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

Doriana lay across the bed, her hair plastered to the sweat of her temples. Each breath was a ragged gasp, as if the air itself conspired against her, refusing to fill her burning lungs.

Pain shot through her in waves—harsh pulses that radiated from her chest down to her cervix, making her whole body beg for mercy and more.

Muru paced at her side, the floor creaking under his restless nerves. His hands clenched and unclenched, his face drawn tight with anxiety, as though he were the one split open by agony. But he didn't touch her, didn't offer a word of comfort—just circled, like a caged animal as if it were his battle, not hers.

Gale perched beside her, dabbing her forehead gently with a damp cloth, but his eyes darted nervously toward the foot of the bed.

The medic and doula were there, hunched with their hands hidden beneath the drape of her skirts. No movement followed. Their faces were frozen in place, expressions locked in a moment that should have passed.

The entire room was suspended—time stopped.

The air felt stale, pressing against her skin, suffocating her even more than the pain. The sweat cooled on her body, but the pain inside her blazed on. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, the only sound in a world gone still.

Each time the pain seized her, the world around Doriana froze. She was scared.

The grip of a contraction would ripple through her body, stealing her breath, and with it, time itself would grind to a halt. Muru's pacing would stop mid-step, one foot hovering above the floor, his face twisted in a permanent mask of helpless anxiety that she couldn't stand anymore.

Gale's cloth would hang inches from her skin, the cool just out of reach.

The medic and doula would be locked in place, their mouths open mid-command, but no words followed. Nothing.

Then, as the pain ebbed, time would lurch forward again, flickering back to life, but Doriana knew.

She felt it in her bones, in every fibre of her being. She wasn't just giving birth; she was stuck in it, trapped in a loop where each contraction reset the world. Minutes stretched into hours, hours into an eternity. It felt like she had been labouring for days, weeks—forever!

Every time she thought it might be over, that the next push would be the last, the pain would claw its way back, dragging time into its wicked grip, and the cycle would begin again.

Doriana's head lolled to the side, her breath lost, and another contraction loosened its grip on her body. The room stuttered back into motion—Muru resumed his useless pacing, Gale's cloth dabbed at her temple, the medic murmured something about breathing—but it was all a blur. None of it mattered. None of it helped.

Her gaze drifted toward the window, where the faint glow of the seventh Moon spilt through the glass. Beyond it, in the shadowed yard, the black direwolf prowled.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Its massive paws pressed into the earth with each step, its sleek, star-flecked fur glinting under the moonlight. It didn't pause. It didn't falter. It moved like it knew—like it felt what was happening inside, even if no one else did.

Another contraction ripped through her. Time snapped—Muru froze mid-stride, Gale's cloth hovered in the air, and the medic's hands went still beneath her skirt. The room locked in place, the silence suffocating.

But outside, the direwolf moved.

Its eyes lifted toward her window, meeting her gaze through the glass as if it could see right into her saat.

Doriana's fury flared, cutting through the haze of pain and exhaustion. She forced herself up on shaking elbows, her voice raw as she shouted toward the window, "Well, maybe instead of just being there doing nothing, you could help here!"

The wolf paused, its head tilting as if considering her words.

For a moment, Doriana could almost believe it understood.

"Can you hear me?"

The direwolf didn't move. It sat on the cold sand, its massive form silhouetted by the moonlight. Its eyes glowed, staring straight ahead. Unmoving. In summary, not doing much.

Doriana's chest heaved, her breath shallow as she strained to keep her eyes on him, willing him to do something—anything. But the wolf remained where it was as if her cries couldn't reach through the glass, as if her pain wasn't enough to stir him.

Then, the familiar jolt.

It started low in her spine, a slow burn rising like fire licking up her body until it gripped her chest and seized. She arched off the bed, a scream tearing from her throat.

And with that scream, the world lurched back into motion.

The room exploded with noise—the doula's rushed instructions, Gale's panicked voice in her ear, Muru pacing faster, muttering to himself like he was the one in agony. The medic barked orders, but it was all just noise.

Doriana clenched her fists around the sheets as the pain dragged her under again. She bit down on a sob, her mind back to the wolf outside.

And when the contraction ebbed and time froze once more, she could only gasp in the deafening quiet, her eyes locking on the window.

The wolf did nothing. He just sat in the same place.

Doriana's body trembled, slick with sweat, her muscles screaming with exhaustion as the contractions rolled through her like crashing waves. She gritted her teeth, her fingers digging into the sheets, but it wasn't enough to ground her. The room spun, blurred voices fading in and out with every pulse of pain.

She just wanted it to end.

Her heart ached more fiercely than her body. She could almost feel where his hand should be—warm, steady, anchoring hers. She could almost hear his voice whispering against her ear, telling her it would be alright, that they'd get through this together.

But he wasn't here. Mediah wasn't here.

The thought slammed into her harder than any contraction. He wasn't coming. His absence was as the glass she'd shattered days before.

A sob clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it down. No. There was no time for tears now. No room for longing. She couldn't let the ache swallow her whole.

She had to focus.

This wasn't about him anymore. This wasn't about her anymore.

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"Come on, Mrs. Ann, just a final push!" the medic urged.

Doriana clenched her teeth, every muscle in her body burning. She could barely lift her head, her chest heaving as though the very air had turned to stone in her lungs. But she dug deep—deeper—pulling strength from some hollow, desperate place within her.

With a guttural cry, she pushed one final time.

The room went silent for a moment, save for the frantic rustling of fabric and the shifting of bodies around her.

"Here it is! It's a boy," the medic announced, his voice too bright, too rehearsed.

But something was wrong.

Doriana's breath caught in her throat. She strained to listen, but the one sound she was waiting for—the piercing wail of her baby's first breath—never came.

Standing stiff at her side, Muru dragged a hand down his face and over his beard, his eyes darting to the medic but offering Doriana nothing. No comfort, no answers.

The medic didn't move right away. He stood there, cradling the small, limp form in his hands. Blood stained his gloves, dripping onto the cloth he fumbled with, but it was the look in his eyes—tight-lipped, avoiding hers—that told Doriana everything she needed to know before anyone spoke a word.

Why isn't he crying?

"Where is my baby?" She struggled to sit up. "Why… Why isn't he crying?"

The medic froze, his bloodstained hands still cradling the tiny, unmoving bundle. His eyes met hers for the briefest of moments—just long enough for Doriana to see what he wasn't saying.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Ann, the baby is—"

And then, everything stopped.

The words hung unfinished. The medic's mouth remained half-open, his eyes fixed but empty, frozen in the space between heartbreak and truth.

Muru stood mid-motion, his hand paused on his beard, the tension in his shoulders locked like a statue. Still resting on her forehead, Gale's hand felt like a weight that no longer breathed warmth into her skin.

Even drops of sweat and blood are suspended mid-air, never dropping to the floor.

Time had stopped again. But the answer still echoed the eighth Moon rose back in the Fisherman district.

Zora's wrists and ankles were bound tightly against the cold frame of the makeshift bed. The room pulsed with the faint hum of whispered chants, the flickering candlelight casting distorted shadows across the temple walls. The metallic scent of fear mingled with the bitter tang of something more sinister.

The priestesses surrounded her in a silent circle with their translucent robes clinging to their bodies like a second skin. Underneath, nothing was hidden. They were as lustful predators savouring the stillness before the strike, while nipple and genitals exposed to distract one from fear.

But it wasn't their exposed forms that made Zora's stomach twist—it was the sheen on their skin. The venomous balm glistened over their flesh, catching the light in a sickly shimmer. It coated their arms, throats, and even the delicate curves of their collarbones.

Zora knew one drop of that viscous substance was enough to kill a legion. She had seen it before—how it clung to lips, invisible until it wasn't. One accidental touch, one careless breath, and life would slip away before a scream could even form.

Zora's eyes darted to the high, domed ceiling, tracing the intricate carvings of vines and celestial symbols etched into the temple stone. The Green Mother's presence was everywhere—in the statues, in the symbols, in the silent, watchful priestesses—but Zora couldn't grasp the meaning behind it all—the cult's philosophy, its rituals, and its reverence for death in ways that eluded her. To them, this was sacred. To her, it was a prison—a death row.

She was trapped. But so was anyone else. Time had stopped.

Zora searched for any sign of Jaer—or even Finnegan. But there was nothing—just the cold, oppressive stillness pressing in from every direction.

At first, she thought it was just the eerie silence of the temple. But then she noticed it—the unnatural stillness. The priestesses stood frozen mid-step, their poisoned robes suspended in the air like delicate cobwebs, the venomous balm on their skin catching the dim light but refusing to glisten. Their expressions were locked in serene devotion, their mouths slightly parted, as if mid-chant, yet no sound came.

The fountains that lined the walls, trickling with water that sang softly through the temple, were motionless. The liquid hung mid-fall, droplets caught like tiny glass beads in the air.

Statues of elven women, their sensual poses immortalized in marble, now seemed indistinguishable from the living figures around them. It was impossible to tell where stone ended and flesh began. Everything was trapped in a moment that refused to pass.

Everyone but her.

Zora could move—at least her fingers twitched against the restraints that bound her wrists and ankles to the makeshift bed. But the cracked light crawling across her skin was growing, snaking up her arms and down her legs, illuminating the veins beneath like molten gold. It pulsed with a heat that should have seared her flesh, but all she felt was nothing, just an inconvenience.

Was she to be scorched? Reduced to nothing but ash and light in this holy tomb? If it wasn't the venom to kill her, it seemed her body would end the task.

Panic clawed at her, but her body remained calm as if even fear had been paused in this frozen world. She tugged against the restraints, but they bit into her skin, anchoring her to the bed like an offering laid out before the Green Mother.

Her mind raced. How much time had passed? Were it minutes? Hours?

Days?

The cracked light pulsed again, brighter now, the golden glow reflecting in the still eyes of the priestesses around her. Their faces remained untouched by time, but Zora could feel it—the weight of something ancient pressing down on her, something that had been waiting far longer than she could comprehend.

And then, without warning, the world lurched back into motion.

The silence was shattered, replaced by the sudden rush of murmurs. One of them approached.

In her hand, she held a small glass vial. She moved, slipping her free hand beneath Zora's neck, lifting her head just enough to tilt the vial toward her lips.

Zora tried to flinch, her body straining against the restraints, but the leather bit deeper into her wrists and ankles, holding her firm.

"Please," the priestess whispered, soothing, like a mother comforting a restless child. "This is for your own good. You won't feel anything but peace."

But Zora knew that smell.

It was faint but unmistakable—the metallic tang mixed with something floral and sweet. The same venom the priestesses spread onto their skin, the same toxin that could kill with a single drop on the tongue.

They weren't trying to ease her pain. They were trying to kill her.

The same way they had killed Veilla, her mother.

Panic surged through Zora, her breath quickening, her heart pounding in her chest like a trapped bird. She twisted her head to the side, clenching her teeth, refusing to let the vial touch her lips. But the priestess was persistent, her grip tightening, her voice a soft lullaby in Zora's ear.

"Shhh… don't fight it," she cooed, bringing the vial closer. "You'll see. It's better this way."

Zora couldn't let this happen—not to her, not to her child. She needed to think, to act, to survive. But the restraints held her firm, the cracked light spreading faster across her skin, and the scent of death was far too close.

It didn't matter how many times time froze, how many times the world around her paused in eerie stillness, only to lurch back into motion—the priestess always returned. Her cold, slick hand slid beneath Zora's neck, the venom-filled vial pressing closer, closer to her lips.

Zora fought. She thrashed against the restraints. But it was no use.

No. Zora's mind screamed. Not like this.

What about her baby? The life she had carried, nurtured, even when everything else in her world had crumbled? What about Orlo? The thought of his face, of his crooked smile and the warmth in his voice, ignited a spark of panic in her chest. Would he die like her? Would the hex really work like this?

But the vial was already at her lips.

The cool glass kissed her skin, and despite her desperate attempts to twist away, the first drop of the venomous liquid slid past her lips. She gagged, trying to spit it out, but the priestess's hand tightened, forcing her to swallow.

The poison slid down her throat, a fire that ignited in her chest and spread through her veins, turning her limbs to lead. Her heart pounded louder, harder as if trying to outrun the toxin now racing through her body.

Her vision blurred, the edges of the world going soft and hazy. But through the fog, she could still see the grand windows of the temple, their arches framing the sky beyond.

And there it was.

The Eighth Moon.

Without warning, the world around her shifted. Zora couldn't tell if time had frozen again or if it had surged forward, pulling everything in its wake. The blurriness from the venom clouded her vision, her body too heavy, too tired to make sense of what was unfolding. But then—light.

An explosion of white light erupted from somewhere deep within the room, blinding and all-consuming. It wasn't warm, but searing, cutting through the air with a force that rattled her bones. The brilliance swallowed everything, erasing the shadows, the priestesses, the towering statues.

And just as suddenly as it had come, the light recoiled, collapsing inward with a soundless rush.

When Zora's vision cleared, ashes drifted lazily through the air like snowflakes, settling on the cracked stone floor. The priestesses were gone—no bodies, no traces of their translucent robes, nothing but the faint, acrid scent of something burnt out of existence. The water that had once trickled from the wall fountains had evaporated, leaving behind scorched, steaming channels carved into the marble.

Veins of light now pulsed through the walls like the cracks of a shattered star bleeding brilliance into the space around her.

Zora's chest rose and fell with laboured breaths, her heart pounding not just from fear, but from something else—something raw and primal simmering beneath her skin.

What's happening to me?

Her wrists still ached from the restraints, though they'd been burned away, leaving only the faintest traces of their presence. But the light—the light wasn't just in the walls.

It was inside her.

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