Azcin Saat

Phrase

Translation: The Ashes of the Seed

Definition: This expression signifies true death—a state in which all potential for growth, renewal, or rebirth has been extinguished. Azcin Saat refers to a seed that can no longer bear fruit, a life or saat that has been reduced to ashes without the possibility of regrowth.

The backyard opened to the sea, showing waves crashing against the rocks with a roar that swallowed the quiet of the Long Night. The air carried a biting chill, a breeze that felt like needles pricking the skin. Yet, Muru stood there, unmoving. The wind tugged at his dark hair, strands whipping around his face, but he didn't flinch.

His arms hung loosely at his sides, his fingers curling while holding the red shawl.

Muru's face was a mask of stone. Yet, there was something in the way he stood—something charged, something that made Mediah's chest tighten. He had never seen Muru like this before—hate, disdain and wrath ready to flood everything and anyone.

Whatever Muru intended, it wasn't peace. That much Mediah was certain of. Today, Muru had chosen violence.

"Why was my wife's shawl in your room?" It wasn't a question—the words were a statement—an accusation.

Mediah took a cautious step forward, his hands raised as though approaching a cornered-raged animal. "Muru, let's go inside and talk," he said. "There's—"

"Why was this fucking rag in your room?"

"Come on, man. Let's go inside and talk."

Doriana stepped forward unnoticed, placing herself between the two men like a shield, ready to absorb the coming storm. "We fell in love," she said. "That's what happened. I seduced him at a Dois Trae."

Muru's eyes snapped to her, and for a heartbeat, the Long Night seemed to hold its breath. The glow of the moonlight caught the hard lines of his face, and the flicker of something darker—wrath, raw and uncontained—crossed his expression.

His hand shot up, the motion fueled by blinding rage.

Yet, Mediah moved instinctively—his hand intercepted Muru's mid-strike—gripping it firmly as his body shifted forward to block Doriana and pulled her behind him.

"Don't," Mediah said. His eyes locked onto Muru's, unflinching, even as the muscles in his arms strained against the force of the head strike.

Mediah's nails dug into Muru's skin."Don't you dare touch a strand of her hair!"

Without thought, instinct took over, and Magi's magic stirred. It reached out, threading itself into the storm of Muru's rage. Mediah pulled at the raw, seething emotions emanating from Muru. The taste was foul but powerful.

The darkness poured into him like thick and corrosive molten lead, spreading through his veins with a viciousness that burned his breath. He could feel the corruption taking root, twisting through his magic, making it pulse erratically.

Mediah's hands trembled, not from fear but from the sheer effort of containing what he had taken. It was ready to burst at any moment.

"Muru, I don't want to hurt you."

The black veins spidering across his skin betrayed the truth—he was losing the battle within.

Muru's expression remained deaf to Mediah's warning. He wrenched his arm free from Mediah's grasp with a sudden, jolted motion. The release came with an abrupt rush of air, and before Mediah could react, Muru's hand flicked with an old-knowing motion.

A blast of wind erupted from his palm, slicing through the space between them with a force that drove the air from Mediah's lungs in a violent gasp, and his body was hurled backwards like a ragdoll. Mediah hit the ground with a heavy thud, skidding across the sandy yard before coming to a halt.

"Medi!" Doriana cried as she darted toward him.

Mediah groaned, his body twisted awkwardly against the sand. His fingers clawed at the ground as he tried to push himself upright, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Doriana dropped to her knees beside him, her hands hovering before settling on his shoulders.

"Medi?"

He coughed, his head tilting slightly to meet her gaze. The black veins still pulsed along his neck, their glow dimmed but not entirely gone. His lips parted as if to speak, but his breath came in shallow gasps, the words lost in the chaos still swirling inside him.

Mediah pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaky beneath him. "Dori… go," he said, his gaze fixed on Muru as he waved her toward the house. "Go inside, please. I don't think I can calm him down."

Doriana hesitated, her eyes darting between her lover and her husband. She turned and ran, her footsteps echoing fast against the sand as she disappeared into the house.

Mediah straightened, his chest rising and falling as he tried to hold himself together. His eyes burned as they locked onto Muru, who stood unmoving, his fists clenched and his expression unreadable save for the fury radiating from his every breath.

"What is your problem, dude?" Mediah shouted, his voice cracking with the strain of his fraying composure. "You never even touched her! You never loved her! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

His hands trembled at his sides, the black veins along his arms pulsing faintly as his magic simmered beneath the surface, dangerously close to boiling over. "Never even cared! And now you're acting like this? Like—" His words faltered, the weight of his anger threatening to crush him. "She is not something to collect for display. For fuck sake, it's Dori…what gives you even the right?"

"You're always the same, Mediah. Every fucking whore has to end up in your bed. First Ulencia… and now my wife?"

Muru began to circle the courtyard, his steps heavy against the sand, the ground seeming to tremble faintly beneath the weight of his fury.

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Mediah matched his pace, his movements mirroring Muru's slow, prowling rhythm. His feet scraped against the sand, and every step kept the same measured distance between them.

"I didn't plan this, Muru," Mediah said. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the faint glow of his magic pulsing erratically along his veins. "It's not like that, and you know it. And it wasn't like that with Ule."

Muru's laugh was low and bitter, dripping with disdain. "Don't you dare try to justify this to me?" His eyes burned, narrowing as he took a half-step closer. "You think you can take whatever you want, whenever you want. That you're untouchable."

"You don't get it, do you?" Mediah snapped, his tone rising. "You were never there for her. Not once! And now you're acting like you did?"

Muru's pace quickened, his shoulders tense and his hands twitching at his sides as if ready to strike. "Don't you dare lecture me!"

"Muru, I don't want to hurt you. Let's go inside and talk."

The two men continued their slow, circling steps synchronised in a dangerous dance. Beneath Mediah's skin, his magic churned, no longer his to command entirely. It latched onto every source around him, feeding greedily like a parasite desperate for sustenance. Tendrils of energy threaded invisibly between him and Muru, pulling in every ounce of rage, every shred of wrath that boiled under Muru's skin.

But it didn't stop there.

Mediah felt the pull extend beyond the courtyard, reaching toward the Ormsaat buried deep beneath the house. The sealed jars, their glowing contents pulsing, quivered as if disturbed by an unseen force. The energy they contained was ancient, raw, and potent—and Mediah's magic siphoned it unbidden.

Even Doriana wasn't spared. As she lingered near the edge of the house, her worry radiating in waves, Mediah's magic brushed against her presence, drawing in the faint threads of her anxiety, fear, and something deeper that she didn't voice. Gale, too, standing stiffly nearby, felt the creeping tendrils, his hooves shifting uneasily against the stone.

Mediah's breath grew heavier, and the veins along his arms darkened as they pulsed with the unstable energy coursing through him. His fingers flexed at his sides, and the glow of his corrupted magic flickered like embers caught in a storm.

"Muru," he tried again. "This isn't the way. Please, don't make me do it."

"Did you know Ule died?"

"I do."

"Did you know how?"

Mediah hesitated. "I heard it was... Xendrix."

The name lingered like ash on his tongue, and Muru's reaction was instant. His chest rose sharply, his nostrils flaring as his eyes darkened. "So instead of going after him, instead of—"

"Xendrix is dead, Muru," Mediah cut in. "Yeso killed him. Only his Nightmares are left."

"That fucker is still alive," Muru spat, "I saw him."

Mediah's steps faltered mid-stride. The weight of the statement struck him like a physical blow, freezing him in place. His chest tightened, the air suddenly too heavy to breathe. "What did you say?"

He stared at Muru, searching his expression for a sign—anything—that might hint at a cruel jest, a lie, or a mistake. But there was none.

Muru didn't answer with words. Instead, his hand shot forward, and another sharp blast of wind struck Mediah square in the chest. The impact was brutal, throwing him across the courtyard, his back slamming against the cold sand with a sickening thud.

Mediah didn't stay down. He pushed himself upright in one swift motion, the pain ignored as his rage churned within. His fingers curled, and without hesitation, he unleashed the same power back at Muru. The force crackled through the air like a thunderclap, striking Muru and sending him flying to the opposite end of the courtyard. He crashed into the sand, skidding to a halt as dust and debris scattered in his wake.

Mediah's hand ignited with flames, the fire coiling around his fingers like a living entity. The heat licked at his skin, the fire in his palm growing brighter, hotter—ready to deliver the final blow.

And then he saw her.

Doriana stood near the edge of the courtyard, clutching two bags—one small and the other larger, packed to capacity. Her figure seemed to shimmer, an unearthly glow radiating from her skin. Her eyes were wide, but there was something else—something deeper.

Mediah's steps faltered. The fire in his hand flickered, dimming as he stared at her. He felt it then, a strange pull that reached inside him. It wasn't physical, but it was undeniable—a presence, soft and warm, pressing against his very core. It wasn't just Doriana; it was something more.

Something—or someone—was calling to him.

The sensation grew, wrapping around his senses like a quiet lullaby. It was gentle yet insistent, like a child seeking comfort, trying to nestle into the space he had unknowingly left open. It was feeding from his magic like a starving cub.

Mediah's fire around his hand extinguished completely, leaving only a faint trail of smoke curling into the night air.

For a fleeting moment, reality slipped through Mediah's grasp. The courtyard, the sea's roar, the cold sand beneath his feet—all of it faded into an indistinct haze.

In its place, a vivid memory surfaced. He was standing in front of Professor Duvencrune, the book pressed into his hands.

"In those thirty-two times, I punched you…" Mediah's voice echoed in the memory as though testing the weight of his words. His hands tightened around the book, the leather cool and cracked beneath his fingers.

"How many times did I actually use this hex?"

"None."

Now, standing in the courtyard, with Doriana's figure illuminated in the faint glow of the moonlight, Mediah finally understood.

His gaze locked on the smaller bag in her hand and the larger one at her side. The faint sheen of sweat on her brow, the glow in her cheeks that he hadn't noticed before—it all clicked into place.

He felt the weight of the realisation settles in his chest. He had nothing. No coins, no solid ground to offer her, no safety to guarantee her future. The dream of the Trial, of building an army for the Summerqueen, was little more than an empty promise. It would take a lifetime to build a proper camp, to raise the walls, to create something that could give her the comfort and security she had here.

Here—this place, with its warmth, its shelter, its stability—was her sanctuary. And it wasn't just about Doriana anymore. His gaze lingered on her, and in that moment, he felt it—a faint, almost imperceptible pull, something fragile yet so much more.

Their child.

Mediah's throat tightened, his hands clenching at his sides. He couldn't drag them into his battles, into his endless pursuit of a dream that might never be realised. He couldn't take her—and their child—into a war that hadn't even begun, into a future written in shadows and uncertainty.

The Professor's words echoed in his mind, clear as the first time they were spoken: "None."

And now, Mediah knew why.

The sound of crunching steps in the sand jolted him back to the moment. Muru was charging toward him, his form a blur of rage against the dim light. Mediah barely had time to brace himself before Muru's fist connected with his jaw, a brutal blow that sent him sprawling across the courtyard. The impact rattled through his body, the sharp pain radiating as his back slammed into the frozen ground.

Above him, the first snowflakes began to fall, soft and slow. Mediah's breath came in shallow gasps, mist curling upward in thin tendrils as he struggled to regain his focus.

Muru stood over him, his chest rising and falling heavily, his breath steaming in the frigid air.

"I want you off my property," he growled. His gaze burned with something more than anger—a mix of betrayal, disgust, and something deeper, buried too far to name.

He turned, his feet crunching in the snow as he began to walk away. "And about our deal," Muru said, his tone hollow now, the words hanging like a bitter afterthought. "I'm out. I'll find Zora myself."

Without another glance, he disappeared into the warmth of the house, leaving Mediah sprawled in the cold, snow gathering lightly around him.

"Medi?"

Where is Xendrix?

If this question has not crossed your mind while reading my life's work, then, dear reader, you have not been paying attention. Xendrix's presence, though revealed much later in the grand scheme of things, was a lingering shadow over everyone's head. For those who walked beside my father, Xendrix Kaspian was no mere footnote but a passive villain—a name that haunted their spirits with an enduring chill.

Most believed that Yeso Sternach had ended Xendrix's life. That was the story passed down in whispers and records, a tale that painted the Commander as both saviour and executioner. And yet, as stories often do, this one unravelled—until it was not.

How Muru Ann knew and how he unearthed such forbidden knowledge remains a mystery even now. But what is indisputable is that he was right. Xendrix is alive. But the question is not where is Xendrix. But when is Xendrix? ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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