Hexe | The Long Night

There are many stories I don't know, but I listen to the muted sound when someone loved falls down.

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 Unpublished manuscript, Summer.

"Apologies, my lord," a maid whispered, bowing, as she rushed past. Jaer didn't respond.

The marble was cool beneath his feet, veined white stone streaked with gold as if the palace itself had been carved from vanity. Vines hung from the arches above, perfumed and coiling like lazy thoughts. The air tasted like honey.

His Sunbeam was happy.

Statues lined the corridor, frozen elves caught mid-gesture, their modesty draped in nothing but posture and pride. Between them drifted priestesses in translucent robes that clung like a second skin. Their breasts bare beneath gauze, hips generous and slow. No one looked twice. No one blushed. Desire here was currency. It was spent, flaunted and forgotten.

Jaer walked through it like smoke. Silent. Barefoot. Out of place.

In Pollux, sin was art, and shame was provincial. But Jaer had not come for their rituals.

He came to deliver bad news. And he'd waited too long already.

The tiefling kept his eyes low. How do you tell the man you love that his world is about to be emptier?

When he reached the Elven King's door, he didn't knock. He never had to. But still—he paused.

Fingers curled around the handle. Not from respect. From dread.

And then, with a breath he didn't need, he pushed it open.

Finnegan lounged across the balcony rail, bare-chested, a silken sash clinging loosely to his hips. Below in the patio, a young Magi stumbled through sword drills, the motions sloppy of a beginner. Finnegan winced with every misstep.

"By the Green Mother," he sighed, dragging a hand through his silver hair. "I must have angered every star in the sky to be surrounded by such graceless... idiots."

Behind him, soft footsteps interrupted him.

"Finn…"

Finnegan turned, the sun catching the edges of his grin. Brilliant. Dangerous. "You're late, my love."

"I didn't know we had a meeting."

"We always have a meeting." Finnegan swept toward the bed in one fluid, feline motion. Sheets shifted as he reclined, arms open like an invitation or a trap. "Come to... our meeting."

Jaer didn't speak.

He simply stepped forward and showed the golden arch he had been hiding behind his back.

It caught the light like a blade before war. The Berdorf crest glinted at its core—undeniable.

Finnegan's smile faltered.

He didn't ask. Didn't need to. His fingers gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening.

"I received a message a few days ago," Jaer said. "From a Magi. Her name is Kaela. She met him in Skoe Scana a moon ago and—"

"Ludovic?" Finnegan cut in.

Jaer nodded once. "Ludo, yes."

Finnegan's mouth twisted, part snarl, part disbelief. "What did he do now? Another spirit hunt? Another fae-laced myth to chase through the hills?" His voice rose. "He is a prince. A Berdorf. He carries my name. When does he plan to act like it?"

He stood, fury sparking at the edges of his composure. "Where is he?" he demanded. "Is he back? Because if he is, I have words for that... idiotic fool."

But Jaer said nothing.

And that silence said everything.

"Finn," Jaer said softly, stepping closer. "My love, your brother—he…"

Finnegan waved him off, turning back toward the balcony with a dramatic huff. "If this is about the Summerfest, I swear, if he misses it again, I'll send a full legion to drag his small arse back to Pollux."

"Finnegan," Jaer tried again, firmer this time. "He's not coming back."

That made the King pause.

The breeze tugged lightly at the silk curtains. Finnegan didn't turn.

Jaer exhaled. "He was bitten. A Lamia. During an excursion in Skoe Scana."

Finnegan's back stiffened.

"The Magi who was with him… Kaela… she said he fought like a hero. Said she's never seen someone that brave." Jaer's voice wavered. "He died with honour."

Finnegan turned slowly, and the radiance drained from his face. His lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came.

Not right away.

His shoulders rose once like a breath half-swallowed, then sank.

And the silence, for once in Pollux, held no ceremony.

"He didn't die!" The Elven King roared—but the tremble in his voice betrayed the truth. Grief needed somewhere to go. So he handed it to anger.

Finnegan's face twisted—glittering eyes wide, a tremor held tight at the corners of his mouth. His jaw clenched, refusing the sob clawing its way up his throat. He wouldn't cry. Not here. Not yet.

Then rage took root.

"He didn't leave me," he hissed. "He wouldn't—couldn't—not for… for what?" His hands flailed, helpless against the question. "Why the fuck was he even in Skoe Scana?"

Jaer didn't answer.

"She's lying," Finnegan spat. "Whoever she is. It's a lie."

Jaer stepped forward, quiet. Measured.

"What was her name? Kaela? She will be judged and executed for defamation of the royal court! I want her head! I want..."

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Jaer held out the arch. "She brought this."

Finnegan stared at it like it might burn him. Like it might vanish if he refused to see it. But he didn't reach for it.

He didn't need to.

His silence said he knew.

And it would break him. Just not yet.

Finnegan snatched the arch from Jaer's hands—fingers tight, knuckles white—and hurled it across the chamber. The golden curve clattered against the far wall, skidding to a halt just as the door creaked open.

A small figure stood on the threshold.

She blinked.

Diamond-white curls framed her face like starlight spun into thread. Her dress shimmered in layers—every colour, every hue like the whole spectrum had agreed to rest itself around her.

The little girl tottered forward on unsteady feet, eyes fixed on the glinting object. She scooped it up, arms barely wrapping around its weight, and turned with a proud grin.

She marched back across the marble.

"Gotcha!" she beamed, holding the arch up to the stunned King like it was a treasure.

Finnegan stared at her.

He snatched the arch from her hands so fast she stumbled, her small bare feet skidding across the polished floor.

Then he was gone—Finnegan vanished in a blur of silk and fury, the doors left yawning behind him.

The little girl didn't move.

She stood where he'd left her, arms still curled around the air where the arch had been, shoulders squared in that quiet, stubborn way only children possess—when they're trying not to cry.

Outside, the taste of honey soured in the air. Rain began to mist the training grounds.

She was sad.

Slowly, she turned to Jaer.

"Jaja," she asked, "why doesn't Father like me?"

Jaer knelt beside her. "Eura, my little Sunbeam… your father loves you. He's just… very sad today."

"Was he sad yesterday?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I don't think Father loved me yesterday either."

The curtains yawned open, and sunlight crashed through the room like a guest without manners.

"Good morning, your Highness!" one of the faeries chimed, already halfway across the chamber, her voice pitched somewhere between joy and obligation.

Eura's eyes opened barely. Just enough to flinch at the brightness.

Another faerie spun toward the bed, her feet barely touching the floor as she twirled through the air. "Come on, come on," she sang, her hands already tugging at the edge of the blankets. "We've got dresses to try, sweets to avoid, and four kinds of dances you still pretend not to know! It's almost your birthday! Hurray!"

The covers slipped off with a flourish. Eura lay there, unmoving. Her eyes open, but her thoughts are still deep beneath the surface, like someone woken not from sleep but from somewhere else.

One of the maids clapped her hands. "She blinked! That's progress! Hurray!"

Eura exhaled. "I preferred the dark. The light is hurting my eyes."

"Of course it does," the taller maid teased, floating just above the carpet. "But some of us have a schedule, and the world is not going to stop turning just because we have a little moody princess."

"I don't want to."

Eura's voice slightly made it past the pillow she clutched to her chest, arms wrapped tight like it might hold her to the bed, to the quiet.

The faerie maid didn't flinch. She dipped lower, wings humming softly as they stirred the silk-drenched air with a breeze that smelled faintly of honey.

"Oh dear," she murmured, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "We can't have a grumpy princess on her birthday, now, can we?"

She floated closer, the hair brushing Eura's cheek. "Guess what the cook made this morning. Just for you."

Eura didn't lift her head, but her grip on the pillow eased. One eye peeked out, narrowed with caution. "What?"

The maid spun midair, arms flaring like a spell mid-cast. "It starts with A," she sang, voice sugar-slick, "and ends with... pie."

"Applepie!" Eura sprang from the bed, hair bouncing, feet barely touching the mattress as she jumped at the promise of sugar and spice.

Then she froze mid-hop.

By the door stood a shadow stitched in silence—a Black Robe. The figure didn't move, didn't speak. Just stood there, still as a statue, the metallic mask catching the sunlight in a dull gleam. No face. No eyes. Just that cold, unreadable silence.

Eura's toes curled into the mattress. Her arms slowly lowered. She stared.

"Is that... Loli?"

Before the quiet could stretch too far, one of the faeries swooped in, arms wrapping gently around her waist as she guided the princess down to the carpet.

"Yes, your Highness," the maid said cheerfully, smoothing Eura's nightgown. "That's Lord Captain Magi Lolth. She's here for your protection—just like every day, every morning. Hurray!"

"But how do you know?" Eura whispered, eyes locked on the motionless figure. "She didn't say anything."

The Black Robe didn't twitch. No nod. No tilt of the head. Just silence wrapped in black metal.

The faerie maid sighed and pressed her palms together like a priestess begging for divine intervention. "My lord, a little help?"

For a beat, nothing.

Then a voice came, low and muffled through the mask. "Jaja's going to eat every last slice of apple pie if you don't hurry. And I will make you watch him do it."

Eura blinked. "Jaja doesn't even like pie."

The faerie grinned and gave her a gentle push toward the basin. "Exactly. Now brush those royal teeth before Lord Magi Jaer changes his mind."

Eura gave the Black Robe one last, lingering glance—then smiled just a little.

"Are you sure?" Eura asked. "You really think Jaja would lie to me?"

The Black Robe said nothing.

Eura's eyes narrowed. Then, with theatrical flair, she raised both hands high above her head. "Fine! I surrender to this treason."

The faeries giggled—victory sweet and well-rehearsed. "Hurray!" They descended like butterflies in battle formation.

The nightgown vanished in a blur of silk and quick fingers. In its place came a dress so riotous with colour and ruffles it could've swallowed a lesser child whole. Eura tried a step, then another. She waddled, imprisoned by petticoats.

"Why do I need so many skirts?" she muttered, nearly tripping.

"Because you're the Princess," one faerie sang, already crouching at her feet. "Your dress must be the brightest, the prettiest and the most dazzling!"

The shoes came next, tight, making her already small feet feel like folded paper.

Her hair shimmered under their hands, diamond strands catching the morning light like a prism in motion. The faeries tamed it into a sleek ponytail wrapped in velvet and charm. A hair made of diamond strands didn't need any other dazzling additions.

And then came the worst part.

She flinched before they even reached. Not the comb. Not the perfume.

The ears.

Her shoulders stiffened as the faeries hesitated, their fingers suddenly gentler. No teasing now. No songs. Just silence filled with soft touches and the tension that never left. They always saved them for last.

And Eura always hated it.

Her ears were small. Round. The faeries never said it aloud, but Eura's ears were not elven. Their hands were too gentle, too kind, when they touched them, too quiet, too precise with a taste of pity.

From a velvet-lined box came the prosthetics: delicate silver cuffs shaped like elven tips, polished and heartless. They glittered like jewellery but spoke to Eura like tormentors.

One faerie held her still. The other screwed them into place. A soft click.

Then pressure. Tighter. Tighter still.

The metal dug in, reshaping the curve of her ears with slow, merciless force. It didn't hurt at first. Just pressed. Then burned. A deep, quiet ache that sat behind her temples and refused to leave.

They smiled like it was beautiful.

Eura didn't cry. She never cried.

Only once the last ribbon was tied and the perfume misted over her collarbone did the faeries retreat, their laughter trailing behind them like perfume and a last "Hurray!"

Only then did Eura breathe. Only one shadow remained. The Magi hadn't left.

Lolth lingered by the door, black robes heavy as stone, mask gleaming like a shut secret.

"Take them off," came the low voice, muffled through metal. "No one will know with that dress."

Eura didn't hesitate. She kicked off one shoe, then the other, her toes curling in relief against the cold floor.

She looked up. "Can I… take off the ears too?"

Lolth knelt.

The robes pooled around her like smoke, the black mask lowering to Eura's height.

"They'll notice."

"I don't care," Eura whispered, fingers twitching near her ear. "It hurts, Loli."

A pause. The kind that held more than silence.

"Good," Lolth said at last. "That means you're alive. You feel!"

Eura blinked fast. Her throat worked around words she couldn't push free. Her lip trembled.

"But it's not fair," she breathed. "It's not fair. It hurts! It really hurts."

Lolth leaned closer, her voice just a breath behind the metal. "Then use it. Every ache, every sting—let it sharpen you. Turn your pain into your blades. If they hurt you, little Sunbeam, make sure those blades cut both ways."

It was not uncommon among the high Elven houses to conceal their youngest children from public knowledge. For appearances' sake, many Houses maintained the illusion that only one heir had ever been born. I would guess this was a measure to protect the continuity of the bloodline—discreet insurance against political instability or assassination.

The Berdorfs were no different.

How the name Ludovic Berdorf surfaced into historical records remains unclear. I suspect, though I cannot confirm, that beneath the Elven King's polished vanity, he may have harboured genuine affection for this sibling. Or, perhaps more tragically, Ludovic was simply the only family he had left and, therefore, too precious to weaponize.

It's an intriguing thread. But at the time of writing Volume III, I have no further documentation. I invite future readers, those who survived the End of Times, to update me. You know my address. I've mentioned it before. ——The Hexe - Book Three by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer