“1066 days left” by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

  Tension settled over the camp like the heavy sky that precedes a storm. Following Head Officer Mediah's announcement, many young and seasoned mages departed, and the decision was framed as an opportunity for restructuring the whole Trial of Elements.

  In reality, this strategic thinning of their ranks was a precaution, a desperate measure to safeguard as many lives as possible.

  The camp, now sparse in population, took on a ghostly manner in the usually bustling areas. Those who remained were either essential personnel or those who had chosen to stand and face whatever was coming. Every structure and path, once teeming with the vibrant energy of being something bigger than themselves, now echoed with the solemnity of a fortress preparing for a siege.

  A silent siege.

  Zora and Jericho found themselves deep in the throes of gathering intelligence. Night after night, they pored over intercepted messages and reports from spies close to the pirate crews. Despite their efforts, the true scope and nature of the threat remained elusive. The pirates' communications were cryptic if not none.

  As Mediah patrolled the camp, his steps echoed in the unusual stillness that had settled like a dense fog. Most bonfires now lay extinguished; their cold ashes reminded him of the many who had left. Empty spots dotted the landscape, creating a patchwork of depleted numbers.

  Yet, amidst this quiet desolation, there were signs of resilience and preparation. The villa's walls now grew taller and stronger. Alongside, a row of new wooden cabins had begun to take shape, optimistically aligned like sentinels awaiting the return of mages in future seasons. After all, he was here to build an army.

  Reaching the central tent—his command post that doubled as a meeting point—Mediah entered to find Jaer absorbed in his work. The only sounds were the rustle of paper and the persistent scribblings of Jaer's pen. The tiefling looked up briefly, acknowledging Mediah with a nod, then returned his focus to the maps and reports spread out before him.

  "Any word?" Mediah asked.

  Jaer shook his head, his expression grim. "Still unclear," he replied. "Whatever it is, it's kept well hidden. Jericho and Lolth haven't been able to get close enough to gather more than rumours. It seems to be something new, possibly something powerful."

  Mediah frowned, his gaze drifting to the stacks of incompleted reports. "We need more information. We're blind in too many aspects," he muttered, his mind racing through various scenarios, each more unsettling than the last.

  "We keep pushing for intel. Meanwhile, we reinforce our defences and continue training. We make sure that every creature left in this camp is ready for whatever comes," Jaer stated.

  "Prepare for the worst, hope for the best," Mediah mumbled, turning to look out of the tent flap at the quiet camp.

  "What are you working on?" Mediah asked, low and tired as he settled onto his makeshift bed.

  "A report of the last events," Jaer responded without looking up.

  "Is that a good idea?" Mediah was concerned about the possibility of their intelligence falling into the wrong hands—particularly Shuri'.

  "If it's not written, it never happened. If it never happened, it would be impossible to learn from it." Jaer's tone was matter-of-fact.

  "True." Mediah conceded the point with a resigned sigh, Yeso made it seem so easy. "So what is the plan now?" he asked.

  "Waiting, I guess," Jaer answered, his own weariness apparent in the slight slump of his shoulders. There was a strategy in place, defences were reinforced, and preparations were as thorough as possible, but the enemy moved on their own terms, leaving them in this torturous anticipation.

  "Waiting it is," Mediah echoed, a faint trace of grim acceptance in his tone. He turned his gaze back to Jaer, watching him return to his report.

  Meanwhile, under the cloak of darkness, Zora and Jericho moved silently along the docks. Their night had begun with the solemn task of escorting the last group of mages bound for Mir-Grand-Carta, a mission fraught with quiet goodbyes.

  Exposing mages to a departure overseas also would send false confidence to the pirates that they would be outnumbered.

  Once the mages were safely on their way, the duo's true purpose at the docks began — uncovering the secrets harboured within the pirate vessels that loomed like dark sentinels against the darkness of the sky.

  The air was thick with the briny scent of the sea, mixed with the pungent odour of tar and rope that permeated the docks. Jericho and Zora used the shadows as their allies, slipping in and out of the darkness using the portals between worlds—from the shadow realm back to reality. Their movements were so fluid and synchronized that it was as though they had rehearsed this dance countless times.

  Each vessel they passed was a potential trove of information, and as they approached the largest of the pirate ships, their senses were heightened to any sound or movement. The gentle lapping of water against the hull provided a subtle soundtrack to their cautious advance. Zora paused momentarily, signalling Jericho to halt as well.

  Jericho trailed behind Zora, his body aching with fatigue that felt as much mental as it was physical. Over the past moon, shadow travelling had become second nature to him, a necessary skill honed under Zora's guidance.

  However, tonight was different; tonight, they weren't just skirting the fringes of danger—they were delving into its very heart by boarding the pirate vessel.

  As they moved deeper into the belly of the ship, Jericho felt an increasing dissonance within him. The Shadow World, its environment—a dense convergence of the real and the spectral—tugged at his senses in ways that were hard to articulate. It was as if every shadow they passed through left a residue, a layer of desolation that clung to him, whispering of dreams dashed and hopes extinguished.

  He glanced at Zora, who moved with her usual quiet confidence, her focus entirely on the mission. Her ability to navigate this shadowy borderland without apparent burden stirred concern in him. He had never confessed to her—or to anyone—how these travels affected him, how each passage felt like a brush against a world that was not meant for the living.

  The silence between them was filled only by the soft rustle of their movements and the distant murmur of the sea outside the ship's hull. Jericho knew that now was not the time to voice his growing apprehensions; their mission was too critical, and their discovery on board could lead to disastrous consequences. Instead, he pushed aside his discomfort, focusing on matching Zora's stealthy pace.

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  With a gesture that spoke of practised caution, she pointed towards a slightly ajar hatch leading below deck. The faint sound of voices drifted up to them, the tones low but urgent. Jericho nodded, and together, they edged closer.

  The snippets of conversation that drifted down to their hiding spot continued to disappoint. The chatter was disjointed, the mundane ramblings of men who had spent too long at sea, their words weaving through topics of no consequence—complaints about the food, jests about the last port's taverns, and the longing for solid land under their feet.

  Jericho began to doubt their chances of uncovering anything worthwhile; a voice cut through the monotonous drone—a high-pitched tone that was starkly out of place among the gruff accents of the pirate crew. Zora stiffened beside him, her breath catching slightly.

  That voice was unmistakably familiar.

  From their vantage point, shrouded in the gloom of the ship's deeper shadows, Zora and Jericho observed the scene unfolding within the captain's cabin through the slightly open door. The interior had a single flickering oil lamp chasing the Long Night away.

  A young woman in a black dress paced back and forth nervously. Beside her stood an older pirate, his attire far more elaborate than the typical garb of his crew, marking him unmistakably as the captain. His posture was rigid and commanding, yet there was an edge of dread in how he followed the woman's pacing with his tired eyes.

  "Lolth?" Jericho whispered, his voice barely audible above the low murmur of their voices carrying through the gap in the door. He noticed the change in Zora's demeanour; her body tensed, her breaths short and rapid. If it weren't for the shadows that enveloped them, he would have seen the colour drain from her face. "Lolth, what's wrong?"

  The dark elf's eyes were fixed on the figures in the cabin. "We are so utterly fucked!" she hissed under her breath, her usual composure shattered by whatever realization had just dawned on her.

  The cabin was charged, and the conversation between the woman and the captain was growing more heated. Even without hearing the specifics, the stakes were clearly high. The woman gestured animatedly with her hands while pacing, her voice rising and falling, and the captain responded with pointed fingers and clenched jaws, yet his eyes never faced the woman.

  Jericho's attention shifted between the cabin and Zora. He reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Zora's shoulder. "Talk to me. What did you see? Who is she?" he urged quietly, needing to understand the full scope of the threat they faced.

  Zora took a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes never leaving the cabin.

  "That woman," she began, "she's not a pirate. She's the key to their weapon—a weapon that isn't just a cannon or sword. It's something... worse."

  "What?" Jericho's confusion was evident, and his brows furrowed as he tried to grasp the meaning behind Zora's alarming statement.

  "Their weapons are not a what... but a who."

  "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "That's Monica!" Zora hissed, glancing back towards the ajar door. "That's Monica..."

  "Who? Who is that? Who is Monica?"

  "You sound like an owl! Let's go!" Zora snapped, ready to flee.

  "No, we need to know what they are up to!"

  Reluctantly, Zora stopped, yet recognizing the wisdom in Jericho's insistence. They both turned their attention back to the sliver of space beneath the door, where snippets of conversation continued to spill out.

  The exchange between the young woman—Monica—and the pirate captain grew more intense. Words like 'deployment', "leverage", and 'lake' floated through the gap, each term laced with ominous implications.

  Mir fado.

  Zora crouched low, her form melting back into the concealing darkness of the ship's hold as she settled into a narrow gap between the stacked crates.

  Monica was indeed there, pacing restlessly and alive. The sight of her stirred a combination of emotions in Zora; the woman she once loved appeared drastically changed. The black dress she wore clung to her in a way that was boldly immodest by any standard Zora remembered.

