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

Mediah's presence was requested at Muru's office soon after his arrival. Yet, the timing was strange. Shouldn't Muru have gone to see Doriana first? That's what any husband would do, isn't it?

Maybe this was normal for Muru. Perhaps he had always been this distant, this cold. But the notion didn't sit right. A husband who didn't seek out his wife, who delayed even a simple greeting—what did that say about him? About them?

Mediah's fingers twitched at his side as he stopped before the door. He didn't knock—he never did. Why change? Therefore, he pushed the door open.

"You still come inside like you own the damn place," Muru remarked. He didn't look up immediately, and his focus was on pouring warm liquor into two delicate cups.

Mediah let the door click shut behind him, his lips curling into a smirk as he stepped forward. "Well, I can't change my manners now," he said, sliding into the seat across from Muru. He leaned back and said, "It'd be out of character."

Muru pushed one of the cups toward the Magi. "I'd say take a seat, but you're already making yourself at home."

Mediah reached for the cup, the cold glass seeping into his fingers as he cradled it. Muru's gaze didn't waver, his eyes studying him over the rim of his own drink.

"The little goat mentioned you've been here for a few moons now," Muru continued inquisitively. "So, I suspect you're in desperate need of something."

He raised his cup, tilting it slightly in a gesture of mock toast while, with his other hand, his thumb rubbed against the tips of his index and middle fingers. He knew it was all a matter of coin.

"I do…" Mediah began as if testing each word before letting it fall. He swirled the cup in his hand. "I mean, the Trial of Elements needs you."

Muru's gaze darkened, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest of his chair. He didn't speak immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make Mediah shift in his seat uncomfortably.

"I'm no longer a Black Robe," Muru said finally. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, the faint lines around his eyes hardening. "I have no affiliation with the Magis. Surely you understand… this puts me in a very delicate position with our Dame and the White Cloaks."

As Muru spoke, Mediah's gaze lingered on his face. Something was missing in his eyes—a spark that had once burned bright, something that had carried the weight of a dream or even hope. Now, there was only a quiet stillness, a void that made Muru seem like a shadow of the man Mediah once knew.

What had happened to change him so much?

"But you were a Black Robe for far longer than you've been without one," Mediah said, each word carefully chosen, probing gently. "I would plead more to your sympathy than your..."

"Loyalty?" Muru completed the thought.

Mediah hesitated, the word hanging like an accusation he hadn't intended to make. He set the cup down gently, his gaze searching Muru's face for any flicker of the man he once knew. But there was nothing—only a hollow steadiness that felt foreign, distant.

"I don't know what happened… What changed you so much."

Muru's expression didn't shift, but Mediah pressed on. "You used to be so proud to be a Magi. You believed in… and—"

"And it was all for nothing," Muru said, the words leaving his lips with a bitterness that clung to his tongue. "You didn't see how they treated Yeso and his Black Robe. You didn't see what they did to Veilla. Nobody cared. It was all a fucking farce. No one lifted a finger to stop the Winterqueen. For fuck sake, she killed her sister for everyone to see! No one stopped her! That woman moved a whole continent far from the rest of the world! Killed millions and changed the face of the Map! And the Winterqueen didn't need a Sun for that! So what does it matter if you wear a Black Robe or carve stupid jewellery on your forehead like you were a damn cow? Because that's what Yeso preached, to follow him like stupid lambs. No, no, no!"

He leaned forward, shaking his head, his eyes narrowing, the fire of his words cutting deeper. "I decided to be my own man. And here I am—with the power you need—while you stand before me in that Black Robe, with nothing to offer me."

Mediah tried to find the boy he'd grown up with, the friend who had once stood beside him, full of purpose and pride.

But that boy was gone. His friend was gone.

"It's hard to negotiate with a man who has everything," Mediah said, "when all I have is a dream." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze earnest, trying to bridge the growing chasm between them.

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Muru let out a sharp, exasperated sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as though the conversation had already drained him. "Oh, for fuck's sake, don't try to Yeso me," he snapped. "Dreams are what they are—dreams! And they don't mean a damn thing."

"But nightmares are real," Mediah shot back. "Nightmares that cannot be killed. And what would you expect? White Cloaks beating them to dust?"

"Oh, now you know how to vanish nightmares? Are you trying to trick me? You think I'm an idiot?"

Mediah was able to catch something in Muru's expression—an opening, a crack in the wall he had built around himself. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make Mediah wonder if he had just stumbled upon a loophole in Muru's resolve.

"Everyone has issues with nightmares," Mediah said. He leaned forward, his fingertips of both hands touching, forming a pointed shape, while the palms remained apart as if closing the distance between them might strengthen his case. "They're everywhere, as long as they don't see a sunbeam. And you and I… we know the spell to summon light."

"The Ra spell demands too much power," Muru said. He reached for his cup, his fingers tightening around it as though grounding himself. "Neither you nor I have that kind of strength."

He tilted the cup, draining the liquor in one swift motion. The clink of the empty glass against the table punctuated his following words. "You'd need to fuck a girl by the hour just to sustain that kind of magic."

