Hexe | The Long Night

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

Marie-Hex walked through her Master's apartment, her tiny paws barely making a sound against the wooden floors. Something was wrong. The air was stale, carrying the scent of old paint and something else—something bitter, metallic, like dried licor.

She scurried forward, shifting effortlessly into her human form, white hair spilling over her shoulders as she straightened. Reaching for the nearest light switch, she flicked it on, and the dim glow barely illuminated the chaos before her.

The house was a disaster.

Furniture had been overturned, cushions slashed open with stuffing spilling onto the floor like entrails. Books lay scattered with their pages torn. Nothing remained but broken bindings and shredded paper.

She turned, wondering what had happened.

The massive painting—the one that had dominated the office—was ruined. The canvas had been slashed violently, deep gashes cutting through the enigmatic couple of the man, woman and a wolf who stood so regally in the portrait. The paint curled at the edges of the tears, erased.

Marie-Hex reached out, fingertips brushing the jagged edges of the artwork. Who had done this? And why?

The apartment had always felt curated, as if someone had placed everything there with meticulous care, as though waiting for its occupant to piece together a puzzle. But now, it was as if something— or someone—had torn through the very fabric of that mystery, desperate to destroy the answers before they could be found.

Something had happened here. Something violent.

Her ears twitched, listening for any signs of life.

Nothing. But a question echoed in her mind: Where was Orlo?

"Master?" she called out. No answer. "Master, are you home?" she tried again.

A noise.

Faint from upstairs—a subtle shuffle, barely more than a whisper against the silence. Marie-Hex stiffened, ears twitching at the sound. Without another thought, she followed.

The staircase creaked beneath her light steps. The hallway above was no better—dimly lit and lined with doors left ajar, revealing rooms swallowed in shadow. She peeked inside one by one, her furred coat brushing against the doorframes as she moved.

Buckets of paint littered the floors, their lids discarded haphazardly. Streaks of pink, blue, and orange splattered across the wood, smeared in uneven trails as if someone had been too careless or too frantic to bother with precision. Footprints, half-formed and muddled, ghosted through the mess.

Something was wrong.

She moved faster now, following the path of color-stained destruction, her chest tightening with a feeling she couldn't shake.

Then, she saw it.

A single door at the end of the hall was barely open, a thin sliver of warm light spilling through the crack—the only light in this part of the apartment.

Marie-Hex swallowed hard, her hands curling into fists as she approached. She pushed the door open. And her heart sank. "Master?"

He didn't move.

Orlo sat against the wall, slouched in a way that made him look smaller than she'd ever seen him. His white shirt was now streaked with every shade of the rainbow, the colours blending into chaotic smears against the dark fabric of his pants. His red hair fell over his face, shielding his expression, but his hands—stained with paint and trembling slightly—were visible in his lap. Around him, one empty bottle lay discarded.

Marie-Hex swallowed, stepping further into the room, careful not to disturb the world he had created here.

And what a world it was.

The walls stretched high, bathed in a breathtaking gradient of blue and pink, the hues blending seamlessly like the first light of dawn breaking against the horizon. The colours swirled in soft, delicate strokes, each layer melting into the next as if Orlo had captured the very essence of the morning and trapped it within these walls.

In the centre of the room stood a faerie nest—crafted with painstaking care, woven with vines of paper flowers, each petal shaped and folded with a precision that spoke of hours of dedication and love. The nest curled around itself, a cradle of magic and love, waiting for the weight of something small and precious to fill it.

Along the edges of the room, empty shelves lined the walls, freshly installed and untouched. Waiting. For books. For toys. For stories yet to be written and memories yet to be made.

It was beautiful.

It was perfect.

It was a dream almost brought to life.

And yet, its designer sat in the corner, lost in something she couldn't see, drowning in colours that should have brought joy.

Marie-Hex took a slow step forward, her small frame barely making a sound.

"…Master?" The Little Mouse said, almost hesitant, as she stepped closer.

Orlo didn't lift his head. "She killed our baby."

Marie-Hex froze.

His head remained low, his red hair shielding his face, but nothing could hide the raw agony in his voice. "She called me," he continued. "She changed her mind. She didn't want to stop her career for an unwanted child. That… the idea of dancing again was childish. That I... was childish."

His fingers twitched against the fabric of his pants, paint-stained and curling into weak fists.

"So she terminated the pregnancy. That was her excuse, I mean... her reasoning."

Marie-Hex's chest tightened.

"She killed my baby. She didn't even ask me... I would take care of the baby. I would suspend my university enrolment and take care of my baby. I have money... I... I don't understand why she killed our baby."

Silence stretched between them, suffocating.

Marie-Hex stepped even closer, her bare feet careful over the paint-splattered floor. The colours stretched across the wood in chaotic swirls, pinks and blues bleeding into one another, staining the ground like memories too painful to clean away.

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She lowered herself beside him, her white coat brushing against his trembling arm. Orlo didn't react at first, then, as if the last of his strength had drained from him, he leaned into her, his head resting against her shoulder.

"I hate her."

Marie-Hex remained still, letting him speak.

"I hate her so much. I didn't know I could hate someone like I hate Zora." His fingers curled into the fabric of his ruined shirt, his knuckles ghost-white against the streaks of dried paint. "How can you still love someone you hate so deeply? I don't want to love her. She doesn't deserve to be loved."

Marie-Hex glanced around the room—the faeirie nest draped in delicate paper flowers, the empty shelves waiting for books and toys, the soft hues of dawn rising against the walls, painted by hands that had once carried hope and so much love.

She pressed her fingers against the floor, feeling the cold seep through them.

She didn't have an answer. Not yet.

Marie-Hex stiffened as a faint movement stirred against her side, gently shifting inside her coat pocket. She had almost forgotten it was there.

Slowly, she reached inside, her fingers brushing against something round, warm, and slightly slick, like a polished stone left out in the summer rain.

She pulled it free.

A single amber eye blinked at her, its surface glistening under the dim light, peering curiously at its surroundings as if it had just woken from a long slumber.

Marie-Hex exhaled softly, cradling it in her palm. She had carried it all this time, a gift from a girl who had known far too much, who had seen futures unravel before anyone else—Fiorna Mageschstea.

The eye shifted slightly, its gaze roaming the painted room. And then it stopped as if it understood something she did not; it turned its gaze toward Orlo.

Orlo's tired gaze flicked toward the small, glistening object in Marie-Hex's hand. His rimmed eyes narrowed in suspicion, his lips barely moving as he muttered, "What's that? Doesn't look like cheese."

"There is an eye that sees it all," she murmured. "And another… who…" The words caught in her throat. "Well, it should be yours."

Orlo lifted his head from her shoulder, blinking sluggishly. "I've been half-blind all this time, and you had a spare eye in your pocket?" He let out a dry, humourless chuckle. "How did you…"

Marie-Hex hesitated, shifting the eye in her fingers as if its weight had only just registered. "It belonged to a dying princess," she admitted. "And she wanted me to give it to you. I completely forgot about it."

She rose to her feet, the movement abrupt, firm. "Here, try it."

With a gentle but insistent tug, she pulled Orlo up alongside her. He wobbled slightly, unsteady from exhaustion, paint still staining his hands.

His gaze drifted down to the amber eye, glowing against Marie-Hex's palm. "You're serious?" he asked, though his voice had no sarcasm.

Marie-Hex only nodded. "See for yourself."

The Little Mouse placed the eye in Orlo's palm, its slick surface cool against his stained fingers. Without hesitation, she reached up and gently pulled away his eyepatch, revealing the hollow where his eye had once been.

"Come on, try."

Orlo grimaced, his free hand instinctively hovering near his face. "What, I just… place it in the socket?"

"You need to swallow it."

Orlo stiffened, his entire body tensing as he shot her a look of pure disbelief. "You're kidding me."

She crossed her arms, expression deadpan. "Go ahead."

"This is insane," he muttered. But even as he said it, he could feel something thrumming beneath his skin—a pull, a whisper of something greater waiting just beyond his reach.

His grip tightened around the eye. "If I choke and die, I'm haunting you."

Marie-Hex smirked. "Then I'd never be alone."

Orlo stared at the eye in his palm, the amber surface gleaming like something alive. His fingers curled around it briefly, hesitating. He had lost everything—his leg, his eye, his child, his love, his future. What was left to lose?

A breath shuddered through him, and without another thought, he lifted the eye to his lips. It was cool against his tongue, unnervingly smooth, and he forced himself to swallow before he could fully register the sensation.

The moment it slid down his throat, thick and foreign, his body tensed involuntarily. His chest clenched, his stomach twisted, and for a fleeting second, he thought he might retch.

Then—nothing.

The world around him dimmed, or maybe it expanded—he couldn't tell. His breath caught in his chest, the stillness pressing in on him. He squeezed his only eye shut, the sensation of something shifting inside him nearly unbearable.

And then he opened it.

The world exploded.

His vision was no longer his own—it was too much, too vast, too deep. His sight stretched beyond the room, beyond the walls, beyond time itself. Colors he had never known bled into existence, golden threads of fate twisting in the air like whispered secrets. He saw his own hands stained in grief, the splattered colors of his child's never-to-be nursery, the shadow of his former self watching from a past he could no longer reach.

Orlo gasped, staggering back, his legs nearly giving out. His heart thundered against his ribs, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

"Master?" the Little Mouse whispered.

Orlo lifted his trembling hand to his face, fingers brushing against his cheek. His breath hitched as he exhaled, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"What the fuck did I just do?"

Gold-lined text curled and twisted through the air like delicate strands of ink suspended in time. They wove around objects, stretched over furniture, and flickered in and out of focus like whispers from a forgotten language. Each one held something—a definition, a note, a fragment of understanding. But Orlo quickly realized these weren't foreign observations forced upon him like he always believed.

These were his memories.

From every life he had lived, from every timeline he had stumbled through and been pulled from, they were here—written into the fabric of his vision, etched into the world around him of millions and aeons of possibilities.

There was an eye that sees it all and another that remembers it all.

And he had just swallowed the latter.

His breath came uneven as he turned, seeing everything in ways he never had before. The apartment wasn't just a place—it was his, shaped by countless echoes of his past selves. His gaze landed on Marie-Hex, and for the first time, he truly saw her—not just as she was now, but as she had always been.

She stood there, both the girl she had once been and the Spirit she had become, layered like reflections in a mirror that stretched through eternity. Her red eyes flickered between forms, shifting with each blink of his own. A white-haired child with a mischievous grin. A tiny mouse scampered through the folds of his coat. A dreamer lost between lives, much like himself.

"What…" His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "What is this?"

Marie-Hex stepped forward cautiously, studying his face. "Master?"

He turned to her, and she inhaled sharply as she met his gaze.

Orlo's new eye burned gold. It saw everything. And it remembered everything.

His past. His futures. The fragments of himself that had been lost across lifetimes.

Nothing was forgotten anymore.

As the fourth Moon ascended into the abyss of the Long Night, its pale glow spilt through the windows of the chaotic apartment. The silver light pooled over the disarray—splintered furniture, shredded books, and the tattered remains of the mysterious portrait. It bathed the mess in an eerie calm as if cleansing the wreckage of something far greater than mere furniture and books.

At this point in space and time, Orlo Yeso Sternach ceased to exist.

The boy born and raised in Faewood, the boy who could travel the realm of Dreams, was now gone. Something new took root in his place—a historian of broken realities, a keeper of lost knowledge, a man who had seen too much and still knew too little—a time traveller.

Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune was born.

Edgar knew now what must be done. To stop the End of Time. To stop Xendrix Kaspian. To find the point of no return and to give everyone involved a chance at a happy ending. Everyone deserves a happy ending—even Orlo.

The Eye That Remembers All—was an eye-opening, pun not intended, to the depths of my true magic. A gift, some might say, though for me, it was anything but. The sheer magnitude of it, the ceaseless torrent of memories spanning across life upon life, overwhelmed me for decades. Imagine, if you will, the weight of countless realities pressing against your mind, a cacophony of experiences clamouring for attention, a history that refuses to rest.

And so, many of you wonder—How did I not know about Little Spider's condition? Why didn't I save her? Why did I remain withdrawn, steeped in self-pity, loathing and hating the very Hexe that bound me? You ask these questions with such certainty as if the answers should be simple. But nothing about this was ever simple.

In the grand scheme of things, it took me decades just to comprehend the full scope of my power, let alone master it. By the time clarity found me, the damage had already been done. The so-called villains had already won. The story had long since been careened past the point of saving. No heroics, no last-minute rescues. No happy endings tied up in a neat bow.

But that is not why I am here.

I am not here to mourn the past or indulge in futile regret. I am here to locate the moment. The fracture point— is the subtle fulcrum where a single, nearly imperceptible change could shift the course of fate itself. That tiny, seemingly inconsequential detail which, if altered, could reset the board entirely.

If I succeed, we all get to restart again.

And for me? That means waking up to the warmth of my Hexe's breath against my skin, my child's laughter filling the air, and the quiet certainty that this time, I did not lose everything. — by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition