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

Doriana clutched the cold porcelain edge of the toilet, her body convulsing as she emptied her stomach in painful heaves. Each retch left her trembling, the bitter taste of bile clinging to her throat. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Her knees wobbled as she pushed herself up. She splashed water against her face to steady herself, though the nausea still churned deep in her stomach. She lifted her gaze to the mirror and found her reflection pale and drawn.

Her damp hair clung to her forehead as she smoothed it back, willing herself to look composed. But the morning sickness was getting worse. She didn't know why.

Turning away from the mirror, Doriana's eyes fell on the neatly packed bag resting at the foot of her bed. It sat there, waiting—filled with essentials she might need and a couple of foolish dreams.

Muru had returned. She'd heard the faint echoes of his voice several times through the house.

And yet, not a word had been directed to her. No summons, no quiet knock on her door, no familiar request to see her or greet her.

She pressed a hand against her midsection as if she could calm the storm within. But the thought lingered: What if he already knew?

Doriana patted her face dry with a towel, wiping away the remnants of her morning sickness. She adjusted the collar of her dress and slipped out of her room with a hasty step.

Muru didn't know about her extra-curricular activities, and she wasn't about to change that now.

Her feet almost flew to the Ormsaat downstairs. The cool, damp air of the cave wrapped around her as she descended, with the faint hum of the lake greeting her before she even saw it.

Near the shelves lined with glowing jars, a figure stood alone. His back turned to her, and the soft glow of the jars cast faint shadows across his lean frame.

The sight of his concentration stirred a flicker of hope she hadn't dared voice. Maybe, just maybe, he was studying the Hexe—not for some abstract purpose, but for her. For them. The thought tugged at her lips in a smile, though she knew better.

This wasn't about her. Not now.

Her eyes dropped to the book in his hands, the intricate markings of the Trial of Elements standing out. She knew these lines as well as he did—perhaps better. They'd studied them before, after all. Many times. Many timelines.

"Still chasing the Trial?" She asked.

He turned; Mediah was hunched over the book. His fingers traced the faded ink of diagrams and notes. The pages spread open like a map to some elusive truth. "Chasing… This looks more like a guessing game. I feel like chasing a snail in a straight line."

His weariness softened as she leaned forward, brushing her lips against his in a brief kiss.

"I am so fucked," he muttered. He pulled back just enough to search her face, his hand lingering near hers. "I'm asking Muru for coins, and I have no idea what to do with them."

"Well, I might have the solution," Doriana said, almost teasing, though her fingers tapped lightly against the table's surface. "I've been thinking about it."

It wasn't entirely true. Once, in some distant fragment of existence, she had thought deeply about this—had known the answer so clearly it was like breathing.

"Tell me."

"Your mistake is thinking of the Trial as a school."

He frowned, his brow furrowing as he shook his head. "But it should be a school," he countered. "Teaching mages to become Magis—that's how Yeso…"

Doriana cut him off. "The Trial of Elements no longer belongs to Yeso. It belongs to Mediah."

She pushed a nearby stool closer, the faint scrape of wood on stone grounding the moment. Settling into the seat, she reached out, her hand finding his. Her touch was warm, her fingers curling gently around his.

"You made a promise," she continued. "A promise to yourself to give an army to the Summerqueen—not a group of graduated kids. But Battelmages."

Mediah's eyes met hers, confusion and a flicker of protest flashing through them. But she pressed on. "Yeso taught you his way," she said, her thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles, "and it made you the Magi—and the man—you are today. But Yeso didn't face the Long Night. He didn't battle Nightmares or endure the Winter. That's your path, Medi. It's yours alone. You have a goal—a mission that would terrify anyone else—but you have to do it your way. And you'll succeed, I know that."

"I don't know how… without him."

Doriana didn't let go of his hand. Instead, she tightened her grip. "But he is with you," she said softly. "Every time you wear that robe, he's with you. Every word, every action—you wonder, Would my Master approve? Would he be proud?"

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"Are you reading my mind now?" he teased, his chuckle breaking through the tension. With a flourish of his free hand, he gestured toward her. "Alright then," he said, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "Tell me your idea. What does the most beautiful Seer has seen beyond the Veilla?"

"Turn the Trial into a competition," Doriana said.

"A competition?" he repeated, leaning slightly closer, searching her face for an explanation.

"Yes," she said. "Limit the entries to a select few, a short number. Make it a challenge—something they have to fight for. Only the best can enter. A battle for battlemages."

"But why—?"

"Because," she interrupted, "the ones who truly want that Black Robe won't be novices. They'll already be mages—trained, skilled, and savant with their magic. You won't waste time teaching them the basics. You'll take those who've already proven themselves and teach them to be Magis—not just mages. To think, behave and fight as Magis but to stand as Battlemages. Like you."

Her words struck a chord, and for a moment, Mediah sat back, his mind churning through the possibilities. He could see the logic in her suggestion, the way it cut through the uncertainty that had clouded his vision.

"Not just mages," he murmured, as if testing the words on his tongue, his fingers brushing the edge of the open book in front of him.

"Magis."

"Like me."

"Yes. That's what you promised, isn't it?"

Mediah looked at her, his eyes wider than he intended, the flicker of surprise betraying his otherwise composed demeanour. "That's… you really thought about this?" he asked. Then, with a teasing edge, he tapped his temple with a finger. "Or did you… you know, see it?"

"Does it matter?"

He hesitated, his gaze narrowing as he studied her. "So, what then?" he asked, gesturing vaguely with his hand. "They pass the test, they get into the Trial camp… and then what? They all just stay until they become Magis?"

"If they make it through the competition, they'll already have proven they're willing to fight for it," she said simply, letting her words fill the space between them. "But the camp… that's where you shape them into something more. It will last nine moons," Doriana began as though she were laying the foundation of something unshakable. "A full rotation of the Sun. Each moon will focus on one of the Magis Laws, but mostly… the selected ones will prove their worth through their actions."

Mediah raised an eyebrow, the crease in his forehead deepening. "Well, yeah," he said, his words carrying a hint of sarcasm. "So, we make them tests? That sounds a lot like a school to me."

Doriana shook her head. "Their actions will be the answer to the Laws."

Mediah blinked, his head tilting as if trying to catch up. "I don't follow you," he admitted.

"You can set up final tests," Doriana said as if she were piecing the puzzle together as she spoke. "Not to see if they solve the problem, but how they solve it. Are they solving it as mages… or as Magis?"

"Or as Battlemages."

"And what about their surroundings?" she continued, her hand gesturing faintly toward him. "You told me the camp is nestled between mountains, the sea, and the forest. And there are towns nearby, right? There are always quests and ways to help common folks. Isn't that what Yeso taught? To serve—not just to wield power, but to make a difference?"

Mediah's shoulders sagged, the tension visibly draining from him. For a brief moment, his eyes seemed to lose focus, staring past the room and into some distant vision.

"By the stars…" he murmured. "It does make sense. If I adjusted it… if I did…" His words trailed off, tumbling over themselves as the ideas began to take shape. "We could… I mean, I would just need the coins to finish setting up the camp. The Villa… the cabinets…"

He straightened, his hands moving now as if sketching the vision into the air. "We could limit the number of candidates—keep it selective. Build a few stages for fencing and practice spells. And a lobby house—somewhere they could eat and socialize."

His excitement was rising, each word coming faster. "We could set up a board—a mission board—with requests from the townsfolk, quests to help them. And… and I need to write to Jaer. I mean… oh my…"

The rush of thoughts seemed to catch up with him all at once, his hand pressing briefly to his forehead as if to steady himself.

Mediah's thoughts spiralled.

For Winters upon Winters, he had tried everything—every angle, every approach—to make the Trial of Elements work. Nothing had been enough. His gaze dropped to his hands, and the faint scars across his knuckles and calluses on his palms reminded him of the countless attempts that had led nowhere.

He had created the Ulencia swords, masterpieces in close and ranged combat that allowed the wielder to use magic. They worked flawlessly. Yet, even those blades had failed to carve a path toward the greater purpose.

What he lacked was a method—a way to build the army the Summerqueen demanded of him—or would.

But now… now, the concept felt alive, unfolding before him. For the first time in what felt like forever, the pieces seemed to align, the vision becoming clearer, like a moving picture.

"You are…" Mediah turned to Doriana, his words faltering with the overflow of his emotions. He leaned in, his lips pressing against hers in a kiss that spoke more than he could say. "Amazing!" he whispered against her skin as they broke apart. "You are simply amazing."

Doriana smiled, wide and radiant, her cheeks flushed.

All she could think of now was the Hexe. She wanted him to bind them, to make them unbreakable. The idea lingered in her mind like a half-formed melody. He had to see it too, didn't he? That they could leave all of this behind and work together. He must be seeing it, too.

Her smile softened as she reminded herself she had to first tell him. The truth about Zora—who she was, where she was. That was the key. With Zora, Mediah would have all the coin he needed, more than enough to build not just the Trial but a new life.

Their new life.

The sharp sound of hooves clattering against the stone echoed through the cavern, breaking her daydream. It was urgent, frantic. Doriana's head snapped toward the sound, her heart leaping to her throat.

"Mrs. Ann! Mrs. Ann!" Gale shouted breathlessly.

"What 's wrong?"

Gale skidded to a halt, panting heavily, his round spectacles slipping slightly down his nose. "He found it!" the goat blurted out between gasps. "He found it! Mr. Ann found it."

Mediah stepped closer, his brow furrowing. "Found what?".

Gale's gaze darted between them. "He found Mrs. Ann's red shawl… in your bedroom. He knows. And he's asking for you both in the courtyard."

The first Trial of Elements overseen by Head Master Magi Mediah occurred under the First Moon of the First Summer. For many, this marked the dawn of the reign of Summer—a turning point in the history of the Map. Yet, for others, steadfast in their denial of change, it was dismissed as merely a "shiny Winter," an aberration in the enduring dominance of the Winter. The announcement of the newly redefined Trial spread like wildfire across all nations, igniting hope and ambition among the youth. The call was clear: young adults from every corner of the Map were summoned to the Camp, competing for the coveted black robe—a symbol of mastery and entry into the Magi Order. But the stakes were high. Only one hundred and two aspirants would be accepted each Summer. For those who failed, the invitation was not withdrawn but renewed, urging them to return next Summer and try again. And so they did. Again and again. And as I write I know some never ended their Trial of Elements. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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