Hexe | The Long Night

Have you heard the beginning of this tale?

A Nightmare lass, with fangs in her smile,

and six black eyes counting your time.

You drop to your knees, turning into she,

black blood spilling, then dust—like an old Fall leaf.

It's just a tale to scare faeries and fae—

maybe even some humans too.

And wouldn't it be a relief

if it were just a really bad dream?

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 Unpublished manuscript, Summer.

"What is that?"

Before them loomed a door—not carved in stone or sealed with ancient runes, but plain. Almost painfully plain. A simple, unassuming wooden door set awkwardly into the Golem's massive stone wall like it had no business being there.

The handle barely shone, brass or something close tarnished just around the edges where countless fingers might've pressed over time.

"It's a door," Tariq said, crossing his arms as he surveyed it. "That seems quite obvious."

Ludo shot him a sidelong glance. "It's a strange one, don't you think?"

Kaela stepped closer, too, her chains rattling softly as they brushed her sides. She tilted her head, eyeing the frame, the seams, the hinges—details that didn't match anything else they'd passed.

"It really does look like a human-made door," she concluded, fingertips hovering just shy of the surface. "Like… any door. Anywhere... I guess."

"What were you expecting?" Tariq jested. "Spikes? An eyeball in the centre? Runic scribbles of doom? The portrait of the Winterdame?"

Kaela frowned, uncertain. "No, but… something old. Something different. The walls downstairs, the stairs, we were walking through stone, wood, everything looked old and... not… this."

Tariq chuckled, rocking back on his heels. "The better question is: how did a golem swallow what looks like a human building, and nobody noticed?"

He gestured broadly as if the entire mystery could be solved with a sweep of his hand. "That's the real scheida here."

Ludo's hand rose almost without thinking. His fingers hovered near the doorknob. "Well," he murmured, "let's see what's inside."

His fingers slipped into his pocket, drawing out a small key. The kind of key so ordinary it almost didn't belong in a place like this. He slid it in, the metal slipping into place with a soft, satisfying snick.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Tariq asked with sudden suspicion.

"From my Book Club," Ludo said. The words barely left his mouth before the key twisted smoothly. Cling-Click-Clack.

A hush settled over them. Ludo tightened his grip on the knob. He gave it a slow turn, feeling the mechanisms shift inside and pushed.

The door opened, a soft sigh of motion, and… they froze.

The world they stepped into was nothing like the cracked stone belly of a dead giant.

Light spilt from brass lanterns overhead, casting a golden glow across polished floors that gleamed with impossible cleanliness. Smooth walls stretched out on either side, lined with framed paintings and tapestries, their colours vivid and untouched by time. Somewhere music drifted.

Kaela's eyes widen. Tariq let out a low whistle.

Ludo stepped forward first, his boots clicking lightly against the immaculate floor. His pulse drummed faster, a quiet storm beneath his skin.

It wasn't just the room that felt wrong.

It was how familiar it all seemed. Almost a personal déjà vu.

"It's exactly how he described it," Ludo murmured, but the others didn't hear him.

They stepped cautiously into the next room.

The air shifted—cooler here, touched with the faint scent of old paper. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, crammed to bursting with volumes of every shape and colour, their spines worn, their titles etched in languages both familiar and foreign. A massive desk anchored the centre. Every detail radiated intention.

Kaela's chains clang slightly while she asks, "What is this?"

Ludo didn't answer.

His gaze had locked onto the portrait dominating the far wall.

A work of art that pulled the eye, large, commanding, regal. A woman stood at its centre, cloaked in elaborate robes, a ceremonial banner crossing her chest, crowned with a circlet shaped like the blazing sun itself.

But her face… her face was deliberately obscured, drowned in a streak of painted light, blurring her features into something untouchable, almost divine.

Behind her, a tall young man stood proud, happy, his black Magi robe crisp, his banner echoing hers. His smile was dazzling, impossibly perfect, his blue eyes bright and flecked with gold, and his hair shimmered with a metallic lustre, like woven gold strands catching the sun.

At his feet rested a black dire wolf, its eyes narrowed, alert, as if even from the canvas, it was watching them.

Ludo's throat tightened. "I… I don't know," he whispered, his eyes still fixed on the painting. "Yet."

"This is weird," Kaela murmured.

"Yeah, it's bizarre," Tariq echoed as he stepped closer to the painting's brass nameplate. He traced the etched letters with a slow finger. "For my Sunbeam," he read aloud.

Behind them, Ludo moved.

Quietly, methodically, he climbed over one of the chairs, fingers grazing the edge of the frame as he lifted the heavy painting from its hooks.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

"What are you doing?" Tariq almost shouted with an edge of suspicion creeping in.

Ludo didn't look back. He set the painting carefully on the floor. His eyes stayed fixed on the canvas as he drew a small knife from his belt.

"This belongs to the Book Club," Ludo said as if the words were fact, unarguable.

The knife sliced through the edge of the canvas.

"Again, what the fuck are you doing?" Tariq snapped, taking a hurried step forward. "That could've been sent to scholars, to archivists—we don't even know what we're looking at!"

But he stopped cold.

Ludo, the soft elf they'd been dragging along, now stood perfectly still, one hand raised.

In his palm, a sphere of air curled, compressed and humming, a barely-contained force swirling at his fingertips.

It wasn't brute strength. It wasn't a showy fire or a blade or a barked command. It was precision. Power, condensed into stillness.

Tariq froze, his heart skipping. Kaela's gaze darted between them.

Ludo didn't even lift his eyes. He just kept cutting.

"What the…" Her voice was tight, hovering between surprise and an edge of realisation. "You're a mage?"

Ludo didn't look up. His fingers worked around the edges of the canvas, peeling it free from the wooden frame with a patience that felt almost surgical.

"I'm sorry, guys," he said. "I really need the contents of this painting. There's… there's a lot happening. I wouldn't even know where to start."

Tariq's jaw tensed. "Well," he growled, "try."

Ludo paused only briefly, lifting his eyes just enough to meet theirs.

"In a few... maybe one, two, ten or centuries of Summers," he said softly, "the world will cease to exist as we know it. At least, that's what the Professor predicted." Ludo's knife glinted as he gestured first toward Kaela, then to Tariq. "And he wrote exactly this. He spoke about me… and about you… and you."

Tariq plopped himself onto the edge of the desk with a casual hop, kicking his legs slightly as if daring Ludo to keep ignoring him.

"So," he smirked, arms crossed, "if you know everything, how come you passed out, huh?"

Ludo kept his focus, fingers slipping beneath the last folds of canvas as he worked, trying to ignore the dwarf's jests, but still said simply, "Acrophobia."

Across the room, Kaela moved silently between the towering bookshelves, her fingers grazing the spines. Her brow furrowed as she realised—every book bore the same title, stamped in elegant, curling script. "HEXE."

Tariq leaned back on his elbows, his grin widening. "Come on, man. Now you have to tell me."

Ludo exhaled, and finally, without looking up, he muttered, "Your father, Glish Keplan, made the cane the Professor uses."

Tariq's grin froze.

"He engraved it—one, one, and one," Ludo continued. "A piece of magitek. The money got him and you a free pass to live comfortably here at Skoe Scana. Right? But your mum... she... I'm sorry for your loss."

For a moment, Tariq stared, his smirk caught halfway between amusement and confusion. Then he gave a short, nervous chuckle, waving a hand dismissively.

"That's bullshit. That could be any guy. Hell, I'd be surprised if my old man even remembers that."

Ludo shot him a sidelong glance, glinting just beneath the surface. But he said nothing more. Because there were secrets, Ludo thought, that were better left alone.

Kaela stepped forward. "You said it mentioned me."

Ludo smiled. "She killed her."

"What?"

"Lolth. She killed Shuri. It wasn't suicide. When the camp was under Lamia's attack, Lolth made the call and pushed the mere to the sea. Jaer spun the rumour of a suicide after—to protect her. It is against the rules, isn't it? A Magi shouldn't turn against another Magi."

Kaela's colour was draining slowly from her face. She took half a step back.

Tariq's grin faltered, his eyes darting between them. "Is he… is he saying anything that makes sense?" he asked as he watched the Magi stiffen.

"You know Lolth, don't you?" The dwarf pressed, frowning now.

"Lolth is… sort of a hero in the Professor's writings. She was important. Is important. And your name…" Ludo's gaze sharpened. "Your name shows up on the day you decided to leave. He didn't say much after that."

Kaela's breath trembled.

Tariq's brow knitted. "How could you possibly know about this, Lolth?"

Ludo laid the canvas carefully across the desk, his fingers splayed as if grounding himself. His breath quickened just slightly, the words spilling faster now, laced with an urgent, almost frantic undercurrent.

"As I said," he murmured, "the Professor was… or is… very fond of her. According to what we've gathered, this whole world, this story—it's happened over and over again. We're stuck in a loop between the Beginning and the End of Times. People have pieced together fragments, gathered intel, and tried to understand. We've read the books available, combed through everything the Professor left behind…"

Ludo shook his head. "But here's the problem: the books only show what's already happened... at least in our timeline. I can't tell you what's coming for either of you—only describe what's already been written."

Kaela reached for the shelves. She slid a few books free, their spines all stamped with the same title.

"That is… so confusing," she muttered. "Everything sounds like a prank. A bad one. A really bad one."

Behind them, Tariq was trying to decide whether to laugh, curse, or run.

Ludo's hand slid through his hair as he spoke. "Let me make this simple." He turned back to them. "The story starts with one boy, a human prince. He kills a couple of spiders, but not just any spiders. He kills spiders that belong to the Spider Spirit. Later," he continued, "he resurrects those same spiders using his own lifeforce. And that's how Nightmares are born. At least this is the really short version of it."

Kaela suddenly realised. "Wait… Lamias come from a Spirit?"

Ludo gave a small, grim nod. "That's why they're nearly impossible to kill. As for the records," Ludo went on, "Yeso Sternach killed that boy. But the story doesn't end there. The kid keeps showing up—different places, different ages—all through the Long Night. We were not able to find the new book... and it should have been already published four Summers ago. If it follows the pattern of the previous ones."

Tariq let out a whistle. "Like he was a… time traveller. Is that a thing? A time traveller?"

Ludo's smile was short but knowing somehow. "Yeah. At the Book Club, we've been suspecting that for a while now. And honestly… it fits. It fits the Professor's magic. His pattern. The whole narrative."

He exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly. "We think the Professor is travelling through different timelines, trying to stop the End of Times."

Tariq leaned forward. "Wait. Back up. Book Club?"

Ludo gave a short nod, eyes flicking from Tariq to Kaela. "Yeah. The books are rare—we don't know how many copies are out there. But the few of us who've read them… we've come together. Trying to solve the mystery."

Kaela folded her arms. "But what exactly is the End of Time? Are we talking about… everyone dying? Like more monsters? A plague? An explosion?"

"It's… nothing. It's an event that leaves nothing behind," Ludo explained. "Like a tear in space-time. Reality just… ends. Well, maybe we don't know for sure. The Professor was never clear on the details."

Tariq said with renewed suspicion. "Did you know about this golem?"

"No. Which… honestly, scares me."

"But you knew about the painting? What about the key?" Tariq asked.

"This painting is mentioned more than twice in the second book, The Long Night. Once intact and once destroyed. This version…" He gestured to the canvas on the desk. "Is intact. So my guess is that the Professor had it repaired, or in some timeline, the End of Times came earlier than predicted. But if it was repaired and if I were the Professor, I'd leave a note. A clue. And…"

"And?" Tariq prompted.

Ludo placed the free painting over the desk and, with his fists clenched tightly at its sides, looked at the canvas. "I wasn't wrong." His voice lowered, almost to a growl. "But this… this is all written in... scheida. Does any of you speak... Menschen fluently?"

There are, broadly speaking, two kinds of Magi. And by "broadly," I mean academically convenient, because nuance is exhausting and rarely gets published.

The first are Seeders—rarities, legends, miracles walking among us. These individuals generate their own magic, drawing not from the world but from a sort of internal furnace the Saat. Their bodies make magic. They are difficult to train, nearly impossible to control, and never—never—run out like having a sun in your spine and no switch off.

Then we have the Syphoneers.

Syphoneers are tethered to their surroundings. They must learn each element individually, one at a time, with the grace of a drunk fish and the patience of a dying golem. The world is their pantry, but not everything's labelled. Fire, for reasons I do not entirely understand but deeply resent, is the most accessible. Earth follows close behind—predictable, heavy, and usually grateful to be disturbed. Water is trickier; it resists, it remembers. And air…

Air is the black sheep of the four.

It is everywhere and yet infamously disobedient. One would think that being enveloped by the very element would make it easier to tame, but no. Air demands precision, grace, and a kind of stillness most students lack—particularly those with loud opinions and little wisdom.

Which brings me to the real point: if a Magi demonstrates true control over air—not a breeze, not a puff, but actual compression, containment, and vector shaping—then yes, their peers will talk.

So no, I'm not surprised when a student manages it. I'm deeply annoyed. Because I know I'll be hearing about it for the next seventeen summers, if not more. And it won't be from the student.

It'll be from their fan club. ——The Hexe - Book Three by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer