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

A cry pierced through the corridors of Pollux Palace, a sound so harrowing it seemed to leach life itself from the walls. It began as a fragile wail but soon swelled into a haunting symphony of anguish. It was as if the palace itself recoiled, suffocating under that cry—a raw, soul-wrenching pain that left nothing untouched.

Somewhere, hidden from sight, a baby girl, Menschen—a tiny creature born under the curse of the Winterqueen's whim—was stripped of its legacy. Her wings, the symbols of pure and raw magic, were wrenched from its tiny body. And then, for one excruciating moment, that cry was everything: the sound of a life robbed of its light—the true sound of the Long Night.

Jaer sat naked, hunched at the edge of the bed, his hands limp between his knees. The room felt stripped, just like him. Neither cold nor warm, it offered no comfort, no distraction. Each cry echoed through the palace, clawed at him, depriving him of another piece and leaving him hollow.

His gaze fell to the floor. The cries seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

"What are you doing?"

Finnegan's voice came from behind him, but Jaer didn't move.

"Another one," he muttered.

Finnegan's hand came to rest on his shoulder, pulling the tiefling back toward the silken sheets.

But, without a word, Jaer flinched, jerking his shoulder free of the King's grip. He didn't turn to look at Finnegan, his gaze fixed ahead as if staring through the nothingness, his jaw tightening against words he didn't dare to speak.

"Soon enough, the child will be quiet," the Elven King said smoothly as if offering reassurance behind a cold, enticing smile.

"You mean dead?"

Finnegan sighed and rose from the bed, the silk sheets pooling around him as he leaned forward. "Oh, come on, darling. Aren't you overreacting?"

He tried to close the distance, reaching out to bridge the gap between them. But Jaer flinched again, pulling further away. The elf's hand hung in the air for a moment before he let it drop.

"I'm trying to save those girls!" Finnegan cracked, his calm veneer crumbling as he threw his arms up. "Why are you treating me like I'm some sort of disgraceful villain of some cheap novel?"

Jaer pushed himself up from the bed. He crossed the room with no word coming from his lips, his hand reaching for the robe draped over the back of the chair by the dresser. The fabric felt heavier than it should as he pulled it over his shoulders, covering the red skin that now felt tainted by the heinous crimes committed within these walls.

His fingers lingered on the buttons of the robe, closing them. The Trial of the Elements had been harsh—tents pitched in the wind, unfinished shelters that let in the cold—but there, he had felt clean, purposeful, like someone striving for something better. Here, beneath the gilded ceilings and within the perfumed air of riches, he felt hollow, like a corrupted servant for a king he didn't serve.

"Jaer…" Finnegan's voice broke through, soft but still insistent. "Stop. Come back to bed."

"I'm not sleepy," Jaer said, his voice clipped as his fingers worked methodically at the rest of the buttons of his robe. "And you already got what you wanted from me."

"Don't be silly," Finnegan said. "You know how much I love you. Why are you acting like this, darling?"

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"Those girls are—"

"In danger!" Finnegan threw the silk sheet aside, rising from the bed. "I'm giving them asylum, protecting them from the wrath of the Winterqueen—my wife! In case you forgot! Do you think this is easy for me?"

He took a step toward Jaer. "I'm putting myself in danger every day! What if someone comes here and sees all these little Menschen running around, and it gets back to her? Do you have any idea what would happen? To them? To me? For the love of the Green Mother, don't you see what I'm risking? Don't you love me? Care?"

Jaer fastened the last button of his robe. He adjusted the belt with a tug. Turning, he faced Finnegan, whose features were half-lost in the shadows, the light casting uneven lines across the elven face. It almost seemed he had aged.

"I sometimes don't recognise you anymore," Jaer said. "When did you become such a hypocrite?"

Finnegan's posture stiffened, his head tilting as if trying to decipher the accusation. "Hypocrite? What do you mean? Do you think I don't hate myself for this?" Jaer could see that Finnegan felt his confidence betrayed as he fought to project. "Every night, I wonder if I'm the monster you see in me. I'm protecting those children—who, I'll remind you, are not elves. I'm protecting Sorgenstein, Pollux, and you!"

"Me?" Jaer asked. "I'm not an elf. I am a Magi; I don't need your petty protection! Or did you forget?" And he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. Jaer didn't glance back. The door closed behind him with a click that seemed louder than it should have.

The Magi moved through the halls aimless. The faint echoes of the cry still lingered. His gaze wandered upward, tracing the endless height of the arches that seemed to disappear into the shadows above. The marble statues gleamed faintly in the low artificial light, cool complexions interrupted by twisting branches that fused seamlessly with the architecture, blurring the line between nature and design.

Maybe he walked all night, or maybe the morning was still far off. It was hard to tell during the Long Night. Then he heard it—a soft, trembling voice. He stopped as he turned toward the sound.

He was in the Magi section of the palace now, the halls quieter and narrower. There, on the floor of the main office, was Lolth. Her legs were crossed, her small frame hunched as she cried. She clutched a phone tightly, one hand holding the speaker close to her mouth, the other pressing the listener firmly against her ear.

Her sobs were muffled, almost desperate. Jaer stayed still, his eyes locked on her, unsure whether to approach or turn away.

"She is still crying, Orlo... she's still crying…" Lolth's voice trembled, her words barely above a whisper as she clung to the phone like a lifeline.

Jaer stepped into the office; he crossed the room without hesitation, lowering himself beside her, his back resting against the wall as he let his body slide down next to hers.

He didn't speak, didn't interrupt. Instead, he watched, his gaze tracing the lines of strain etched into her features. He could hear the faint, soothing murmur on the other end of the line. A young man's voice was like a quiet anchor in the storm of emotion that no one knew how to label at the time.

"If she's still crying, she'll be alright. That one is a fighter, you'll see. Crying is a good thing..." Orlo's voice reassured. "And just one more Winter, Little Spider. Just one more Winter, and you'll be home. And you'll dance again... and we can have dinner together, and maybe go to the theatre. I think you'll love it."

Jaer's head leaned back against the wall as he closed his eyes. He could see why Lolth found solace in that voice, why she held on to it as though it were the only thing keeping her afloat.

Orlo's voice flowed through the receiver, the same soft reassurance repeated over and over. Each word was like a balm, soothing the cracks in their fragile state of mind. For a fleeting moment, the cadence, the warmth—it wasn't Orlo he heard. It was Yeso. For a moment, Jaer could almost smell the faint scent of dew and sun that always clung to Yeso's robes, the memory so vivid it tightened his throat. He missed him. Every day, even more.

At the time, Jaer didn't know he was listening to a living piece of Yeso, his son.

Finnegan Berdorf is, without question, one of the most difficult-to-get figures in this entire story. Setting aside any pretenses of objectivity—let me be frank—the elf is, in my opinion, an insufferable prick with a broomstick lodged so far up his rectum that it practically defines his posture. Yet, despite my disdain, I cannot deny the complexity of his role: an unlikely ally or an equally peculiar enemy. I've spent countless hours trying to decipher his motives, particularly regarding Zora. Were his actions toward her born out of some twisted sense of friendship, or did they stem from the machinations of a true villain? The ambiguity gnaws at me, for if he truly harbours the darkness, I suspect, why then would Jaer—a man as burdened by his own conscience as he is by love—remain steadfastly by his side? What kind of love blinds one to such cruelty, to such manipulation? I don't know the answer. But maybe, I was just lucky to fall in love to someone like Zora. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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