Hexe | The Long Night

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

The cold of Whitestone was unlike any other, a frost so deep it seeped through fabric and skin, biting at the bone. Claramae could feel it, even through the thick layers of her corset, the concealed wings at her back stiffening with the cold. After all these Winters, she was still not used to it. She felt trapped under her own garment.

The palace, a monolith of ice and stone, loomed at the heart of the world. It was vast and empty, an expanse where life dared not whisper, where even the wind hesitated before howling through the white corridors.

There was no laughter here, no soft murmur of conversation—only the dull rhythm of duty, the mechanical motions of those who worked in its hollow belly.

Claramae had learned the routine quickly. Laundry. Kitchen. Extinguish the oil lamps. A quiet, invisible existence. That was how the Winterqueen kept her palace—void of anything that might resemble life. And so far, Claramae had been nothing more than another insignificant shadow.

It suited her.

The fewer eyes on her, the easier it would be to complete what she had come here to do. To kill the Winterqueen. To put an end to the torment of endless winters once and for all.

Tonight was different.

Tonight, Claramae had been given a task beyond the endless monotony of washing linens and snuffing out lamps. Tonight, she was asked to bring Her Highness's tea.

The opportunity had come so effortlessly that it felt like the will of the Green Mother herself. Faeries knew herbs and mushrooms better than anyone—how to heal, how to soothe… and how to kill.

The Winterqueen would drink, and the last frost of her breath would fade into the cold air.

A single sip. That was all it would take. A good faerie always has some star mushrooms within her pockets because there would always be a creature as desperate as Humbert. It was strange to think about the human storekeeper now of all times.

Claramae walked the long northern wing, her steps light, her grip steady on the tray. The teapot's steam curling lazily from its spout, carrying the delicate spice of star mushrooms and winterberry—a scent fit for a queen's final indulgence. The single cup clinked softly as she moved, the fragile porcelain trembling just enough to mirror the anticipation boiling inside her chest. She was so close.

Tonight would be the last night of winter.

A thrill rippled through her at the thought—a genuine smile.

She didn't see the light shifting outside, didn't notice the Fifth Moon rising, its silver glow threading through the ice-veiled windows.

Never realized it was illuminating her path.

Claramae was only steps away from the Winterqueen's chambers when she saw him. A child. No older than ten, perhaps twelve Winters.

She froze.

Every muscle in her body locked in place, her breath strangled in her throat. The corridor stretched around her, yet the sight of him made the vast palace feel unbearably small.

The tray in her hands tilted, her fingers suddenly numb, unable to grasp the silver edge. The porcelain cup shattered first, a sharp, cruel sound against the polished stone floor.

Then came the spill—scalding tea splashed against her legs, soaking into the fabric of her skirts, biting into her skin like ice-hot needles.

Claramae barely flinched. She couldn't.

Her entire world had narrowed to the child standing before her.

Though bound beneath her corset, her wings itched with an unbearable, suffocating pressure.

It wasn't possible. It couldn't be. And yet—he was here.

The child turned, his gaze settling on her with quiet curiosity. "Do you need help, ma'am?"

That voice. That gentle, innocent voice. The same soft lilt, the same careful cadence—unmistakable.

The boy stepped closer, the soft pat-pat of his polished shoes echoing in the empty corridor. The flickering light of the oil lamps cast uneven shadows across his round face. He was so chubby, still carrying the softness of childhood, his cheeks full, his large eyes filled with an innocence that didn't belong in this cursed place, nor in his face.

And yet, despite the fine noble attire, despite the unfamiliar setting, she knew him.

Claramae staggered back, her breath coming too fast, too shallow. Her legs burned, but the pain was distant, insignificant against the storm surging inside her. How was this possible?

She gripped the edge of her apron, fingers twisting into the fabric as if the cloth could tether her to reality.

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The boy tilted his head, watching her with that same gentle concern, and the expression sent an unnatural wave of terror crashing through her.

She had imagined this moment a thousand times, had prayed and begged for it in the darkest hours of the Long Night. But in her fantasies, he has been dead for twenty-two winters.

And now all her nightmares have turned real. He was here, and she was terrified.

The boy knelt gracefully, his small hands reaching for the shattered porcelain. His fingers traced over the jagged edges with care, as if each fragment were something precious rather than mere broken glass. He almost reminded her when he was picking up the dead spiders from Yeso's camp.

"If someone sees this, they'll be mad at you." His voice was soft, almost reassuring, as he placed the largest pieces back onto the tray, one by one. "Let's not let that happen."

Claramae's chest tightened, her breath trapped between her ribs. He could almost trick her again. Just like before. Just like the first time.

The warmth in his tone, the effortless kindness woven into his words—it was a performance, wasn't it? A meticulously crafted illusion. But did he know? Did he recognize her? What kind of Alchemy was this?

Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, her body stiff with the need to flee, to vanish into the walls before he could peel away the name she had crafted for herself.

She swallowed hard. "Who are..." She barely managed to force out the words, her voice strangled, barely above a whisper.

The boy looked up from the broken shards, his round face alight with the purest, most disarming smile. "My name is Xendrix."

The name fell like a blade, slicing through the fragile grip she had on reality. It was him!

Her fingers twitched at her sides, the phantom memory of his carnage and lies rising from the depths of her past.

He smiled wider. "What about you?"

She hesitated—just for a second, just long enough for the ghost of her true name to flicker on the tip of her tongue. "Cla..." No. No, no, no. "I mean—my name is Dorielle."

Xendrix tilted his head, his bright, intelligent eyes narrowing just slightly.

Did he notice? Did he hear the falter in her voice? Did he sense the lie?

And if he did—would he let it slide?

"That is such a faerie name." Xendrix grinned, his plump cheeks dimpling, but then—his expression shifted. His eyes widened, the innocence in them sharp with sudden realization.

His small hand shot up to his lips, pressing a single finger against them in a conspiratorial hush. "Let's not say that," he whispered, his voice now a delicate, secretive thing. His eyes darted around as if the walls themselves could hear. "Ormgrund hevet Munas."

When did Xendrix learned to speak Menschen?

He leaned in, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows over his face. "The White Lady is sick because she hurt other faeries." His voice wavered between childlike honesty and something else—a quiet understanding far beyond his years. "I think she eats them. But Mama is trying to help her."

Claramae couldn't move. The blood in her veins froze, her concealed wings pressing tight against her back. He doesn't know. He couldn't possibly know.

But then his lips curled downward in the faintest hint of a frown, his brows furrowing as though something dark gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.

"I don't like her," he admitted, his tone filled with the weight of a child trying to make sense of cruelty. His fingers gripped a broken shard of porcelain just a little too tightly, just enough to show a drop of red blood. "I think she deserves to be sick. She deserves to die. And we would have a nicer lady ruling it all. A queen who would bring the sun, right? I miss the sun, don't you?"

The words slithered into the cold hallway, curling around them like an omen. Claramae shivered. "How could you miss something you don't know?"

"My mama is called Zvoya," he replied easily, but ignoring her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "We're just staying for a few days, and then we'll go back to the continent. Just helping the queen to feel better. Mama says everyone should do their part. We are doing ours, which is to put some order into this world. Mama also said if I behave, I will have my own castle, and people will love me."

His chubby fingers brushed over the last of the shattered teacup, tucking the pieces into his small palm as he finally looked up at her.

"I like Ormgrund," he went on, "but it's too dark and too cold." Then, as if the very thought of it called to him, his gaze lifted to the frost-laced window.

The fifth moon hung in the sky, its silver glow bleeding into the deep abyss of the Long Night. Its light spilt onto the frozen glass, reflecting in his wide, eager eyes.

It stirred something deep within the boy, something Claramae knew she should fear.

Then, he smiled.

"Only four moons missing," he whispered, his voice hushed with quiet reverence. "And the sky will be whole again."

A thick, pungent stench of cabbage filled Claramae's nose so suddenly that she barely had time to stifle her gag. She pressed the back of her hand against her face as she fought the urge to retch.

The child sniffed himself, a faint furrow appearing between his brows as if he had expected this reaction. "Mama doesn't smell very good," he admitted with an apologetic shrug. "I try to bathe and put on lotion... but I feel bad not being with her."

His chubby fingers rubbed against his sleeve, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. "Is it that bad?"

Claramae's grip on her own wrist tightened. He was just a boy—a soft child with round cheeks and a name that burned like acid in her memory.

Maybe… maybe it wasn't him.

Maybe this was just another fat noble's son with the misfortune of a cursed name. A boy who smelled like cabbage and had no idea what he would become. Or had become.

"It smells like death." The words slipped from Claramae's lips before she could stop them.

The boy froze. His chubby fingers, still clutching the broken porcelain, tensed before he let them fall to the ground, the shattered pieces clinking against the stone floor. For the first time, his wide, innocent eyes dimmed. A shadow—faint but unmistakable—passed through them.

"No need to be rude!"

Before Claramae could react, the sharp click of heels echoed through the corridor.

A figure appeared in the doorway—tall, poised, unmistakably elven.

Her long purple hair cascaded over the rich embroidery of her gown, her green eyes flitting between Claramae and the boy. She didn't acknowledge the broken porcelain. She didn't acknowledge Claramae.

Her attention locked onto the boy.

"Master Xendrix," she said, her tone smooth but firm. "What are you doing here with the serfs?"

"I was just watching the new moon, Mama." Xendrix lifted a chubby finger toward the window.

The elf's expression didn't change. Not at first. Then her gaze flickered upward—just for a moment—as if measuring the time they had left.

"We don't have much time," she murmured. "Come, I don't want you here alone."

She extended a slender hand, her fingers adorned with delicate silver rings that glinted under the moonlight. Xendrix hesitated only for a second before moving toward her, his small hand sliding into hers.

But just before he turned away completely, he cast a final look over his shoulder—at Claramae. His round face, so full of childlike softness just moments before, now held something keener. Something calculating.

Something that wouldn't be forgotten.

Claramae swallowed. The boy had recognized the insult. And though he said nothing, his gaze was the kind that promised—one day, he would remember. One day...

Mir Fado.