dog.

He grimaced, his jaw tightening as he braced for the inevitable shredding. The three-headed lunged toward the shawl, each jaw snapping—but then all stopped. Sniffing cautiously, one by one, his growls faded, replaced by curious whines. Moments later, the tail wagged.

He let out a resigned sigh, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "I can't say I'm surprised."

Mediah released his grip on the railing, his feet landing softly on the gravel patio below. The dog now wagged his tail and trotted toward him. He kept his movements slow, crouching just enough to reach for the red shawl at his feet. The dog gave a soft huff, nudging the fabric closer with its nose as if in a peace offering.

He straightened, slipping the shawl back around his neck, and turned toward the house. The slightly ajar main door creaked faintly as the breeze nudged it open wider. There was no need to knock—clearly, someone expected guests or at least wasn't concerned about uninvited ones.

Stepping inside, the air shifted, warmer and filled with the faint scent of polished wood and old stone. The interior was vast, stretching upward and outward in ways the exterior hadn't hinted at. High ceilings adorned with carvings and sweeping staircases curved gracefully to the upper floors. The space was grand, almost overwhelming, with rows of tall windows casting pale moonlight onto glossy floors.

Mediah moved cautiously down the hallway. Frames cradled paintings that seemed to watch his every step, while tall, elaborately detailed vases stood precariously close to the edges of pedestals as though daring him to stumble.

For a house of such size and grandeur, he would have expected a bustle of staff—voices, footsteps, the rustle of chores being done. Instead, it was quiet, broken only by the faint crackle of his shawl shifting against his robe.

At last, the hallway opened into a vast room dominated by a white marble fireplace that gleamed even in the low light. Its mantle bore riches he couldn't begin to count—golden candelabras, jewelled trinkets, and intricate carvings that spoke of too many coins.

Mediah's fingers hovered over one of the gilded vases, his fingertips grazing it, and he lingered a moment too long. Until the vase wobbled, its base sliding against the smooth surface of the pedestal. Before he could react, it tipped, falling in a slow, inevitable arc.

The porcelain struck the floor with a deafening crash, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces.

Then, a cold steel press kissed his neck, freezing him in place.

"Don't move, filthy bum!" a voice hissed behind him.

Mediah's hands rose slowly, palms open, his body still as the blade's grip held firm. "I came to visit a friend."

"A friend?" The voice cut him off, sharper than the weapon. "Got the wrong house, bum."

The blade pressed harder, a cold line against Mediah's skin. In a fluid motion, he twisted his body, his feet pivoting gracefully as a dancer. The sharp edge swiped past him, catching nothing but air as he spun free of its reach. He straightened, ready to face his attacker.

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But what he saw made him blink.

Standing before him was a goat—upright on two legs, its polished hooves planted firmly on the ground. Round spectacles perched delicately on its nose, glinting in the faint light, and it held the sword awkwardly in one cloven hand.

The blade, upon closer inspection, was far too ornate to be practical—its handle encrusted with jewels, and the blade itself dulled from neglect. A weapon more suited for decoration than combat.

The goatman adjusted its glasses, its beady eyes narrowing as it regarded Mediah with the air of someone entirely too confident.

"You've got to be kidding me," Mediah muttered.

He shifted subtly, his hand slipping behind his back as his weight shifted to one foot. The goat's dull blade wobbled, but its wielder didn't seem to notice Mediah's shift movements. With a sudden, precise jog of his leg, Mediah's toes hooked beneath the blade, sending it spinning upward in a gleaming arc.

The goat bleated in surprise, stepping back as the weapon twisted in the air. Mediah's hand shot forward, catching the hilt mid-spin with a swift, fluid motion. He twirled it once, the dull edge gleaming before he levelled it with a steady grip, pointing the ornate tip toward the stunned goat.

"Not bad," Mediah muttered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "But maybe pick a sharper blade next time. You can only trick a villain so far."

The goat froze its jaw slack, eyes wide behind the round spectacles. It stared at the empty space where the sword had been moments ago, clearly unable to process how quickly the tables had turned. Then, as if fueled by sheer indignation, its face twisted with comical fury.

With a snort, it stamped its hoof on the floor. Lowering its head, the goat angled its horns menacingly toward Mediah, the spectacles slipping slightly down its snout. It let out a guttural bleat, then charged forward in a flurry of determined clumsiness.

Mediah watched the scene unfold, sword loosely gripped in his hand, his lips twitching into a grin. The goat's sprint was more of an awkward hop, its hooves skidding slightly on the polished floor beneath the rug. Mediah stepped aside easily, the horns missing him by a wide margin as the goat dashed past.

Turning, Mediah caught the creature, preparing for another charge. He dodged again, the clattering hooves and exaggerated gestures creating a bizarre rhythm. It became less of a fight and more of a strange, chaotic dance. Each missed lunge only added to the goat's frustration and Mediah's growing amusement. By the third charge, Mediah chuckled under his breath, the situation's absurdity too much to ignore.

"Gale, enough!"

Both Mediah and the goat froze mid-motion, their heads snapping toward the source of the voice. Standing in the doorway was a woman. Her dress was simple, made of plain cotton, its balloon sleeves gently swaying as she stepped forward. The fabric's muted colour contrasted with the wealth surrounding her, giving her an air of quiet grace.

Her dirty blond hair cascaded down her shoulders in loose waves, catching the faint light in a way that softened her features. There was no adornment or jewellery to match the house's grandeur. Mediah lowered the sword instinctively while the goat, still panting from its charge, adjusted its glasses sheepishly, its ears flicking back.

Mediah hadn't fully grasped it at first, distracted by the simplicity of her attire and the grace she emanated. But then she turned her gaze to him, and it struck him like a bolt of lightning—those eyes.

One was a piercing blue, and the other was a fiery ember. Recognition washed over him, stealing the breath from his lungs.

"Mrs. Ann, I'm sorry," the goat—Gale—stammered. "This intruder just—he invaded the property, and I was trying to—"

"Please prepare a warm bath for Magi Mediah," she interrupted. "And double-check that everything is ready in his room."

Gale froze, his hooves awkwardly shifting before he began bowing over and over, the spectacles slipping down his nose with each nod. Before Mediah could respond, the goat scurried away, disappearing into the hallways.

"Mrs. Ann?" Mediah finally managed.

"My husband is on a business trip," she said, her tone clipped, almost cold. Yet beneath her calm demeanour, Mediah felt it again—that familiar ripple of magic. It brushed against his skin, warm and invasive, slipping through him like an unspoken secret.

He straightened his posture, gripping the sword's hilt tighter as if it could ground him. "Well… do you know when he'll return, Mrs. Ann?" He tried to hold her mismatched gaze without flinching to resist the pull of her power that threatened to overtake him.

"No."

Her eyes didn't waver, and neither did the faint hum of her magic, which clung to him like a second skin, making it impossible to forget who—or what—she was.

"Well, then I guess I have… to go," Mediah said, his tone faltering as he shifted on his feet. "It wouldn't be proper to abuse the hospitality of my friend and... his wife."

As he spoke, his fingers brushed against the soft fabric draped around his neck, and he froze. The red shawl. His stomach tightened as he realized what he was holding. Slowly, he extended it toward her, his hand steady despite the strange tension in the air. "I would guess this belongs to you," he said carefully.

She didn't move. It was as if she hadn't heard him—or chose not to. "I have already prepared your room," she said. "Clothing is waiting for you, and you will join me for dinner."

Mediah blinked, the shawl still outstretched in his hand. Slowly, reluctantly, he let his arm fall.

"I can't stay," Mediah said. The words felt hollow, but they were all he could manage. His chest tightened as the realization hit—she was Muru's wife.

His fingers twitched against the shawl draped over his shoulder, the fabric now heavier than it had any right to be. Memories of the Dois Trae flashed through his mind vividly. The night had been a world apart, a place where rules didn't exist, where connections made under moonlight didn't bleed into the real world. Yet here he was, the threads of that night tangling messily with reality.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stand straighter to meet her mismatched eyes. Every fibre of his being screamed to cross the space between them, to hold her again, to kiss her, to rip her dress out of her skin. But she was Muru's wife.

There was nothing else to say. No explanation, no plea, no argument. Just the quiet, simple truth he repeated, this time with a voice steadier but no less pained. "I can't stay."

"Think about what Muru would say," she began. "If I let his dearest friend stay in some dirty inn with…" She paused, her words trailing off, but the unfinished sentence said it all.

It didn't need to be completed. Mediah could see the meaning etched in the slight downturn of her lips and the faint arch of her brow. The image she implied—of the cheap girls' company and coin left at the side table—was all too clear.

Mediah's eyes rolled skyward, a deep well of frustration bubbling within him. The gesture felt hollow, barely masking the storm raging inside. One part of him begged to stay, to linger in her presence, to let himself drown in the pull she had over him. That part clung to the idea of holding onto her, of never letting her go.

But another part of him—the half desperate for escape—urged him to run. To leave this house, this room, and her, and bury everything that had happened deep enough that he could convince himself it had never been real. That she was nothing more than a phantom conjured by a restless mind. A fragment of a dream.

"I guess I can stay… one night." The admission felt like a surrender and a betrayal all at once.

"I'm glad you reconsidered," she said, taking two steps closer. Her hand extended toward him. "I'm Doriana."

Mediah hesitated for a moment before reaching out, his grip firm but slow, as if testing the reality of her touch. "Doriana Ann," he murmured, the name lingering between them, "Muru's wife."

"Muru's wife," she repeated.

Releasing her hand, Mediah adjusted the bag strap on his shoulder, the weight shifting uncomfortably against his back. "So, where is my room?"

Doriana Anniki, the daughter of an infamous Landholder, was but eighteen winters old when she entered into matrimony with Muru Ann. Rumours and whispers have long hinted that this union was brokered as an exchange for favours stemming from Muru's lucrative trade. Upon deeper reflection and armed with the knowledge we hold today, it is not difficult to discern the underlying truth. Doriana was raised within the rigid framework of societal expectation, moulded from a tender age to embody the triad of roles imposed upon her: wife, mother, and servant.

What continues to perplex me is how this marriage was permitted under the traditional customs of the Menschen, which decree that a girl may only wed after her Dois Trae. Yet, in an age marred by the blasphemies and cruelties wrought by the Long Night and Winter, the practice of bartering innocence to the highest bidder appears tragically commonplace. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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