  Though still naturally frizzy, her hair was now styled with an intentional flair, adorned with black lace ribbons that added a touch of dark grace. But it was the necklace that caught Zora's attention most—finely sculpted jewellery that mimicked a web of spiders encircling her neck. It looked more like a collar of submission.

  Jericho, noticing Zora's intense focus, leaned slightly closer to get a better view without exposing himself. His eyes narrowed, "What's with the necklace?"

  "I don't know... but it looks more like a dog collar than a choice," Zora murmured back, her eyes not leaving Monica.

  "Well, you need to send more men!" Monica demanded louder than intended.

  "M'lady, to have more men, we need to call more boats. We don't have the manpower to scout all the land," replied the old husky voice thick with years of sea air. The captain bore the rugged marks of a life spent at the Red Sea—his face etched with deep wrinkles and a three-day beard that added to his weathered appearance. But he was visibly afraid, so afraid.

  "How many humans are needed to find a lake? Can't be that hard!"

  "Maybe if we ask the locals..." the old pirate started.

  "Are you serious?" Monica stopped pacing abruptly. She turned towards the old pirate, her expression one of incredulity and rising anger. In a swift motion, her hand struck his face with a resounding slap, followed by the dull thud of his head slamming against the wooden table.

  Stunned, the old pirate barely managed to regain his composure, blood dripping from his split lip. He spat into his hand, revealing a broken tooth among the spittle.

  Monica's fury simmered just beneath the surface as she repeated, "Are you serious?" The shift in her demeanour was a calculated restraint designed to assert dominance without further violence—for the moment.

  "I'm sorry, M'lady, it's just..." the grizzled pirate began, his voice unsteady as he tried to regain his footing in the conversation, aware of the precariousness of his position.

  "You want others to chase that bloody Homecat?" Monica interjected.

  "Ormsaat... it is pronounced Ormsaat... it means the home of the seed," the pirate dared to correct.

  The chill in the cabin seemed to deepen as Monica settled into her seat across from the grizzled pirate captain, her smirk slicing between them like a blade. "You have balls that, I must admit, are tiny, but they must be there somewhere," she quipped with a cold humour that did little to lighten the mood.

  The captain, momentarily cowed by Monica's biting remark, rallied his courage. "Maybe we are in the wrong district. Ormgrund is pretty big. Bigger than the Great Continent, maybe bigger than the Red Sea," he suggested.

  "No, it's here. My Master would know better," Monica countered sharply, shutting down the alternative with unwavering certainty. Her belief in her Master's guidance was unshakeable. It was evident that this 'Master' held significant sway over their actions and decisions, shaping the course of their mission with an invisible hand.

  "Well, then, we need to siege the camp of the Mages; that is the last place we didn't scout."

  "I was hoping we could avoid them," she admitted softly, a rare hint of hesitation in her voice. "Are my children ready?"

  "Yes, yes, they are ready in the lower deck. I can release them once you order." The grim carved on his features and the haunted look that flickered in his eyes—a look that implied he had indeed seen too much but not enough. "Are you worried about the Mere?"

  Monica's smile then shifted, becoming genuine, softer yet laden with complexity. "No, I couldn't care less about that fish. I'm worried about a friend," she revealed, “a very dear friend.”

  In their shadowy hideout, Zora's reaction was immediate and visceral. Monica's words struck a chord, confirming her worst fears about who might be involved and the potential danger to those she cared deeply about.

  Her eyes widened with the realization—Monica knew she was here.

  Zora turned to Jericho and grabbed his collar without hesitation, her grip tight. "We need to go now!"

  

  This is a rather charming, if somewhat clichéd, story about Zora's early days. The tale, as narrated by Zora herself during one of our bedroom discussions (which I must confess are often more enlightening than any of my formal inquiries), begins unassumingly in kindergarten. Zora, a dark elf, found herself the unwitting pariah among her peers, her distinct appearance rendering her a curiosity at best and, at worst, an outcast. Dark elves were, after all, not a common sight in the predominantly light-hearted environs of childhood play. Enter Monica, undeterred by such trivial distinctions as race or perhaps just possessed of a more adventurous spirit than her contemporaries. She chose Zora as her playmate, a simple act of selection that speaks volumes about childhood innocence—or perhaps the lack of other appealing options if one were to adopt a more cynical view. Their friendship blossomed as only childhood friendships do. The toys of their youth gradually gave way to the more complex emotions of adolescence, their innocent camaraderie deepening into something more profound. Kisses and foreplay that one could easily imagine. While it's tempting to dismiss their story as saccharine, I find a certain resonance in its simplicity. But we can't forget, after all, this is the story of a teen-love turned into a Nightmare. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer