Hexe | The Long Night

They say I'm loved,

a crown, a guest.

Then why do I long

for pants and all the rest?

I soaked myself

in tears and let's pretend,

be held like pie,

and called by name.

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 Unpublished manuscript, Summer.

The palace never changed.

Same ivory walls, same gold-framed figurines with no clothes, same trees planted in the exact same curve along the halls like they'd been told to grow that way. Even the air smelled the same—lemon blossom and dust. Only sometimes, it smelled like honey.

Eura walked with hurried steps, bare feet slapping against the polished floor. She was late for her lesson. Again.

Down in the courtyard, preparations buzzed. Streamers twisted in pastel threads, silk canopies bloomed like flowers over banquet tables, and musicians tested their lutes in cautious plucks. Summerfest, they called it. Her birthday.

It looked just like last year's. The same dancers. The same spinning trays of candied fruit. The same everything.

When she tried to say so—tried to insist she remembered—they'd smiled too big and told her gently, "But your Highness, you're only four. You couldn't possibly remember last summer."

She kept walking.

Around the next corner, she spotted Jaer, hands on his hips, surrounded by staff in a flurry of movement. Servants hauled wardrobes, rolled carpets, and removed paintings from their hooks. One staggered under a covered bust; another cradled something wrapped in velvet. A third carried a sheet-draped portrait nearly twice their height.

Eura paused, curiosity pulling her from her path.

As one of the servants adjusted their grip, the sheet slipped just enough to show the face beneath.

A young man. Silver hair, green eyes. Smiling like he'd just told a joke only he understood. He looked like Father. But not exactly. Kinder, maybe. Warmer.

Less like a crown. More like a secret.

She tiptoed around a stack of unrolled carpets and stopped beside Jaer, who stood like a boulder in the middle of the mess.

"What's happening?" she asked.

Jaer let out a quiet chuckle, tired. "Someone decided it's easier to forget than to feel." His eyes didn't leave the workers hauling away the last covered bust.

Eura tilted her head up at him. He always looked so tall when she had questions.

"I don't understand."

Jaer glanced down. His expression softened, a little sadness tucked behind his smile. "Neither do I, Sunbeam. Neither do I."

Her gaze drifted back to the half-covered portrait. "Who is the man in the painting? He looks like Father. But not angry."

Jaer followed her eyes, and for a moment, something in him stilled.

"His name was Ludovic," he said gently. "But everyone called him Ludo." His voice warmed like he was unwrapping a memory. "He had a laugh like wind and couldn't pass a bookshelf without touching it. Always chasing something. Trouble, mostly. Adventures, for sure."

"Did he die?" Eura asked.

Jaer blinked. The question hit harder than it should've. He looked down at her—small, soft-faced, dressed in too many layers of lace and ribbon—and for a second, he forgot she was only a child.

"Yes," he said finally, the word dragging something behind it. "He died."

She didn't flinch. "How?"

Jaer exhaled. "With honour," he said, like a line from an old speech. "The way a Magi should."

"Was he a Magi?"

"No."

Eura tilted her head. "Was it a Lamia?"

His breath caught. He turned to her fully now, the humour gone from his face. "Eura," he said, carefully, "how do you know that?"

She paused. Her hands folded neatly behind her back. "I don't," she said truthfully. "It just feels... true."

Jaer opened his mouth—then closed it again. It was not what he meant. How did the princess know about Lamias?

Before he could ask more, she stepped back, already turning away. "I need to go," she added, as if they'd just been talking about apple pie.

"Your lesson is that way," Jaer said, pointing down the opposite corridor.

She didn't stop walking. "They changed the room."

"Are you lying to me?"

Eura glanced back, her steps slowing just enough to let the question linger.

"Am I?"

The palace was a swarm of ribbons, trays, and chatter spun through every corridor like a storm dressed in lace. Servants rushed past her without pause. No one asked where she was going. No one noticed she was gone.

Eura had learned by now: the smaller you were, the more invisible you became. Even in a dress that ballooned like a circus tent, she knew how to vanish.

She hated the thing. Layers of silk stacked like frosting bows on her sleeves, as if she'd been gift-wrapped for someone else.

Her dream—secret, almost sacred, was to dress like the Magi. Or even the cooks. Anyone who could walk without tripping on their own dignity.

She slipped through the palace's veins—hall after hall of white stone and echoing footsteps—until finally, the air changed. Greener. Quieter.

The garden welcomed her.

Past sculpted trees and bloated shrubs shaped like animals that she had never seen, Eura ran. Her little feet slapped the stone path, faster, faster—until the dress caught her knee, and she stumbled, catching herself on breath and will alone.

She ducked beneath an arch of ivy, panting. Alone at last. Hidden. Her dress stuck to her legs, her chest rising fast.

It wasn't far. But for small legs and smaller freedoms, it was a journey. A princess's quest.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

She slipped past the last hedge and stopped.

The clearing opened like a storybook torn wide. Tents bloomed in every colour the sky had ever known—reds and golds, deep violets stitched with green. Pennants flapped like birds in flight. Music floated in the breeze: fiddles, drums, and bare feet, keeping rhythm with laughter.

Summerfest had already begun here.

It was even more magnificent than she remembered. Bigger. Brighter. Louder.

People—her people—filled the field in a wild, warm current. Menschen. Their voices were music in themselves, rising and falling in languages she barely knew but felt deep in her bones.

The men wore black vests over crisp white shirts, their sleeves rolled up, legs free in short pants that stopped at their ankles. The women moved like painted fire, skirts swishing with every step, ankle-length and embroidered in spirals and suns, stars and birds. Some had their hair braided tight, wrapped in shawls patterned like old songs. Others let theirs fall loose, streaked with flowers or charcoal streaks.

They laughed with their whole faces. They danced even when no music played. They looked like freedom.

And for a heartbeat, Eura stood in her puffed sleeves and over-stitched lace and felt like someone watching their own dream from the wrong side of the story.

One man caught her eye—a tall figure with sun-dark skin and a white blouse loose around the shoulders, the back open and fluttering. From it, wings unfolded like silk caught in the wind. Not feathered. Not leathery. Something stranger. Softer. Light poured through the thin membranes like stained glass brought to life.

She forgot to blink.

He laughed as he turned, and his wings shimmered, curling behind him with effortless grace. Not even the faeries moved like that.

Eura followed, hidden behind the shrubs like a moth chasing warmth.

But not everyone had wings.

She noticed it slowly—an older woman balancing fruit baskets on her head, no wings. A boy spinning in place, arms wide, hair braided with river shells—no wings either. Some had them. Most didn't.

Eura's brow creased as she watched. The wings weren't decorations. They weren't costumes.

They were different.

And she didn't know why.

"I spy with my little eye…"

The voice came soft, lilting—like a game spoken through a smirk.

Eura froze.

Her fingers clutched at the grass, her body hunched low behind the hedge. Her heart thudded somewhere between her ears. Slowly—so slowly—she turned.

A woman stood a few paces away, her silhouette caught between shade and sun. Her hair spilt wild down her back, woven through with braids and copper trinkets. A blue shawl was wrapped loosely around her crown, framing a face that knew how to smile after the mischief.

Eura blinked up at her, half-curled behind the bushes. "I was just…" she began, the words getting tangled before they made it out. "I was…"

"Spying?" she offered, one brow raised. Not accusing. Just amused.

"No," Eura said quickly, clutching a fistful of skirt. "I just wanted to see…"

She pointed toward the camp beyond the hedge. "It's pretty."

The woman didn't answer—just circled her like a cat. Eura stood very still. As if checking for lies.

Then, without warning, the woman crouched and lifted the hem of Eura's dress.

Bare feet. Dusty toes. No shoes. No shame.

"Hm," the woman hummed, amused. "An elven girl who wants to be Menschen."

"I'm not an elf," Eura protested, cheeks hot. "I'm—"

But the woman was already reaching up.

Cool fingers brushed behind her ear and flicked something hard, metal.

"Ai!" Eura flinched, jerking back.

The clip-on prosthetic bit into her skin. The woman only raised an eyebrow, unbothered.

"Well, you wear their ears," she said, voice soft as silk and twice as cutting.

"What are those? Do they actually do something?" the woman asked, leaning so close Eura could smell lemon oil and dust in her braids.

"They make my ears… pointy."

"Like an elf?"

Eura looked down. Her toes curled into the dirt. "Yes."

"What's a girl like you doing out here without a leash?"

"I just wanted to see." She pointed, not even sure at what—someone laughing, someone twirling, someone not wearing a crown. "They wear pants."

"Mm. You want pants?"

"I don't like dresses," Eura muttered.

The woman gave a low chuckle. "Well then," she said, "you're in the wrong kingdom, little spy. But that's a... unexpected and humble request," the woman murmured, a sly smirk curling her lip as she bent to Eura's height. "So that's what Summer really wants. Not a crown. Not a toy or an impossible request. Just trousers."

Before Eura could answer, a sharp voice cut through the air.

"Eura Berdorf!"

She flinched. The grass under her feet suddenly felt too soft, too loud.

A tall tiefling marched across the clearing, eyes blazing, tail lashing behind him. "I've looked in every cursed corridor—what were you thinking?"

The woman straightened with a chuckle. "Well, that's my cue, Your Highness."

"Wait!" Eura reached out and caught only air. "What's your name?"

The woman turned as she walked, sunlight catching the shimmer in her braids. "You'll know soon enough." And then she was gone—folded into the crowd like a secret.

From the slit of the door, Eura watched the hallway dip into the darkness of the night.

It was quiet. Too quiet. The torches burned low. One guard paced the corridor, his boots tapping a rhythm too slow for real attention. He didn't look up or down.

Eura closed the door, hesitated, then pushed it shut with the slowest press of her palm—inch by inch—until it clicked into silence.

Her bare feet made no sound on the marble as she crept back across the room.

She darted to the bed, lifted the edge of the blanket, and pulled out her secret stash: the potty bowl and a wrinkled handkerchief.

Unfolding the cloth, she revealed two halves of a raw onion. She pressed them to her eyes.

The sting hit fast.

Tears welled, spilling down her cheeks. The sharp scent clawed up her nose and stayed there.

With her face flushed with fresh sobs, she reached for the bowl.

A moment of hesitation.

Then she tilted it.

Warm, sour liquid drenched her hair, her dress, and her skin. It rolled down her back, soaked her collar, and clung to her arms. She gagged once but didn't stop. This was the price.

She pulled a heavy blanket over her shoulders and tiptoed to the door, steps soft but fast.

The halls of Pollux Palace were dim, but no one would stop a crying child. Especially one that stank.

At last, she reached the door.

She knocked twice.

A pause.

Then a voice, muffled and curious:

"Who is it?"

"It's me… Eura." She cried through a curtain of tears—half real, half rehearsed.

The door creaked open. A shadow loomed behind the metal mask.

"What in the hell is that smell?" Lolth asked, disgusted.

Eura burst into louder sobs, nose scrunched, eyes streaming for all the right and wrong reasons.

Lolth didn't hesitate. She grabbed the girl by the arm and yanked her inside before the corridor could get curious.

"What happened?" the Magi asked.

"I-I was attacked," Eura stammered between sniffles.

Lolth knelt. "By what?"

"Sharks."

"Sharks," she repeated.

"They flew through the window. And they were very wet."

Lolth peeled back the blanket like she was unwrapping bad news. The smell intensified.

"And these flying sharks managed to soak you from the head down," she observed, inspecting the damage, "but somehow… your legs are dry."

Eura blinked, betrayed by basic physics. "Magic?" she offered, with the desperation of a child trying not to get caught.

"Or gravity," Lolth muttered, lifting the girl under her arms. "Either way, the damage is done, and your highness stinks."

The metal mask tilted as she studied the mess. "You need a royal bath."

Eura didn't argue.

Soon, they were in the bathing chamber. Steam curled through the tiled air, and bubbles danced across the surface of the water covering the princess's back, but not enough to hide her Y scar in her back. Eura sank into the tub with a sigh, suds swallowing her like a second skin.

Lolth rolled up her sleeves.

"I should let the flying sharks know you'll be ready for round two after soap."

"Why do you always wear your mask?"

Lolth didn't answer right away. The steam curled between them, softening the corners of the metal helm.

"I suppose… habit."

"You never take it off?"

"When I sleep."

Eura hesitated, small fingers wrinkling the soaked edge of her towel.

"Can I sleep here tonight? Jaja is with Father. And I don't like being alone. I can be attacked again. I need Magi protection!"

Lolth reached for a clean shirt—black, too big for the princess—and slipped it gently over Eura's head, muffling her chuckles. "Attack, huh?"

"Yes."

"Only if you promise to come dry next time."

Eura nodded solemnly, hair still damp, eyes already heavy.

"Come, then." Lolth pulled back the covers and settled against the pillows. "Get cosy. We've got a long day tomorrow."

Eura curled in without hesitation, her small frame pressing into Lolth's side. The shirt bunched at her knees. Her breathing slowed, lips brushing the Magi's arm as she whispered through a yawn.

"You smell nice."

Lolth didn't respond.

"You're soft too, like a pillow of apple pie," Eura murmured, nestling deeper. "I wish you were my mummy."

Something in the air shifted—like the steam paused mid-sigh.

Lolth's heart missed a beat. She turned her head, slow, quiet, as if afraid to disturb the moment.

Eura was already asleep. Limbs slack, mouth slightly open. Dreaming without fear.

Lolth removed the mask, and in the dark, she watched her daughter sleep. "Happy birthday, little Sunbeam."

Summer began twenty-two Winters before its time. Naturally, or so it seemed.

The snow melted without cause. Clothing grew thinner. And there was a peculiar taste in the air—something like honey, though no one could place its origin. Not even I, though I was supposed to be an expert in such things. At the time, I chalked it up to seasonal imbalance. Or perhaps... the universe's impatience.

The first sightings of Summer's return coincided with what became known as Summerfest—a name that spread faster than understanding. Rumours claimed it marked the closing of one cycle and the reluctant opening of another.

Some even compared it to the Dois Trae. Thankfully, they were wrong. Could you imagine?

Every Summer, I swore I would travel to Sorgenstein to witness the festival for myself. Just once. To see what the world had become.

But I didn't go.

She was there. I wasn't ready to face Zora.

And that was enough to keep me in Ostesh. Whether I stayed out of anger—or cowardice—that depends entirely on which timeline you catch me in. ——The Hexe - Book Three by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer