They called him Leafbone.

Too thin for war, too sharp for court.

A half-step behind his own crown

silver hair, green gaze, and a smile I never met.

I was told he was brave.

Told he was clever.

Told he was foolish,

wandering with a golden arch on his back.

And a face behind a book

I never read.

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 Unpublished manuscript, Summer.

The air shifted as Ludo stepped onto the first stair—a damp, heavy inhale from below. It tasted wrong. Not just stale, but mineral-heavy, laced with something earthy—like the breath of drowned moss clinging to stone.

He descended slowly.

Each footfall echoed with a slick, hollow note. The stairs were tiled in glossy white, the kind used in bathhouses or drained pools, now slick with condensation. His boots slid just enough to make his heart lurch. One bad step, and he'd tumble headfirst into whatever waited at the bottom.

The dark swallowed the world a step at a time.

Ludo lifted a hand, fingers curling with a silent flick. A small flame bloomed in his palm—no larger than a coin, flickering nervous amber. It threw just enough light to catch the sweat on his brow and the glisten of water crawling along the walls. He kept going deeper into the unknown.

Ludo's boots splashed lightly as they met the floor—shallow water pooled over the tile, the chill seeping through his soles.

He raised his hand, the fireball flaring wider, casting a soft, flickering glow across the space.

And froze.

The light bled across walls tangled with roots—no, not roots. Vines. Thick and sinewy, half-withered, half-fused into the tile-like veins grown too long without blood and along them hung torn husks the size of an adult elf like him, translucent and sagging—like cocoons. Some had split open clean; others had been clawed through from the inside. Their empty hollows drooped like mouths frozen in a silent scream.

It wasn't just decay—it was abandonment—a garden with no gardener. A nest long since fled.

The stench of rot clung to everything, sweet and sour at once, like perfume curdled in its bottle.

Ludo's breath caught. He took a step forward, the water rippling around his ankles, and studied one of the larger husks. Fibrous, silvered strands clung to its rim. Mothlike. Faerie-born.

This was no basement.

It was a cradle. A tomb. Maybe both.

No wonder the Professor wrote of them with such hunger. Faeries—their strange rebirths, their looping deaths, their obsession with cycles.

Ludo narrowed his eyes, the fire dimming to a low pulse in his palm. He wasn't moving through theory anymore—this was no metaphor, no footnote scribbled in the margins of a prophecy. This was proof.

And if some part of him had ever doubted the Professor's words… it didn't anymore.

He reached out and brushed one of the torn cocoons with a single finger.

It wept. A slow bead of red welled from the fibrous seam, thicker than sap, unmistakable in scent. He brought it to his nose, then recoiled.

Blood. Fresh enough to curdle his stomach. There was nothing more dreadful to an elf than human red blood. The blood of death. Rotblut. That Menschen word, he knew too well.

He wiped it hastily on his pants, the smear sinking into the fabric like a secret he didn't want to keep.

His eyes wandered over the tangled walls, where words scrawled in red blood stretched across the white tile: Maggie is the key to the End of Times.

It wasn't written in Menschen; anyone could read this.

"What happened to you, Maggie?" he murmured.

The silence didn't last.

Click. Click.

That sound again—too real to be a coincidence, too close to ignore.

The click of the tongue of a Nightmare.

Book by book, Kaela slid them from the shelf with the boredom of a ritual. Each spine released a faint puff of mint, and each cover cracked like brittle bark.

She flipped through the pages quickly—flutter, glance, flip again. Then, as if expecting secrets to tumble loose, she gave the book a good shake. Nothing. Not even a folded note or forgotten leaf. Nothing.

She moved to the next. And the next. A full row was done.

The stack by her side grew taller, more chaotic—titles blurred into each other, the same looping word on every cover: HEXE.

Her fingers began to ache. Her arms slowed. Still, she kept going.

She didn't sit. Wouldn't sit. To sit meant to read. And reading meant surrendering to the weight of every word in every book—an eternity trapped in the bowls of a golem. But as her hand hovered over the next spine, Kaela's lips pressed into a thin line.

Nothing was hidden in these books. Not beneath them. Not behind them. They weren't keeping secrets. They were the secret.

Still, she reached for the next one because giving up was harder than pretending that the next book might matter.

"You look cute in that robe."

The voice slid through the silence like a needle, piercing Kaela's thoughts and yanking her back to the room. Her spine stiffened. She hadn't imagined it.

"I thought you would've given up by now," it cooed again, silk over glass. "I remember how you ran away crying like a little reindeer. But I see, I was wrong about you."

Kaela didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Her eyes tried to keep surveying the shelves before her, but her focus was gone, replaced by a pressure crawling up her throat. She knew that voice. Every syllable was a thorn from the past. It wrapped around her ribs, pressed against her lungs.

"Kaela... look at me."

Her fingers curled instinctively around her chain. Still no footsteps. No shadow. Just… the voice. Closer now. Like it had always been there, waiting.

"Aren't you going to say something?"

A breath tickled the back of her neck. The voice was behind her now. Sweet. Familiar. Wrong.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Kaela didn't turn. Her heart thundered. She knew who it was. And she had feared that voice for far too long.

"Did you miss me?"

Kaela's fingers twitched at her side, and slowly—too slowly—she turned.

There she was. That smile. The same crooked, radiant grin that once lit up the campfires in the Trial of Elements. The one Kaela had seen in memories. In nightmares.

Shuri.

The hair was uneven and chopped short, as if it had been hacked off in a hurry. Black robe wrinkled, dusted with soil at the hem. Arms folded lazily like she belonged there.

Kaela's knees threatened to give. "How…" Her throat locked. "What…" She stumbled over the question, the world tilting under her feet. "You died. You died!"

Shuri cocked her head. "Oh, really?" she said. "And what did they say happened, hmm? That I flung myself off a cliff? That my little mere heart broke in two, and I just poofed into foam?" She let out a brittle laugh and leaned back against the shelf like it was all a joke. "What a shit story, right?"

Kaela couldn't move. Her voice cracked on the next words. "Lolth… killed you. Ludo said..."

The smile didn't vanish. But Shuri's eyes—those deep, pink-flecked eyes—darkened. "Oh," she said quietly now, "that is the version that I like."

Shuri's smile twitched wider, teeth catching the low light. "That one's got claws. I didn't think the little Spider had it in her. Oh, oh, how wrong I was. That elf knew what turned me on." She pushed off the shelf with the grace of someone who'd stopped fearing consequences.

"She played me well," the mere went on, voice edged with admiration and venom all at once. "I'll give her that. Some people really know how to hold a grudge."

Her boots squeaked over the floor as she took a slow step forward, the distance between them shrinking.

"And you," she added, eyes dragging over Kaela like a knife slipping between ribs. "I wasn't expecting you to come back, little reindeer. That was a surprise. You got some fire, girl! I like that. I like it very much. Almost as much as I liked my little Spider."

Kaela's hand snapped to her sword, fingers curling tight around the hilt.

"Stay where you are!"

Shuri stilled mid-step. Her head tilted, expression unreadable.

But that smile?

It didn't move.

"Careful, little reindeer," Shuri murmured, her voice velvet-laced with venom. "Those blades can be dangerous."

She didn't look like she had moved. But the world blinked, and she was there. Too fast. Too close.

Before Kaela could react, Shuri's arms had coiled around her like a lover's embrace. Breath hot against her ear, fingers dragging slowly as silk along the curve of her neck. Then a whisper, low and cruel: "Oh… no bitemark here. Should we fix that?"

Kaela's spine locked. Her muscles screamed.

Move!

She twisted, desperate. One chain at her waist came loose, spiralling like a silver serpent between them. It caught Shuri mid-sentence.

The scream that tore out of the mere's throat wasn't human.

It wasn't even angry.

It was hungry.

A thundercrack split the air.

Kaela barely registered the bang. Her vision blurred, her limbs straining against the crushing embrace of the mere—but her eyes snapped upward, drawn by movement on the balcony above.

Tariq stood there, one foot braced against the railing, gun raised.

"Shoot her in the head!" she gasped, the chain at her throat biting deep with every syllable. "Now!"

Shuri's grin only widened.

"I can't!" Tariq shouted in panic. "It won't work! I...I think I only have the four elements. I have no clue how to make light!"

He bolted from the balcony, boots thundering as he sprinted for the stairs. "I'm trying to spook it off you!" he shouted down. "Just hold on!"

Kaela didn't reply. She couldn't. Her chain twisted tighter as Shuri's grip shifted, breathless laughter spilling against her skin.

"A bullet between her eyes will do the trick, Tariq!"

Behind her, Shuri's laughter rose—low, giddy, and wrong.

Tariq skidded to the base of the stairs, gun clutched tight, eyes scanning wildly. "How the fuck do you know its gender? It doesn't wear a dress!"

"What are you talking about?" Kaela snapped. Her grip loosened on the chain as her strength began to fray. "It's Shuri! It's her!" But her words faltered.

Because Tariq's face—his sturdy, stubborn face—was draining to ash. His mouth parted like it wanted to argue, but no words came—just a whisper of breath.

He raised the gun again, slower this time, and locked eyes with her.

"Kaela…" he said, "that's not Shuri or whoever. That's nobody."

His voice broke on the last word.

"That's a Nightmare."

"I know she's a nightmare, but...—" Kaela started, but the words died mid-breath. Her head turned just enough to catch it—just enough to see.

Not Shuri, not even close.

A face peeled into something monstrous. The skin stretched too tight over bone, darkened, six gleaming eyes blinking out of sync. A mouth split too wide, ringed with rows of needle-teeth, lunging for her throat.

"What the—" she gasped. "She was… I saw her."

But then—

Thunk.

An arrow slammed through the creature's temple, driving it sideways with a sickening crunch. It shrieked and reeled, pinned to the shelf like a writhing marionette, its claws scrabbling madly as it tried to wrench the shaft from its skull.

Kaela stumbled free, coughing, her chains rattling loose.

Across the room, Ludo lowered his bow.

"Open the window!" he shouted.

Kaela and Tariq sprang into motion.

Curtains were ripped aside—some revealed nothing but bare stone behind them. Others gave way to glass but couldn't be opened, where the dying sun bled orange across the sky.

"Here!" Kaela shouted, hands fumbling at the latch of the tallest frame, where light still clung to the room.

Ludo leapt from the balcony, landing hard beside the thrashing Nightmare. Tariq was right behind him, boots skidding across the polished floor.

Ludo didn't hesitate. He dropped to one knee, bracing himself over the creature's contorted form, and wrenched the arrow free from its skull.

The Lamia screeched, a keening sound that rattled the shelves.

"What the hell are you doing, Leafbone?!" Tariq yelled.

Ludo didn't answer. "Get out of my way—Kaela, get that window open!"

Kaela shoved the window open, hinges shrieking as air rushed in. Behind her, Tariq hovered—one step back, knuckles white around his weapon, hesitation or caution flickering in his stance.

Ludo didn't wait.

With both hands clenched in the Nightmare's tangled limbs, he dragged the writhing shape across the floor—its skin smoking where light brushed too close, its form misshapen, halfway between random humanoids and monster. Black claws scraped deep grooves into the wood as it fought him every inch.

They reached the window.

Outside, Skoe Scana blazed gold beneath the setting sun. Giant silhouettes loomed in the haze—silent golems, tombstone titans watching from the hills.

Kaela stepped aside, bracing herself for what came next.

But the Lamia wasn't done.

With a burst of motion, it lashed out, seizing Ludo by the chest. They crashed together against the window frame. The Lamia hissed, trying to drag him through with it, not ready to fall alone.

Ludo's breath tore from him in a gasp, but he twisted at the last second, slipping through her grip.

One turn. One perfect step.

He planted both feet, spun its weight with his own, and shoved hard.

The Nightmare toppled.

It hit the open air, screaming.

Its body dissolved mid-fall—flesh unravelling, shadow peeling away like burning paper.

By that time, there was nothing left but dust.

"Ludo?" Kaela's voice trembled as she stepped closer, still winded, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Her gaze darted from the open window to the elf hunched near it. "Are you alright?"

Ludo gave a short, breathless laugh. "Yeah," he said, though it cracked mid-word. "Everything's fine." His smile flickered like candlelight—more nervous reflex than truth.

Tariq squinted. "Mate, you sure?" He edged closer, one brow lifted, wary.

Ludo was still grinning—until his hand throbbed.

He winced and looked down.

The bitemark bloomed green across his palm, twin punctures swelling fast, already laced with a bruised violet ring. The colour drained from his face.

"Oh."

Kaela saw it. Her breath caught. "Ludo…"

"What do we do?" Tariq asked.

Ludo wobbled to one knee and chuckled again like someone exhaling hope. "Well," he muttered, "this was a fun little adventure."

"Don't you dare," Kaela snapped, but not above a whisper.

"Please, tell my brother," Ludo began, but Kaela cut him off.

"Shut up."

"We'll find something," Tariq said. "This house is full of weird scheida—look!" He pointed to his new magitek.

Ludo's fingers brushed the wound on his hand. "Tell my brother…" He swallowed. "Tell him I'm sorry, I'll miss my niece's birthday. I really wanted to be there this Summer. I heard she is such a bright little princess."

Kaela's lips parted, but no sound came.

"Tell him…" Ludo's voice cracked. "He probably doesn't know it, but… I always looked up to him, even with his broom shoved upon his arse, even when I didn't say it. Especially then. Tell my brother I love him."

His thumb traced the edge of the bite mark again, lingering now.

"It's been… a pleasure," he added, with the ghost of a smile. "All of this."

"Ludo—" Kaela stepped forward, too late.

"What are you doing, mate?"

Ludo took a breath that felt too deep for the room and turned to the open window. The light outside had faded to gold, brushing the edge of the sky like an afterthought.

"Please, you two, find Maddie. She is important, she is the solution... and now," he said with a smirk. "I will leave as me."

And then, without pause—without drama—he stepped back.

Kaela lunged. Tariq shouted.

But there was no time.

Ludo vanished past the ledge, his silhouette swallowed in sunlight.

Outside, the dying sun caught him mid-fall. The last rays turned his frame to flickering gold. Ash lifted in the air like it had always belonged to the wind. And then…

Nothing.

Just breeze. And an arch was left on the floor.

This was the story of Ludovic Berdorf...

At this point, it has become increasingly difficult to define what a Lamia truly is.

Not for lack of observation. Quite the opposite. The problem lies in their very nature: they are constantly evolving. They learn. They adapt. And worst of all, they hide in plain sight, beneath our wide-open, supposedly discerning eyes. Early identification methods—smell, gait, energy signature—have largely failed.

Once distinguishable by their rotblut stench and fragmented shadow, many now pass undetected. Some even mask that dreadful scent entirely. It's as though they've learned to mimic trust.

They do not merely impersonate a person. They become the shape of your deepest fear. Or worse—your fondest memory.

And they do so with a level of precision that should not be possible without first-hand knowledge. They've never met these people. And yet—they speak like them. Smile like them. Bleed like them.

It is not only unsettling. It is an elegant horror. And I won't pretend otherwise: I am scared, too.

We are dealing not with beasts of instinct but creatures born for chaos—and perfected for death.

They walk among us. Some, beneath daylight. How can we vanquish them? Or are we to be vanquished? ——The Hexe - Book Three by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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