"1046 days left…" by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

Orlo paused at the threshold of Redfred's study, his hand hovering over the handle. He took a deep breath and finally opened the door, peeking his head inside. "Sir, you called me?"

Redfred sat hunched over a sprawl of ledgers and scrolls, the room filled with the scent of paper and ink. At the sound of Orlo's voice, the Magi slammed the ledger shut and motioned sternly towards the chair across from him. "Yes, come in. There's a matter requiring a... scholarly touch."

Orlo shuffled to the seat, his movements awkward, as if he had forgotten how to sit. His heart pounded, his thoughts whirling—had Muna spoken of last night? Did she see something? His face paled, drained of colour, as he sank into the chair, stammering, "What... what is it, Sir?"

Redfred stood abruptly, his eyes wide, which made Orlo even more nervous. "I was bitten," he declared, leaning over the desk to face Orlo closer.

"Bitten?"

"Yes, by an alligator," Redfred snapped, as if that explained everything.

Orlo bit his lip hard, a mischievous twinkle briefly lighting his eyes as he fought the urge to burst into laughter. "Alligator? In Ormgrund?" He raised his eyebrows in disbelief, his voice tinged with amusement he could barely suppress. "I was under the impression they only dwelled in the swamps of Cragua."

Redfred, unfazed by Orlo's comment, straightened his robe with a flat tug, his face set in a grave line. "Indeed, an alligator—its origin matters little when it clamps down from your neck to your ankles," he declared, sweeping his hand dramatically down his body.

Orlo examined Redfred more closely, noting no sign of injury. "You appear remarkably unscathed for such an encounter. Was this some time ago?"

"Stop interrupting! As I was trying to explain— I was bitten. There are marks, hidden ones, which I prefer remain unseen."

Orlo's demeanour changed, and his posture became more relaxed as he nodded. "I see. Please, continue, Sir."

Redfred sighed, his shoulders drooping slightly. "Son, think of it as a hypothetical scenario. Imagine there are marks on my skin—marks I wish to hide from prying eyes. How would we go about making them disappear?"

With a slight, knowing smile, Orlo replied, "Well, whatever you're doing to conceal them, it's effective. I can't see a thing."

"Please take this seriously."

"Sorry, continue."

Redfred sank back into his chair, creaking the old wood and leather. "There is no healer to cure me. And I need these marks gone. What could we do? That is the problem I need to solve."

"Are you wounded? Any laceration or infection? Did the alligator tear off tissue, I mean, some flesh? What's the extent here?"

"Just marks."

"No wound then?" Orlo pressed, searching Redfred's face for more clues.

"Just scars."

"Then, it's a matter of time. No healing is required; it is just the natural regeneration of cells. Healers wouldn't be of help here—this isn't a wound per se. It's like with a broken rib; the bone mends, but the bruise lingers."

Redfred leaned forward, "But I need them gone as soon as possible."

"Why the hurry?"

Redfred's cheeks took on a rare flush. "I want to put on a dress."

Orlo pressed his lips together tightly, shoulders shaking as he fought back a laugh again. "Well, if it's a matter of time, then you need someone who can manipulate it."

"That's exactly what I'm doing. You!"

Orlo crossed his arms, his earlier amusement fading into a more serious contemplation. "Then, technically, there isn't a problem to solve if it's already resolved in your mind. But executing such a task..." He glanced upward to the ceiling, calculating the complexity. "Manipulating time is a delicate art. We'd have to segment the process by each mark, apply controlled temporal adjustments uniquely tailored to each, and then... well, hope it doesn't rot."

"Rot?"

"Imagine if I accelerate the healing, forcing your cells through time. What if, instead of healing, the tissue succumbs to necrosis because it ran out of time? Think of a banana."

"Is that a serious risk?"

Orlo nodded. "It is. Those marks might naturally heal in two moons at most, perhaps slightly longer for some. The risk of causing irreversible damage isn't worth the haste. Besides, it's not as if you need to parade around exposed for all to see. Unless that dress is extremely revealing."

"It is…" Redfred mumbled staring down at his hands, shoulders slumped in defeat. "Well, thank you, Orlo. I'm sorry to have bothered you with this nonsensical, nonexistent problem about alligators. I just needed to be sure."

Orlo couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story. He leaned in, trying to catch Redfred's gaze. "Was... Zora bitten by an alligator? Is this really about her? Is she okay?" he asked, concerned about all possible worse scenarios. "She seemed fine to me."

"She does, doesn't she? Ever since she was a little girl—she never complained, never cried. It's always been so hard to gauge what she's really feeling."

"I can delve deeper into the theory of this time manipulation... work around the limitations, see how I can prevent bad things from happening," Orlo murmured, more to himself than to Redfred. "But I'm not a healer."

"Neither am I.

As Orlo rose to leave, a sudden thought stopped him. "Sir, she isn't in pain; otherwise, I would feel it."

Redfred's eyes narrowed, "Oh? So you know she is your Hexe."

"Yes."

"And you have been sleeping with my daughter?" Redfred's voice was a low growl.

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Thankfully for Orlo, their intense exchange was abruptly interrupted by a knock at the door.

Redfred's command, "Come in," cut through the strained silence. Lisa, the maid, peeked her head in, "Just to say, Mrs. Dargustea left Mr. Orlo's suit in his room, and she wants him to try it as soon as possible."

"1045 days left…" by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

Orlo shouted "Scheida!" repeatedly, a curse slipping out as he wrestled with the new suit. This was the second time he tried his outfit—an ensemble of black ankle-cut pants, a pristine white blouse, and a jet-black vest with red embroidery—could have been perfect.

However, his hair had other plans. As he tried to fasten the buttons at the back of his neck, his locks spiralled around each button, tangling further with every movement. Panic fluttered in his chest at the thought of ripping the fabric.

He limped his way to the desk without his cane to steady him. Fumbling through the drawers, he searched desperately for scissors, his fingers brushing past pens and paperclips in his quest. The thought of cutting his hair was a last resort he dreaded—each pull of his hair sent sharp pains shooting up his neck. He stood there, momentarily frozen, the weight of his predicament literally hanging by his hair.

"Do you need help?" Zora suddenly interrupted. She stood at the doorframe with the door wide open.

"I can't find a scissor... my hair is stuck," Orlo grumbled, his fingers still searching blindly through the drawer.

Zora closed the door softly behind her as she entered. With a gentle nudge, she guided Orlo to sit in his desk chair. "Calm down. You don't need to cut your hair," she reassured him, her fingers delicately navigating through the tangled locks at the nape of his neck. Her touch was light, easing the knots without a word of complaint.

"There, it's done," she announced.

Orlo turned his neck abruptly, finding himself unexpectedly close to her, their noses almost touching. They froze, and Orlo's eyes traced the contours of her face, lingering on her piercing blue eyes before drifting to her lips. Just as the moment stretched too long, Zora straightened, stepping back. "Well, you're good to go. No need to cut your hair."

Orlo reached for his cane, pulled himself up, and out of nowhere, he asked, "Why?"

"You look cute with your hair longer," she said simply, "It would be a shame to cut it."

"Why, Zora?"

"I don't understand your question."

Orlo's frustration simmered just below the surface, "I almost lost my scholarship. So I really need to understand why."

"Why am I feeling you are accusing me of something I definitely didn't do?" Zora's words were defensive, and her posture stiffened as if bracing for an unseen blow.

"I just want to know why you didn't write to me. I sent you hundreds and hundreds of letters, and I know you received them."

He took a deep breath, "Every day, I'd go to the post office. Every day, I'd rush home to check the mail, but nothing came. I got... sad. Really sad." His gaze dropped, focusing on something unseen as he recounted. "There were days I couldn't even get out of bed. Not to do the dishes, not to work on an assignment. Sometimes I couldn't brush my teeth. Even less to go to the university. The only reason I got up was to meet the mailman, just for him to tell me he had nothing."

"I'm sorry." Zora's words were quick. Her eyes darted around the room as she edged toward the door; her discomfort was more than obvious. She repeated, more to herself than to Orlo, "I'm sorry."

"Don't 'sorry' me! Don't!" His voice cracked, rising almost to a shout as he strode to the closet and yanked out a shoebox. With a swift, jerky motion, he threw it at Zora's feet. Papers spilt out as the box hit the ground, scattering across the floor like fallen leaves.

Zora's gaze dropped to the mess of papers, and she crouched to pick one up. The documents were unmistakably postal receipts from the mail post near the camp, each one stamped and signed by Shuri.

"I just want to understand why. I can't think about anything else." His eyes searched hers, seeking answers. "Did I do something wrong? Did you meet someone? What happened? Did you just fall out of love?"

Zora's lips pressed tightly together, unable to form the words that might explain something. She looked at Orlo, seeing the hurt in his eyes, and felt a wave of guilt wash over her. Yet, what could she say? He was with Muna now. All the humiliations and the tiredness that seeped into her bones—it all screamed for her to just leave, escape to Sogrestein, and forget everything.

But then Orlo looked at her with such earnestness, and she hated knowing that she was the source of his pain, however unintentional it might have been.

Orlo, feeling her emotional turmoil, said with a soft voice and a plea. "Just tell me the truth."

Zora exhaled slowly, "The camp is isolated. The closest town with a mail post is almost a day away by horse—they don't have cars, trains, or even electricity in Ormgrund. If you had a letter to send, you had to wait for the day the officer would go and return with the mail. That's it, one day a week." Her voice was low.

"I did that. I wrote a big letter every week, and on that day, it would be ready to be sent, and when they returned, I would ask if there was anything for me. I asked every single day."

"But my letters were received," Orlo insisted.

"Not by me,"

Orlo bent down, picking up a piece of paper from the array scattered on the floor. He held it up. "Confirmation receipt by Magi Shuri."

"Shuri..." Zora scoffed, shaking her head slightly. "Yeah, I guessed she hid them, destroyed them... I don't know. I never received anything." She paused, her shoulders sagging as she admitted, "And after a while, I gave up writing, but I was always hoping she would finally hand them over. I..."

Her voice cracked, and she took another deep breath, trying to stave off tears. "She was very friendly, always there when I needed someone. I thought I made a friend. She... we got involved, it was nothing serious—it was just one kiss, but..."

"But?"

"But I told her I had feelings for someone else and didn't want to get involved with her," Zora continued, her voice growing fainter with each word. "She seemed to understand, and things went back to normal, or so I thought, until... I realized she had done something to me... and that's it. That's why I never received any letter. But I sent so many..."

They stood across from each other with a scattered stack of papers lying forgotten at their feet.

"Did she do something?" Orlo asked as he noticed the slight tremor in Zora's chin.

Zora shook her head, her eyes darting away as she muttered, "No. Nothing. I'm fine."

"Zora..."

"I said I'm fine! Why is everyone insisting on making me out to be some fragile, tiny ragdoll? I'm fine! I'm a Magi now! I already did what I needed to do; she isn't going to win again!" Zora's voice cracked as she lost control, and tears flooded down her chin.

Orlo didn't hesitate. He stepped over the scattered papers, closing the distance between them, and wrapped his arms around her. His embrace was firm, meant to anchor her amidst the storm of her emotions.

"You need to say it, or you'll never be rid of her," he whispered close to her ear.

Zora's resolve shattered under the weight of his words, and more thick tears streamed down her face, dampening his blouse. Orlo simply held her tighter, his hand gently brushing her hair.

"It's okay, I promise you. It will be okay," he soothed. "Whatever that alligator did, we'll fix it."

Time manipulation is a topic that appears far more manageable on paper than in practice. Among mages and Magi, its application is nearly non-existent. The only practitioner I ever suspected of mastering this art completely was my own mother, Zonnestra Duvencrune, The Noctavia, which likely explains why Magi Redfred sought my assistance for his alligator problem. Not because Zora was my Hexe but because I was the progeny of the most formidable mage known to both him and me. Indeed, he was correct in his assumption. Perfecting time manipulation demanded innumerable hours--five hours to be precise. I resorted to marking with hickeys on my crippled leg--if anything happened, I wouldn't miss it that much. Hence, I experimented to see if I could accelerate time on a molecular level on my own skin. Countless attempts later, burdened by a sore back from bending over, I discovered the missing key ingredient--Memory. How did my leg look before each mark? The key lies in the visualization of the past as a projection of the future. Well, think of a banana. Ironically, at that time, I confessed to no one—not even to myself—that my detailed remembrance of Zora's skin was instrumental. And yes, I still remember that, but that is not the point. So, in summary, and this will be on the quiz, the likelihood of children born to mages inheriting their parents' abilities is slim, often manifesting entirely new magical talents instead. It's not impossible, just improbable. The essence of one's power lies in their saatgut, their seed. It took Summers to understand my own capabilities truly. While a university education broadened my knowledge, it contributed little to my self-understanding. The answer was always within me and to me; like many, I simply chose not to listen. Had I listened... well, we wouldn't be here, you and I, would we? ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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