Mir Oxé

Phrase

Translation: Bringing good fortune

Definition: "Mir Oxé" is a traditional blessing or wish that conveys the hope of bringing or imparting good fortune. This phrase is typically used in greetings, farewells. This expression is specially used in the Fisherman District of Ormgrund. and other litoral districts.

Steam curled lazily around him, carrying the subtle scents of lavender and something sweet he couldn't quite place. The warmth of the water seeped deep into his muscles, easing the tension he hadn't realised he was carrying.

Mediah leaned back against the smooth edge of the tub, his eyes half-closed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a bath like this—warm and relaxing.

His gaze wandered lazily around the room. Just within reach, folded neatly on a cushioned chair, were clothes. With a sigh, he sat up, water lapping gently around him as he reached for a towel.

The clothing laid out for him was modest traditional Menshen attire. Simple black trousers, their hem stopping just above the ankle, paired with a white blouse. He dressed quickly, fastening the buttons on the vest. He paused; the fit was exact—almost unsettlingly so. The trousers hugged his waist perfectly, the blouse's sleeves stopping just at his wrists, and the vest sat against his torso without a wrinkle.

He furrowed his brow, glancing at himself in the mirror across the room. The reflection stared back, the clothing appearing as if it had been made specifically for him. This couldn't be Muru's, he thought. Muru was broader and taller—his frame would have dwarfed these garments.

He reached for his robe but hesitated for a moment, then draped it over his shoulders, leaving it open like a weathered cloak.

As Mediah stepped into the hallway, the soft creak of the floorboards announced his presence, but Gale was already there, standing stiffly like a peculiar sentinel. The goat adjusted its round spectacles with a flick of a cloven hand, its beady eyes narrowing in clear disapproval. "You're late!"

"For what?"

Mediah paused, studying the creature. Its upright posture, its unnaturally articulate movements—he couldn't quite place it. Was this some kind of fae? Or something else entirely? The thought lingered.

"Follow me," Gale said brusquely, pivoting with surprising grace for a creature on hooves. Without waiting for a response, it marched down the hall, its steps clicking against the polished floors.

Mediah followed until Gale stopped abruptly, its hoof tapping lightly against the floor as it gestured toward the open door.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted. The room was smaller and more intimate, the flicker of candlelight casting soft shadows on the walls. A modest fireplace crackled in the corner, its glow painting the space in warm hues. The air carried the faint scent of roasted herbs and freshly baked bread, mingling with the soft, waxy aroma of the candles.

The table at the centre of the room seemed almost too large for the space. Plates and bowls, brimming with an assortment of carefully prepared dishes, gleamed in the golden light.

Doriana sat at one end, her posture poised but relaxed, her mismatched eyes glinting faintly as she looked up. She didn't speak, but the faint tilt of her head as she regarded Mediah made it clear she'd been expecting him.

Gale moved swiftly, pulling out the chair opposite Doriana. Its cloven hand gestured, signalling him to sit. The goat's spectacles slipped slightly down its nose as it waited.

Mediah hesitated for a moment, the weight of Doriana's gaze pressing on him, before stepping forward and lowering himself into the chair. Once he was seated, Gale gave a brisk nod, adjusted its glasses with a flick of its hoof, and turned on its heel. Without a word, the goat exited.

Doriana reached for the wine decanter and served the deep red liquid swirling into Mediah's cup. "You can take off your robe," she said. "You're not on duty."

Mediah's hand hovered over the stem of the glass. "I'm always a Magi," he replied. He picked up the cup, the faint aroma of the wine rising to meet him. "And," he added, taking a measured sip, "I feel comfortable with it."

Doriana offered a polite, measured smile that revealed little but carried just enough warmth to make it disarm. She gestured toward a platter near the centre of the table, where slices of golden-brown turkey rested beside a mound of vibrant orange mash.

"That one is your favourite," she said. "Turkey and sweet potatoes."

Her hand moved to another dish, where glistening slices of roast beef sat surrounded by caramelised onions. "But sometimes," she continued, "you prefer this one."

Mediah's hand hovered near the table, but he didn't reach for anything. Her magic, subtle yet insistent, pulsed stronger with every breath he took in her proximity, wrapping around him like an invisible rope. His eyes darted to the dish she had just pointed out, hesitating.

"That one?" he asked.

Her gaze didn't waver, locking onto his as she gestured toward a humble platter. "Wet bread, kale, and beans," she said. A faint glimmer of amusement flickered in her mismatched eyes as she added, "You always look disappointed when you try it."

Mediah let out a chuckle, though it sounded more nervous than amused. "Have we met before?" he asked, his words slipping out before he could catch them. "I mean, before the…" He trailed off, immediately regretting it. He didn't want her to answer—didn't want confirmation that he had, in fact, betrayed his closest friend.

Doriana's gaze didn't waver, her mismatched eyes holding his with a calm intensity that quickened his pulse. Her lips curved into a faint smile, but it had no humour, only an unsettling serenity. "It depends on how you perceive time," she said.

"If you speak of this timeline," she continued, "then no, only at the Dois Trae. But we didn't speak much—perhaps not at all. But if you see time as an expanse of possibilities and repeats, as loops and echoes... Then, the answer is yes. Many, many times."

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Mediah's throat tightened as he searched her expression for any hint of deceit—or worse, certainty.

He reached for a dish near the centre of the table, the savoury aroma of seafood wafting upward as he pulled it toward him. The broth was dotted with herbs and chunks of shellfish. He grabbed the ladle and began serving himself.

Doriana's lips curved into a faint smirk. "You're going to burn your tongue," she said.

Mediah froze for half a second, the words striking a nerve he didn't want to acknowledge. Without looking at her, he dipped the ladle one more time, filling his bowl to the brim.

Mediah dismissed her words with a slight shrug, refusing to meet her knowing gaze. He dipped his spoon into the soup, lifting a generous amount to his lips. It looked harmless enough, the steam faint and the broth calm. Without hesitation, he took a sip.

The heat struck instantly. His tongue prickled with sharp, searing pain, like a thousand needles jabbing at once. His jaw tensed, his expression betraying nothing, though his hand faltered slightly as he set the spoon back down. The ache pulsed, spreading through his mouth, but he refused to give in.

His eyes flicked to the cup beside his plate, the wine's dark surface rippling faintly. It would be so easy—one quick sip to dull the throbbing. But no. Mediah sat still, his back straighter than before, his pride binding him to his discomfort. If Doriana noticed his struggle, she gave no sign as if she'd seen this play out before.

"I warned you," Doriana said, her lips twitching, betraying the all-knowing smile she tried to suppress as she reached for a dish, serving herself.

Mediah finally relented, lifting his cup and taking a long sip to cool the lingering burn on his tongue. The wine's coolness was fleeting, offering little relief from the sharp throbbing that refused to subside. He set the cup down and leaned back slightly.

"So," he began, "what's next?"

"There are many possibilities," Doriana began, her voice calm as she placed her utensils down. "You stay at this table, and we dine in the most awkward silence imaginable. Or you start asking me questions. Testing me. Waiting for a flaw."

Mediah leaned forward slightly; his curiosity piqued despite himself. "Or?"

Her smile widened. "Or…" she paused, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make him uncomfortable, "you leave the table, go upstairs, gather your things, and run to the beach." Her tone softened as if sharing a private joke. "Which, honestly, is the most common of the three."

He held her gaze, the words sinking in deeper than he cared to admit. The thought of running—escaping—flared briefly in his mind before he brushed it aside. Instead, he leaned back, "What are you?"

Doriana's smirk didn't falter. If anything, it grew, her eyes gleaming as though she'd been waiting for him to ask. "That," she said, "I don't know."

She placed her cutlery deliberately on the edge of her plate, the faint clink of metal against porcelain punctuating the silence. "I think," she began, "I am that point. That small happy ending. A tiny event in the grand scheme of things meant to show that everything will be fine. The good guys win. The bad ones pay."

She leaned back slightly, her fingers grazing the edge of the table. "Not that I'm part of the great battle," she continued. "I'm just like a lighthouse on the horizon—a marker that confirms everything will eventually fall into place. But so far, it hasn't happened. The lighthouse… it's off."

"What's the happy ending?" Mediah asked, his tone half-curious, half-dismissive as he swallowed another spoon. The soup's flavour was bland, and he cursed inwardly the lingering heat, which was still dulling his palate. His eyes flicked toward the dish of mashed sweet potatoes across the table, almost mocking him. He wanted it—but not badly enough to indulge her implied satisfaction.

"Hex me."

His face twisted in shock as he spat the soup back into the bowl. The spoon clattered against the porcelain, sending droplets of broth splattering across the table. "What? What do you…? What?" he stammered, his voice rising as his chair scraped slightly against the floor.

Doriana didn't flinch. "Hex me," she repeated.

Mediah leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table, his mind racing. "You want me to… what do you mean hex you?"

Deep down, he already knew. He could feel it, her magic pulling at him. The certainty in her gaze only confirmed what he was too afraid to admit—she was asking him for something he didn't know if he could give or resist.

"Yeso Sternach spell," she said calmely, as if explaining something as simple as the weather. "The Hexe. I want you to hex me, and I will hex you."

"You are… you're completely… you're married!" he blurted, his voice rising as his chair scraped back abruptly. The weight of her gaze bore down on him, but he refused to let it anchor him any longer. "I don't even know you!"

Pushing himself to his feet, he gestured vaguely at the table, the food, the opulent surroundings. "Thank you for the meal," he said, his words rushed and clipped. "And the clothing. I will… I'm leaving."

Without waiting for a response, he turned, his robe flaring slightly behind him as he strode toward the room. Her presence lingered even as he put distance between them. The pull of her magic clung to him, but he ignored it, his mind racing with the implications of what she'd asked and the lines he couldn't allow himself to cross.

Reaching his room, he flung the door open, grabbed his bag and shoved his few belongings inside with hands that trembled more than he cared to admit. Without sparing a glance at the neatly folded clothes or the room that had been prepared with such care, he slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped out.

The corridors blurred together as he walked faster, his bare feet barely registering the coolness of the polished floor. Before he realised it, the texture beneath his soles shifted. Smooth stone gave way to the rough, shifting grit of sand.

Mediah stood still, the cool beach grounding him as his mind raced in circles. He wasn't sure why he had run. He could have laughed, shrugged it off, simply said no. Yet something deeper had seized him, something beyond reason.

The memory came rushing back. That strange encounter on the day of Yeso and Noctavia's death. The man with the single, piercing ember eye appeared without explanation, saving his life from slaughter and pressing a worn book into Mediah's hands that he still carries to this day.

Mediah hadn't understood the significance then or even now. Still, he knew the pages by heart, yellowed with strange illustrations and cryptic text with the instructions on the Trial of Elements that he was still decyphering.

And among them, a page—one he'd barely glanced at time—detailing the Hexe. The steps, the risks, the raw magic involved. He hadn't given it much thought back then, dismissing it as something abstract, something he'd never need. He never thought nor dared to see himself deserving a love he only witnessed through Yeso and Noctavia.

How did she know? The question rattled in his mind, echoing louder with each passing second. Mediah's breath quickened, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that felt just shy of panic.

He stumbled slightly but caught himself, sinking onto the sand instead of letting it take him. His hands pressed against the cool grains, grounding him as he forced himself to look up. His gaze fixed on the horizon of the Long Night. Bare and dark.

And then, something clicked.

A silver moon emerged, its edges shimmering against the dark horizon as if it had been hiding just beneath the surface of the sea. Its glow climbed, casting a soft, ethereal light across the waves. Soon, it nestled beside the first moon, and now, the two moons hung in quiet harmony above the Map.

The world felt different—shifting, evolving in ways he couldn't grasp.

And yet, amidst the undeniable change around him, the shift within himself gnawed at him most.

"May I sit?"

The arrival of the second moon heralded the countdown to the imminent rise of the sun—a moment of profound significance yet curiously not celebrated.

At the time, I was residing in Regulus, immersed in my studies, but the memory remains as vivid as if it occurred only yesterday.

I had been in my kitchen, attempting to bake a chocolate cake. The endeavour, trivial as it might seem, had consumed an entire afternoon, as sourcing the ingredients proved no small feat. Vanilla extract, a seemingly simple commodity, had become a rare treasure during the Long Night, a period marked by scarcity and inflation so exorbitant that basic goods became symbols of unattainable luxury. It was unequivocally a crime!

As the cake batter baked in the oven, its aroma mingling with the faint scent of hardship that seemed to linger in every corner of that time, I gazed out the window. And there it was—the second moon, luminous and commanding, ascending the darkened sky. It was a sight that should have filled me with wonder or relief, but instead, a singular thought consumed my mind: Zora was late. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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