"Or we could teach the next generation of Magi," Mediah suggested with a subtle challenge. He kept his gaze fixed on Muru, trying to read his expression, though the thick beard and stoic posture did little to betray the thoughts behind his eyes. "If a human can handle that spell… Menschen, Fae, and elves shouldn't be that hard. Don't you think?"

"A human? Bullshit!" Muru's fingers tapped idly against the glass, the rhythmic motion betraying nothing.

Mediah didn't mention Jericho. Instead, he leaned in slightly, testing the waters. "I imagine you'd need capable mages to deal with the threat. And while not everyone can cast light, many know the Nightmares' weaknesses—how to contain them until the Sun rises again."

He paused, "And surely, you need those trade routes to be cleansed, don't you? Or am I wrong?"

Muru reached for the bottle and poured himself another measure of liquor. The amber liquid swirled lazily as he raised the glass to his lips.

"You've changed, Medi," Muru said. "You've gotten… smarter. But still, a fool, clinging to the belief that the Sun will return. It died with Yeso. Darkness is the only truth we have now."

Mediah didn't flinch. "Do you wish to make a bet?"

"A bet?"

"Give me the coin I need to build the new Trial of Elements," Mediah said. "And I'll show you how to kill a Nightmare in broad daylight."

For a moment, Muru held his gaze, the tension between them thickening. Then, without breaking eye contact, he downed the liquor in a single, decisive gulp. The glass hit the table with a loud clink as he exhaled.

"How much do you need?" he asked.

"Your math is better than mine," Mediah replied with a shrug.

Muru leaned back in his chair, swirling the liquor remnants in his glass as if the motion might help him untangle his thoughts. "I need to think about it," he said finally with caution. "Because I'm no fool. I don't believe in miracles, dreams, or that the dead come back to life. I'll check my ledger—see if I've got spare funds for your circus. And in return…" His lips curled into a faint smirk as he folded his hands on the desk. "You give me free manpower."

"Free manpower?" Mediah repeated, the words tasting as bitter as the liquor Muru had poured.

"I don't believe a Magi can kill a Nightmare," Muru said, his tone cutting but calm, as if stating an immutable fact. He leaned back, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, his fingers steepling in front of him. "Nothing can. Maybe the Sun could have, but it's gone—just like Yeso. But I do need people to work."

He reached for the bottle, pouring another measure into his glass, the amber liquid swirling with lazy precision. "So here's the deal," he said, lifting the glass to his lips for a slow sip. "I'll give you the coin you're asking for, and in return, you send me strong arms to work. Let's call it… an internship."

"But that's not what Magi—" Mediah began, his words faltering under the weight of what he was about to say.

"Take it or leave it," Muru cut him off. He leaned back, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrest. "And I still need to think about it. It'll take me a few days—maybe a week. You can wait a little longer if you've waited this long."

The finality in Muru's voice settled in the room, and Mediah couldn't ignore the sinking feeling that he was playing a losing game. Was he about to sell out the very beliefs and honour of the Black Robe? The thought burned, twisting in his stomach.

But then, he remembered Yeso—how he had helped whenever and wherever he could, no matter how small the gesture. How was this any different? And yet, the doubt lingered. This felt like a betrayal of everything he'd stood for, everything the Black Robe represented.

Still, he was a Magi, and there was something he needed to say. He took a breath, steadying himself. "Redfred died."

Muru's fingers froze mid-tap, his expression faltering for the briefest moment. He tried to mask it, but astonishment slipped through. Muru had adored Redfred and his teachings. And now Mediah was telling him he was gone.

"They say they were attacked by Lamias," Mediah continued, "No one survived."

"What about the girl?" he asked.

Mediah hesitated, his throat tightening. "Their daughter, she…"

"No," Muru interrupted. His eyes locked onto Mediah. "What happened to Zora?" Was there an odd hint of underlying emotion or intentions—fear, guilt, or something unresolved? Mediah was unable to read his childhood friend.

"Who?"

Muru didn't blink, his expression hardening as though sealing a decision. He leaned forward slightly. "Bring me the girl," he said, his tone like stone, "or her corpse."

He reached for the glass, draining the last liquor in a single motion. "And I'll give you every last coin I have."

"Who is this Zora?" And why did she matter to Muru?

Zora Mageschstea is a name known to only a select few—a shadowed figure whose very existence is shrouded in secrecy. If your memory falters, dear reader, allow me to remind you of the day she was born. Present at her arrival were two priestesses of the Green Mother cult, Redfred Dagurstea, Finnegan Berdorf, and, later, Muru Ann. A curious assembly, is it not? Even more so when we consider how swiftly this list narrows to those who now hold a vested interest in seeing the throne of Dame replaced by Veilla Mageschstea's youngest child.

At the time, I knew nothing of these intricacies. Like you, I would come to learn the truth much, much later. Thus, it never occurred to me that Zora, unknowingly and perhaps even willingly, had walked into the trap that fate—or perhaps others—had laid for her. The cruelest twist? She herself had no idea. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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