Not all words are meant to speak,

Some are written just to keep

To burn, to bleed, to bend the rule,

To name the liar, or mark the fool.

So read Mir Fado, but not aloud

The dead still listen through the cloud.

And if it bites, don't curse the ink

Some truths were made Mir Hevet Munas.

—Berdorf, E. Poems of a Wingless Princess. Unpublished manuscript, Summer.

"Anyone here read Menschen?" Ludo asked again, his fingers hovering just above the burned-in calligraphy. "Tariq?"

The dwarf leaned in, squinting at the script. "Well…" he scratched his chin. "I know a few curses—enough to impress drunk faes back in the tavern. Sorry Kaela. But this?" He traced a line with a blunt finger. "That might say 'blood'… or 'bread'. Well, for sure, it doesn't say fuck. Pun intended."

Kaela stepped closer. Her eyes flicked across the scrawl—ink scorched into the canvas like it had been done fast, desperate, fighting against the clock.

Ludo didn't look up. "Kaela. You've trained with Magi. You know some, right?"

She didn't answer right away. But her gaze didn't leave the writing.

Then, softly, she said: "I recognise the roots… the syntax." Her voice dropped. "This wasn't written to be read. It was written to be remembered. It looks like... notes."

Ludo's throat tightened. "So you can read it?"

"Not all of it," she murmured. "I know enough for certain spells," she said. Her thumb brushed the corner of her lip, a nervous tic. "But I can't say I'm fluent."

She hesitated—then added, "Master Mediah speaks it fluently. With the others. All the time. Maybe we could ask them..."

Ludo exhaled, raking a hand through his hair until it caught behind one pointed ear. "Great," he muttered. "So does my brother. But if I bring him into this, I'll never hear the end of it. And I..."

He leaned closer to the ink-stained canvas, as if the right angle might coax the words to translate themselves. "None of this rings a bell?"

Kaela stepped forward. Her chains whispered against the wooden desk. Then, slowly, she began to read—each word pulled from the page with care, like it might bite back if handled wrong.

"Nyeo… Veil Muna. Then, Noitelven Mir kun… and Mir Mehrin es Nur Magi." Her brow furrowed. "I don't know if that's right. My pronunciation is probably terrible."

Kaela looked up. "But… something in there feels... important. Feels like a warning."

Ludo agreed. "It does."

"Nyeo means no," Tariq said, a bit too victorious. He leaned over Kaela's shoulder, squinting at the script. "That one's easy."

His finger hovered near the next word. "Veil… is that the thing between our world and the Spirit realm?"

Kaela's eyes narrowed slightly. "That's Veilla," she corrected, the word slipping out like a note she'd memorised long ago.

Tariq shrugged. "Same roots, maybe? If Veilla means veil, then maybe veil just… means veil too."

Ludo didn't comment—just watched them both, quiet but alert, like someone tracking the pieces of a puzzle assembling themselves without him.

Kaela tilted her head, her brow furrowing as she mouthed the final word again. "Muna…"

The name tasted odd on her tongue. She said it more slowly, as if it might shift in meaning if handled gently.

"No veil this moon?" she murmured, the phrase twisting uncomfortably in her mouth. "That doesn't feel right."

Her gaze sharpened. "Maybe Veil doesn't mean 'Veilla' here. Maybe it's closer to… truth. Or trust."

Tariq blinked. "So—don't trust the moon?"

Kaela stepped back from the painting, arms folding tight against her chest. The words echoed softly in the back of her mind like something half-remembered from a fevered dream.

"Or someone named Muna," Ludo added quietly.

The room stilled.

Kaela didn't look away from the ink.

Neither did Ludo. "But she is dead..."

"Makes no sense," Tariq muttered, stepping closer. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Now, this second line—Noitelven Mir kun—that one sounds easier."

"Noitelven…" Ludo's voice dropped slightly. "They were the Night Elves. Long gone. Extinct."

Kaela's fingers tightened around her own wrist. Tariq shot a glance at her, then back at Ludo.

"What about kun? Either of you know what that means?"

Both the Magi and the dwarf shook their heads, almost in sync.

Ludo sighed, brushing his hair back, the motion more anxious than vain. "We'll circle back to that one."

He nodded toward the last line.

Kaela leaned in again, her voice slower this time, the foreign words dragging against her tongue. "Mir Mehrin es Nur Magi."

She paused, lips pressing together.

"This sounds like spell structure," she said, tapping the parchment. "Mehrin… that's an enhancer. Something that grows, multiplies—like a magnifier in spellwork."

Ludo nodded slowly. "And Nur?"

"One. Just… one." Kaela tilted her head. "And Magi is Magi, or magic. Depending."

Tariq squatted beside her, frowning. "So what—'Multiply if one Magi?'"

Kaela shook her head, voice uncertain. "More like… 'Enhance when there is only one Magi.' Or... 'More is given to one Magi.' The grammar's twisted."

"It's conditional," Ludo murmured, almost to himself. "A rule buried in spell language. A failsafe?"

"Or a warning," Kaela said. "A spell that only works when you're alone."

Her fingers hovered over the line, like touching it might make it clearer.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

Or make it worse.

"There's more than one Magi," Ludo said, frowning at the phrase. "That sentence doesn't make sense. It's too obvious."

Tariq shrugged. "Unless Magi doesn't mean a person."

Kaela raised a brow. "You mean…?"

"Well, Magi can also mean magic itself, right?" Tariq offered, scratching his chin. "Maybe it's not about people. It could be a type of magic. A form. A curse. Or…"

"A hex," Ludo whispered. His eyes lit up, the idea snapping into place. "There's more than one hex."

Tariq rolled his eyes. "That's hardly shocking."

"No—no, listen," Ludo said, starting to carefully roll the canvas back into its tube. "I think he meant Hexe. As in the Hexe. It's not just a person or a spell; it's... well, it's hard to explain."

"It's not that hard," Kaela cut in. "Hexe is Menschen. If this Professor was so brilliant, he'd use the right word."

Ludo paused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Kaela continued, "Master Mediah always said Menschen was an honest tongue. No complex grammar, no grandiose phrasing. It says what it means. If he meant Hexe, he'd write Hexe. But he didn't. He wrote Magi." She tapped the word. "So either he made a mistake… or we're the ones reading it wrong."

The canvas trembled in Ludo's hands. "He never made mistakes."

Kaela lingered her attention on the parchment. "But we do."

Ludo didn't reply.

"No synonyms?" Tariq leaned forward, squinting at the text like it might blink first.

Kaela shook her head. "None."

He tilted his head. "Not even a little cousin word? Like… spelllet?"

"Menschen doesn't work like that," she replied. "Hexe means what it means."

Ludo's brow furrowed. "How do you know about the Hexe?"

Kaela's fingers tapped absently against her chain. "If you've heard of Yeso Sternach, you've heard of the spell, the Hexe. It's not exactly a bedtime secret back in Ormgrund."

"Of course," Ludo muttered. He stepped back from the desk, the old wood creaking beneath his boots. "Then this isn't the answer…"

His gaze drifted over the room—paintings, books, what other secrets were hidden? He sighed, fingers slowly rolling the canvas.

"Maybe there's something else," he said, almost to himself. "We should keep looking. Somewhere in here… there's got to be more."

"Tariq, check the upper rooms," Ludo said, already pacing toward the far corridor. "Kaela, comb through the bookshelves. I'll take the basement."

Tariq squinted. "Basement? Amigo, we're on the top floor. There is no basement."

But Ludo just flashed a grin over his shoulder. "Oh, there's a basement. Trust me."

And with that, his silhouette slipped into the shadows between two bookcases, boots barely making a sound as the gloom swallowed him.

Tariq blinked after him. "So… I get the attic?"

"Sounds like a plan," Kaela muttered, already pulling the first book free from the shelf. Dust bloomed in the air. Her expression tightened. "Does he expect me to read all of it?"

Tariq didn't answer. He chuckled, dragging his knuckles along the doorframe as he turned to leave. "I leave you to your noble mission of literary excavation. Meanwhile, I embark on a journey of…" he paused, considering, "bedding?"

He glanced back at her, waiting for the pun to land.

Kaela shrugged, a smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth. "You're the one who said it."

"Right. Regret it already." Tariq muttered as he disappeared up the stairs.

Kaela rolled her eyes, lips twitching as she turned back to the next volume. The shelves stretched endlessly above her.

"Well," she murmured, cracking the spine of the second book. "Let's see what secrets you're hiding."

Meanwhile, Tariq moved through the upper corridors with methodical disinterest—door after door, each one the same. A twist of the handle, a step inside, a glance around: bare floors, blank walls, nothing but shadows and mild dust. No furniture. No forgotten relics. Nothing worthy of a dwarf's curiosity. Just repetition. Open. Peek. Close. Repeat.

Until one door didn't match the cadence.

He opened it—and stopped.

Soft light bled into the hall, and he stepped through the threshold as if in a charm.

The room was a nursery.

Sunrise painted the walls in gentle sweeps of blue, orange, and blush-pink, blurring together like someone had captured dawn and trapped it in plaster. Shelves lined the walls, still packed with toys and boxes—unopened, untouched. Not a single scuff. Not a trace of laughter or little hands. This room was never used.

In the centre, suspended by silken cords from the ceiling, hung a cradle. Not a typical one—this was something else. Faerie-made, surely. It hung like a nest spun from soft reeds and silver thread, cradled in midair like a secret between worlds.

Tariq moved closer. It was exactly his size. A cradle built for a dwarf. Or just a baby.

He reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the suspended frame. It swayed, but just a little.

Nestled among the folds of the nest was a black leather box. He lifted the lid. Inside—three items.

First, a robe. Black as soot. Short, sleek. Magi-cut, but meant for someone smaller. Someone like him.

Second, a sealed, thick letter, yellowing at the edges but clearly unread. No name. Just the shimmer of a wax seal bearing an unfamiliar crest.

Third—a gun.

Tariq picked it up. Compact. Dense. Solid in his grip. No rust. No scratches. A weapon well kept, or maybe never used. He thumbed the chamber open and blinked. No bullets. Instead, four glass capsules, each slotted into place, each glowing faintly.

Blue. Green. Red. Yellow.

Each one was etched with an elemental symbol.

"Magitek," he mumbled.

His thumb hovered over the seal. The envelope was warm from his touch, the wax unbroken, smooth beneath his calloused fingers. It felt… personal. Like it had waited. Not for anyone. For him.

He turned it over, then again, scanning for a name, a mark, something. Nothing. Just the seal—raised and firm, a symbol he didn't recognise, pressed like a whisper from another life. Another reality.

He exhaled through his nose, then dragged a hand down his face, palm catching at the stubble on his jaw. His fingers trembled. Just a little.

His eyes dropped to the letter again.

What if?

The question throbbed like a pulse in his skull. What if this was for him? What if this was the answer to everything he hadn't dared ask? Or what if—he swallowed hard—it was something else? What if breaking that seal was a trigger? A lockbox of truths too heavy to carry. A whisper that ended everything.

His nail scraped lightly against the edge of the wax. Still sealed. Still waiting. He didn't move. Didn't blink. The silence in the nursery grew louder. And if it wasn't for him? Well… he could lie.

Say he'd found it open. Say the wind had done it. Say nothing.

Tariq stared at the seal a second longer, his jaw tight, his breath held in his throat as if it might talk him down. It didn't.

Snap.

The wax broke with a crack that rang far too loud for so small a sound—like a griffon's cry tearing across cloudless skies.

He stilled.

The room didn't.

Inside, three sheets. He pulled them out with slow fingers, the weight of each one sinking deeper than the last.

The first—crisp, folded with bureaucratic precision—Trial of the Elements, the form untouched but pre-filled, the ink too clean to be old. The form was filled with all his information.

The second—more worn, almost trembling in his grip—was a letter of recommendation. Addressed to Magi Lolth. Signed: Sterling Dargustea.

"Who the fuck is this guy…" Tariq muttered. He was expecting the name of Professor Duvencrune, not this Sterling. His eyes narrowed as he unfolded the third sheet. This one had a name on it—his. "Dear Tariq..."

He read the first line. Then, the second. The third slowed him. By the fourth, his throat had gone dry.

Each word peeled back something inside him—familiar phrases, stranger truths. The ink felt almost too fresh. It read him like someone had watched him through every cracked mirror of his life.

He reached the end, hands trembling now—not from fear, but from knowing.

"When you are ready, Tariq, son of Glish and Tessa Keplan…"

He swallowed.

"When you are ready, you'll know what to do. The balance and order of the world's needs you. She needs you. Do not let your blood dictate what you can or cannot accomplish."

The page curled slightly in his grip, and for a long moment, he didn't move.

Until a scream broke with the taste of danger.

I don't believe I've ever explained the basic grammar of Menschen properly.

Or perhaps I did, and no one was listening. Either way, the result is the same. At this point, it's become something of a joke.

But let's dwell on it. There are three important foundations in Menschen: two nouns and one independent positive prefix.

Yes. Two nouns. That's it. The nouns are "Eu" and "Tu." Or "I" and "you."

For humans, this is apparently confusing. They prefer an endless buffet of pronouns, all wrapped in qualifiers and social discomfort. In Menschen, you speak of yourself, or you speak to the other. If there is more than one "you," it is still tu. One or a thousand—it doesn't matter. The language assumes you're addressing a creature, not a census.

Now, the prefix: Mir. It is a giving word. A positive offering. For example:

"Eu mir gut tu." Literally: I give the good to you. Functionally, I wish you the best.

Remove "mir", and the sentiment becomes neutral, sometimes cold.

"Eu gut tu." That's no longer a blessing. That's a ranking. A comparison. I am better than you. It's not quite an insult, but it's definitely a raised eyebrow.

Add a closing "es," and it becomes rigid: "Eu gut tu es." I am the good. You are not. Simple. Brutal. Clean.

Menschen does not flirt.

Now, of course, no one cares. Why speak a clean language when you can hide behind the fog of ten thousand synonyms? Most creatures prefer human speech—it gives them room to lie, to hesitate, to feel safe in ambiguity.

Why? Bites me.

Ah. That reminds me. I once gave a lecture—unrequested, obviously—on why the "Blue-Ones" are called Menschen. Many assumed it was a derivative of the human word man or humanus. It is not.

Human means… well, human.

Menschen means Hushborn.

The "schen" is not a suffix—it's a sound. The soft exhale before a baby's first cry. The breath before the world begins. A creature born in silence, shaped in pause. That is what the word means. That is what they are.

It's poetic. I didn't invent it. It is funny that you needed three books for me to explain it. I thought it was obvious.

But still, it does explain a few things, doesn't it?

Why a Menschen's true name is so dangerous. Why it holds so much power. Why, I've changed mine more times than I can count. Orlo Sternach. Sterling Dargustea. And finally, the one the records know—Edgar O. Duvencrune.

All those schen… were me. ——The Hexe - Book Three by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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