Hexe | The Long Night

My pants don't fit

But I wear them still

be a child, be kind

Before my pants

Or I wear thin

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 Unpublished manuscript, Summer.

As her eyes fluttered open, the night sky still licked her window.

Eura kicked free of her covers and, in one quick twist, pulled off her nightgown, leaving it pooled on the floor.

She crouched low, peeking beneath the bed where dust slept in soft clumps, and dragged out a wooden box wrapped in a tangle of cloth. Inside waited her favourite treasure: a pair of worn pants and two bamboo sticks.

The pants resisted her now, clinging tight at the waist, and the hem hovered four fingers above her ankles. Eura tugged them up anyway. Too small or not, that was a problem for another day.

On the stool before the dresser, she tamed her hair with the grace of a storm trying to be a breeze, weaving the diamond strands into a defeated, sad braid. When it was done, she tucked it under a dark cloth, tying it the way Lukutua wore hers.

She never heard of the woman again. Yet, she had promised her real clothes — the kind that smelled like fields, magic, and work instead of perfume, wax, and powder. So far, there were no gifts, no parcels, nothing.

She was nine now, almost ten, and almost six Summerfests had passed in silence.

Lately, every letter she wrote was sent and returned.

The first had been careful and pleasant, asking Lukutua to come to her Summerfest the way she had on her fourth.

The next letter asked why she hadn't come last summer — or the summer before. Why was she ignoring her?

The last still sat on her desk, smudged where her hand had shaken, the words less a request than a plea:

Come. I need you. You promised my pants!

The room gave no answer. Neither did Lukutua. And Eura stood there, braid loose and hidden beneath the arranged cloth, wondering who else could teach her how to be herself.

Then there was the letter sent to a professor in Ostesh — the man who wrote Between Lore and Legacy: The Mystifying Histories of the Menschen, Vol. I. She had read it cover to cover, pencil scratches along the margins, but the book only made her feel smaller, not wiser.

Her questions spilt out in the letters the way her thoughts never did aloud:

What is the difference between a Dame and a Queen?

How can a Dame rule everyone if she never leaves her chair in Whitestone?

And her last thought:

My friend turns into a wolf. What can I do to help?

The line beneath it trembled. Was that wrong to know? Was she supposed to?

For someone meant to guide the world one day, she felt like the world had left her outside the door. They didn't even answer!

At last, brushing away those thoughts — a problem for another day.

She snatched up her bamboo sticks, her only weapons for now. She had no chance to steal daggers, let alone Ulencia swords.

The window groaned as she pushed it open to the night, and the world breathed cold air before dawn into her room.

She lingered there, eyes on the faded dark sky, remembering what she'd learned from the books of Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune:

The wind hides lindworme. If you stared long enough, the air rippled, and there they were — transparent serpents with gossamer wings, gliding along invisible rivers. Common creatures, though most would never see them.

She exhaled, let the night fill her lungs, and stepped out into nothing.

One foot landed on a shimmer of air that curved beneath her like a stair. A lindworm stirred, its body bending to her weight.

Then another step, and another — walking down the sky on silent, living steps until her toes finally sank into the wet grass below.

A maid out of nowhere crossed the path, skirts swaying, a basket on her hip.

Eura stiffened, breath tight.

The maid's sleeve grazed Eura's shoulder, the basket knocked her knuckles, and the clean bite of blue laundry soap stung her nose.

The woman didn't flinch. No pause.

It wasn't the first time.

Two Magi had walked past her the same way just nights ago, and before that, a guard with eyes sliding around her as if she weren't there.

Eura rubbed the spot where the basket had touched her and looked down at her small hands. For a heartbeat, she almost let herself pretend it was lindworm-wind making her invisible.

But she knew better. If there was a trick here, it wasn't hers. It was the rules — orders — the kind that made grown-ups look through her like glass.

But why?

A problem for another day.

Her heart was already beating too fast, and the training grounds waited on the far side of Pollux Palace.

She crouched low and took off around the palace walls, the dawn air whipping past her like applause.

Day after day, her legs had learned the path — fast and quiet.

She slipped behind the hedges by the training grounds, knees brushing damp leaves, her little hideout barely wide enough to crouch. She was growing faster than she realised.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Branches pinched at her elbows, and she had to twist herself small, but from here she saw everything.

The clearing of the Magi's training ground was already awake with three of them.

Eura pressed her lips together and held her breath until her chest ached, all while the bushes shivered lightly with her excitement.

One of the masked Magi broke from the group, two daggers flashing in the torchlight.

He placed himself in front of Eura's hideout and spun one lazily through the air, caught it in a reverse grip, then twirled it back again — all flicker and flourish, like a street performer showing off.

Eura squinted from the bushes, head tilting with each spin.

How is that supposed to win a fight?

She waited for a strike, a lunge, anything real — but the Magi only flung the blade skyward and caught it, shoulders loose, like this was a game.

Then the courtyard cracked open with laughter.

A voice shouted from the far side, mocking. "Lamar! Your agility routines suck! You move like a nine-summer-old girl! Wait until Magi Lolth sees you!"

The tone was strange—too pruned, too rehearsed. Eura could sense there was a game being played, though she didn't yet understand the rules or the whys.

The masked Magi jerked to attention. The swagger vanished; he straightened and began barking at himself between swings.

"Order! Agility! Control!"

Each word struck the dirt like a kick, as if shouting them hard enough might force discipline into the steel, or into her.

So it wasn't just a silly trick.

Eura crouched lower in her hiding place, fingers tightening around her bamboo stick, and tried to mimic the dagger spin.

The stick flopped to the ground with a dull thud.

The Magi's head twitched for a moment — almost as if he'd heard her stick drop — then returned to his sequence as Lamar shouted again,

"Feet! Correct stance gives correct order!"

She winced, froze, then inched forward to snatch it from the leaves, praying the rustle didn't give her away.

"Order, agility, control!" the Magi Lamar barked again, his voice a whip in Eura's ears.

She tried once more.

The stick slipped, tumbled, and rolled against her foot. She bit her lip, swallowing frustration, and picked it up again.

By the time she managed a shaky spin without dropping it, the training grounds had filled with black robes.

Magi Lolth strode in behind them, the heavy mask turning like a predator's head, pausing just long enough to bend toward Lamar and listen to whatever whisper curled into her ear.

Then Lolth straightened, and Lamar drifted back in front of Eura.

She walked to the centre of the grounds, and in a heartbeat, every Magi dropped into ready stance — a ripple of movement Eura felt in her own chest.

"Good morning, Magis!"

"Good morning, Captain Lolth!"

Lolth's masked head swept the line, and for a heartbeat, the training ground was silent except for the whisper of wind through the pines.

"Dancing with your blades is not a show. You are not here to spin steel to impress your reflection. You are here to prove your control as a Magi! Because a Magi without control — Ophius or not — is a storm waiting to break."

She paced between them, feet sinking softly in the dirt.

"If you can't master your blades," she said, letting a dagger spin effortlessly in her hand, "how will you ever master your magic? Without control… happiness may taste sweet, like honey. But fear will rattle your bones, call the winds, tear at the world."

She let the word hang as the dagger stilled.

"And rage... rage will make you strong for one heartbeat, and then swallow you whole. Sadness? Flooded fields. Shattered roofs. Homes gone with a single storm. This is what a Magi without control leaves behind."

She stopped in front of the last row — in front of Lamar.

"So what do we practice?"

"Control, control, control!" the Magi roared back, and the wind itself seemed to bow to the word.

Each word from Lolth struck Eura. It was as if the dark elf was speaking only to her, pinning her to the ground behind the bushes.

Happy, and the air tastes like honey. She had tasted it — sweet wind curling over her lips when she was truly happy or just giggling.

Afraid, and the winds stir. She had felt that too — drafts sliding under doors, shutters trembling when her heart raced.

Angry… She didn't even need the words. Thunder had answered her before, splitting the sky when frustration swelled too high.

And sadness… oh, sadness always betrayed her. Her lip trembled now, and she pressed a fist to her mouth.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry…

But it was too late.

A single drop slid from the sky, then another, until the world blurred in a curtain of rain that tasted like her own weakness.

She stayed crouched, soaked and small, realising she could not yet dance with swords — because she didn't know how to let go.

Rainwater dripped from the tips of Lolth's hair, dark strands clinging to her jaw as she pushed open the office door.

Her mask hung under her arm, slick with rain, and she gave her head a sharp shake, spattering the floor.

Behind the desk, Jaer barely glanced up from his papers.

"What happened this time?"

Lolth let the mask drop onto the desk with a thud, metal scraping wood.

"Seems I vexed our Sunbeam."

"Again?"

She spread her arms. "What do you want me to do, Jaer? How am I supposed to teach a little girl crouched in the bushes the basics?"

"Be gentler," he said, leaning back.

Lolth gave an ironic laugh, half frustration, half disbelief.

"It's not working. Whenever we move past the easy exercises — if she doesn't understand…"

She pointed her finger toward the window. "It rains, Jaer. It always fucking rains."

"Well, if you—" Jaer began, but two sharp knocks cut him off. He straightened in his chair.

"Come in."

The door swung open to Lamar, still masked, rain dripping from his black robes.

"I wish to speak with Captain Lolth," he said, voice muffled by metal.

Jaer tilted his head — a silent command — and tapped the side of his own face.

Lamar froze, then gave a quick nod. "Ah—sorry." He lifted the mask free, and the room caught on his young, sharply cut features — bare skin where an Ophius mark should be.

"I have… suggestions," he said carefully, eyes flicking between them. "Suggestions for training the princess. The last few sessions, she's left soaked to the bone, and…"

"And?" Lolth's voice cut in, annoyed.

"Maybe I could train her personally and—" Lamar started, but Lolth interrupted again with a tilt of her head.

"Lamar, you're not a pledged Magi yet," she said, arms folding across her damp chest. "After your Trial of the Chosen, you can train whoever you like. Until then…"

He didn't back down.

"I'll only travel to Ormgrund in a few moons. I can make a difference before then."

He stepped closer to the desk, hands flexing with the effort to stay composed.

"I've noticed… when the drills feel like play, she stops caring. She doesn't understand how it fits in a fight. Maybe if she had a… new friend to show her—"

"And you'd be seen by the royal staff, who thrive on gossip," Jaer said. "We've already had to… encourage a few maids to look the other way. With good coin."

Lamar's jaw tightened. "Then how will she learn?"

"Lamar, she's nine," Lolth said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "She should be playing, reading… doing the things children do."

"With all due respect," Lamar replied, "I can't see the princess as only a nine-summer-old. I've never seen a saat so old that she has in her eyes."

The words hung in the office, heavy as the rain sliding down the windows.

Jaer's quill stilled. He lifted his gaze to meet Lolth's across the desk.

Even he had felt it — something older watching the world from his Sunbeam's eyes.

Neither spoke, but the look said enough. They both knew the young Magi was right.

Yet the silence carried another weight: how far could they push this game?

How long before some slip — some whisper in the halls — and the Elven King learned his daughter preferred bamboo sticks and muddy pants to just being an elven princess?

When I began Between Lore and Legacy: The Mystifying Histories of the Menschen, I did not foresee that the Summerqueen herself would one day use those pages to guide her reign. The collection was intended to spare my students the constant irritation of rifling through disorganised notes and loose papers.

Please understand, dear reader — we had no instant retrieval systems then.

No internet. No personal computers. No Wi-Fi tablets or mobiles.

The truth was not poised at the tip of our fingers. Every fact required a staircase, a key, and a librarian who already resented the question. I wrote the first volumes simply so my students would stop interrupting me.

Which is ironic, now that I consider it.

I am aware that certain historians in my century insist the work was a covert attempt for Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune to leave breadcrumbs for a child he supposedly longed for.

Yet the professor never left these pages.

Orlo did.

That is where their theories fail.

At the time of publication, I had been told the child had died at birth. The report was official, sealed, and delivered through a phone call spoken in a tone I did not question. There was no reason to doubt it.

Right?

I could not imagine — I did not permit myself to imagine — a child reading my heavy book with that relentless curiosity, devouring every scrap of knowledge I had scattered through it.

How could I not know? I should have considered the possibility. But hindsight is a parasite.

It always knows exactly where to bite. —The Hexe – Book Three by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer.