Gale

Noun

Translation: The Flaming Ram

Definition:

A spirit embodying the essence of fire, Gale is a mythical entity forged in flames. Its goat- or ram-like form signifies strength, endurance, and the will to charge forward despite adversity. In Menschen folklore, Gale is often communally summoned to locate lost objects or people.

"What is he?" Mediah asked, pointing at Gale.

Doriana's gaze drifted toward the shimmering goat, her eyes carrying a tenderness, unlike anything Mediah had witnessed in her before. Gale, oblivious, continued his slow circuit among the shelves, nudging each jar's glass with a careful sniff.

"After the Great Exodus," she began, "most Spirits fell into an endless sleep. But Gale never closed his eyes. He lost someone…someone he can't bear to leave behind—His paramour." She paused, watching the goat's ears flick as he hovered over a particular jar.

She came closer to Mediah, meeting his gaze fully. "I've gathered as many Spirits as I can," she said, "He believes she waits here, sleeping safely among them. That's why he remains by my side. He won't abandon this place until he finds the one he's lost."

Mediah's attention was drawn to the gentle way Doriana's shoulders relaxed when she glanced at Gale. "Did he choose you?"

Doriana shook her head. "Gale isn't here to serve anyone," she said. "His duty isn't tied by serving mortal creatures—it's tied to his own kin, to all Spirits. He looks after his own, watching those who drift between worlds. The Dream and the Nightmare. And the now.

"He sounds friendlier than he looks."

"Oh, he's stubborn and prickly at first," she said, the corner of her mouth curving almost fondly, "but he softens if you give him time."

"These jars…" Mediah left the sentence unfinished.

"Spirits," she said.

"Is the Sun among them?"

Doriana's lips curved into a wry smile, a spark of mischief in her mismatched eyes. "The Sun? I've no jar that could hold the golden dragon's spirit," she said lightly. She shrugged as casually as if remarking on a missing trinket. "No one knows where they've gone—or what truly became of them. But the few I spoke with are… worried."

Mediah drifted closer to the lake's edge as Doriana's footsteps receded. Through the wavering glow, he caught better glimpses of the women she approached—four silhouettes clustered near a patch of wildflowers.

Three of them stood with hands resting protectively over rounded bellies. The fourth woman, leaner and hollow-eyed, adjusted a cloth sling draped across her chest.

A soft cooing and a rustle of blankets drew Mediah's attention. Two makeshift cribs, hewn from driftwood and old cloth, rocked gently, suggesting someone had just soothed them.

Nearby, three little toddlers on uncertain legs were playing and laughing. He studied their faces—no resemblance tied them to the women standing guard. Instead, they bore that same wide-eyed innocence he remembered from too many nights in the orphanage. It was the look of children without known names, children who had been placed wherever a kind hand lingered longest. They were Nameless, just like him. The only difference was that each one of them had wings.

As he drifted between the shelves, Mediah leaned in, letting the soft luminescence wash over his face. Each jar gleamed with a gentle haze, and if he squinted just right, he could make out subtle shapes stirring within. Pressing closer, his breath fogging the glass, he spotted a small figure tucked snugly into itself.

The creature resembled a hedgehog, its body curled tight. Every quill shimmered at the tip—pinpricks of blue that hinted at something beyond mere animal.

He moved to the next jar, lowering his face until the glass nearly touched his nose. There, coils of a sinuous body layered over themselves, a serpent's scales outlined by a faint phosphorescent line. The glow traced every curve as the creature slumbered in a slow, soundless breath.

A pattern emerged with each step. Jars revealing shapes Mediah never imagined as spirits—a fox with autumn leaves swirling in its tail, a crow hunched beneath a silver crest, even a tiny stag whose antlers shimmered like frost-kissed branches.

A voice drifted toward him, cutting through his stunned silence with a careful whisper: "Have you seen a little sheep?"

Mediah's gaze settled on Gale. The goatman crouched low, his limbs folded neatly beneath him, and in that peculiar glow—blue laced with gold—his horns caught the cave's strange light, each contour limned as if with molten metal.

At Mediah's quiet admission, Gale's ears twitched, his snout sliding away to probe the shelves anew, searching silently.

Then, a sound cracked the silence, sharp and thunderous. The lake's surface shattered upward, and a water column flung into the air with startling force. Droplets rained down, scattering prismatic sparks across the cave floor. Doriana jerked back, arms raised to shield her face from the sudden spray.

Mediah stiffened, feet rooted, his pulse tapping against his throat. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing against the drifting mist. As it cleared, he saw a shape standing on the water's surface—a figure emerging from within that ascending spray.

A Mere who stood gracefully on the lake's shimmering surface. Moonbeams filtered through the cave's crystalline formations, casting a radiant glow that highlighted their ethereal presence. Their skin seemed to ripple and shift as they balanced effortlessly, contours softening and sharpening in a fluid dance between male and female.

"Do you have news, Spirit?" Doriana asked in a booming voice. The sound startled a pair of toddlers, who glanced up from their play.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Across the water's surface, the Mere—Koimar—tilted its head, one brow lifting as if amused by her impatience. The reflection of its face wavered on the rippling lake, but the sly twist of its lips remained steady. "I do."

"Well then?" Doriana's impatience flashed in her eyes.

"That depends, Seer," the spirit replied, voice slow and honeyed. "What will you give me in return, this time?"

Doriana's shoulders tensed, and a dry laugh escaped her. She cast a glance backwards—Gale had stopped his sniffing and stood alert, a faint scowl in the line of his muzzle. "And you still wonder," Doriana said, lifting her chin, "why the Dual-Headed Fish Spirit charms no one?"

Without waiting for an answer, she snapped her fingers, eyes flicking to Gale. The goat stiffened, then bounded toward the shelves. "Gale, fetch me a jar."

Gale rose onto his hind legs, nose twitching as he rummaged through a wooden crate stacked in a dim corner. His ears flicked when he found what he needed—a clear jar just waiting. Cradling it carefully between cloven hooves, he trotted back. When he reached Doriana, he lifted the jar toward her, head bowing as if making an offering.

Doriana's fingers curled around the jar's rim, and she pivoted toward Koimar, who no longer wore that self-satisfied grin. Instead, the Mere's features tightened, pride slipping toward something more wary. Doriana tilted her head, letting a brief silence settle as if savouring the tension.

"You've seen my collection," she said. Her thumb traced the lid's edge, threatening to twist it open. Koimar's shoulders stiffened, and a flash of raw dislike tightened the corners of his eyes.

"You wicked witch!" the spirit hissed, voice cracking slightly, trying for bravado and finding fear beneath it.

Doriana didn't bother to reply with scorn or laughter. She merely lifted the lid enough for a whisper of air to escape. "We've done this dance before," she murmured, calm as still water. "I will not give you my eye! Please don't waste my time. When will the Noitelven arrive?"

Koimar's shoulders tensed, a sneer pulling at the corner of the Mere's lips. His voice slipped free, dripping reluctance as though each word drew blood. "Two Moons," he said, the admission leaving his mouth with bitter reluctance.

"That wasn't so difficult, was it?" she asked, voice velvet-smooth.

Koimar's reflection quivered over the rippling water, his form beginning to lose solidity. "Mark my words," he hissed, as if trying to cling to shape and dignity, "one day you'll repay every small boon you've extracted from me. All I want is that little ember eye of yours. But like any crawling creature, you like it… rough."

His figure wavered, trailing droplets of resentment as it collapsed back into the lake's shimmering surface. In moments, nothing remained but circling ripples and a faint shimmer of light.

Doriana stood very still, her hand hovering over the jar's lid. The corner of her mouth curved gently, but the warmth in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something quiet and resigned. "I'm afraid you'll fight the worms," she said softly, her voice barely louder than the drip of water against stone. She spoke to empty air as if addressing an old friend long gone. "I doubt I'll live that long."

Doriana let out a low laugh, tossing her hair back as droplets splattered onto the stone floor. The fabric of her dress clung to her, darkening at the seams, and a fresh strand of hair tumbled free, sticking to her cheek.

Mediah's gaze lingered, tracing the torchlight as it danced along her shoulders, casting a soft glow that magnified her presence. He'd seen her stand unwavering against spirits, her voice steady and commanding, yet now, drenched and smiling faintly to herself, she seemed so much more than a mage wielding power. There was a grace in how she moved toward the women and children, an affection in how her fingers cradled the jar as though it held more than just light—it held meaning.

In the stillness that followed, a thought stirred in him, unbidden but resolute. He thought of Noctavia and others who wielded power not through titles or symbols but through the quiet strength of their actions. They didn't need the weight of a Black Robe draped over their shoulders or the mark of Ophius carved into their skin. Their essence spoke louder than any visible sign of magic ever could. Doriana, he realised, belonged to that rare kind—a force unto herself, unbound by rules or symbols, her power simply was.

Mediah lay sprawled on his bed, the remnants of the day's chaos swirling relentlessly in his mind. Doriana's presence loomed large even in his empty room, her magical essence weaving through his thoughts like an unbreakable spell.

He tossed and turned, limbs aching for rest, searching for a position that might finally grant him peace. Every attempt to settle mirrored the stillness of the spirits trapped within their jars, yet sleep remained stubbornly out of reach.

The echoes of Doriana's magic taunted him, drawing him back each time he thought he had found a moment of truce. Frustration gnawed at him until, with a weary sigh, he surrendered to the sleepless night, his body weary but his mind unwilling to let go. He wanted her.

He pushed himself upright, and the idea of a hot beverage flickered through his mind—perhaps a soothing tea, but what he needed was something stronger to stir his restless saat.

He tiptoed down the first floor. Reaching the kitchen, a sense of relief washed over him at the sight of no one.

He retrieved a teapot from a high shelf. He filled it with fresh water and, with a subtle gesture, cast a short fire spell, which ignited a controlled flame beneath the stove's burner.

Mediah leaned against the countertop, eyes fixed on the water as tiny bubbles began to rise. Steam curled upwards, feeling a gentle warmth on his face, merging with the hum of Doriana's lingering magic. It was always there, weaving through him, a constant presence that felt both comforting and maddening.

His hand brushed absently against the edge of the counter as his mind wandered, drawn to questions he couldn't silence.

The magic wasn't intrusive, but it held a weight that pressed at the edges of his thoughts. What if this connection—this undeniable bond—faded one day, slipping away like a dream upon waking? His fingers tapped lightly against the counter, the rhythm betraying his nerves.

The idea of the Hexe gnawed at him, rising unbidden like a spectre. It was a solution, powerful and final but fraught with consequence. Could he even consider it? He barely knew her. And yet, every glance and word between them felt like it carried the weight of lifetimes. His stomach tightened at the thought. She was Muru's wife. The implications spiralled, tangling with his sense of honour. What kind of man would he become if he acted on this? How far could one truly go for love before losing themselves?

Mediah didn't watch the water bubble fiercely in the teapot, steam swirling in lazy spirals before finally erupting with a steady hiss. The professor's words echoed in his mind, "Everyone deserves a happy ending. Whether you choose to use it or not is up to you."

How long had Yeso known Noctavia before he decided to hex her? Was it really a love at first sight? How could that be?

"It's boiling."

Mediah jolted upright, his sudden movement causing the teapot to wobble perilously on the edge of the countertop. In one fluid motion, Doriana reached out, her fingers deftly grasping the pot just as it began to tilt. The proximity sent a warm rush through him as her body pressed close, their noses almost grazing in the briefest of contacts.

"Did you burn yourself?" Doriana asked.

Mediah found himself silenced, words caught in his throat as he gazed into her eyes. Their depths held a universe of emotions, drawing him in with an irresistible pull. The subtle scent of her presence enveloped him, mingling with the lingering warmth of her magic that danced around them like an invisible veil.

Unable to resist any longer, Mediah ceased his struggle. His hand slid behind Doriana's neck to gently cradle her head. Slowly, he leaned in, their lips meeting in a tender yet fervent kiss. The world around them faded as their tongues intertwined, reconnecting in a dance as old as time itself. In that moment, the fear of losing her dissolved, replaced by an overwhelming desire to hold on forever.

He pressed closer, the connection deepening, feeling like he was merging with her very saat. Every heartbeat echoed the promise he felt in his chest—he could never let her go.

But there was a reason why Mediah never used the Hexe spell. Unbeknownst to him, this kiss began a choice he would never make again.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.