“1,837 days left…” by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

  Orlo was captivated by the scent that filled the air. It was reminiscent of dew drops on a petal—fresh, delicate, and dreamlike. As he blinked his eyes open, the sight before him rendered him motionless.

  There she was, lying next to him on her bed, an image so breathtakingly beautiful that Orlo found himself completely and utterly transfixed. He couldn't move, not even slightly, as if a spell had been cast over him.

  This was the first time he woke up with her by his side.

  She was even more beautiful up close. One of Orlo's wings draped over her like a silk sheet, following the contours of her body with a tenderness that spoke volumes but in a language that he couldn't yet comprehend.

  They stood there as if time had frozen until she broke it, saying, "Good Morning."

  Orlo felt his throat closing up, preventing any sound from coming out of his mouth. All he could do was look at her. Her skin seemed to have the velvet texture of a peach, with grains of glitter spread on her dark, bluish skin.

  "Ollo," Orlo spoke, the greeting slipping out in Menshen before he even realized it.

  "Wie tu o-o es?" she replied with ease, her voice bouncing back the question in Menschen.

  Despite the confusion clouding his memory, unable to recall how he had ended up in her room, Orlo found himself smiling, the warmth in his chest spreading at her simple question. "Mir gut. Mir tu?" he asked.

  "Mir gut," she responded, her smile made him feel as if he could conquer the world or be brought to his knees with equal ease. "I need to get ready."

  "Oh, of course!" Orlo reacted, a sudden jolt of realization propelling him out of the bed in a clumsy manner. He didn't understand why he felt compelled to bow his head in departure. "Hope you have a good day."

  "Orlo?" Her voice, calling his name, felt as though the veil between the dream and this world had been momentarily lifted, clarifying everything and nothing all at once.

  "Yeah?" he managed to respond.

  "See you downstairs."

  "Oh, yeah... forgot you live here... too. I mean, breakfast is important. Very… I don’t know why I’m still talking. I go now... I need to feed Maggie," he replied, his words tumbling out in a clumsy rush as he began to walk backwards, eager yet reluctant to leave her presence. "Maggie needs me... so I go," he added, almost as if trying to convince himself more than her, “She is my best friend… and she can’t get water alone. Like, because she is a plant.”

  Orlo sensed her gaze as he moved backwards. Every step he took seemed to draw more of her focus, and the weight of her eyes on him was piercing. This attention made his normally sharp mind falter, scattering his thoughts like a child jumping and kicking leaves in the ground. He was used to analyzing and understanding, but her expression eluded his grasp, leaving him uncharacteristically unsettled.

  Finally reaching the closet door that served as his unconventional exit, he stepped through into his own room and closed the door a bit too forcefully behind him.

  His heart was racing too fast.

  Orlo, overwhelmed and slumped against the ground, found himself grappling with emotions he couldn't quite understand or articulate. "What is this?" he murmured to himself, "She can't be my Hexe. That is not how it works. She likes girls."

  The little Mouse appeared beside him. She observed him with a head tilt and a silent question in her posture. "How does it feel?" she asked.

  Orlo struggled to breathe. "What are you talking about? Nothing happened!" he protested, yet the intensity of his reaction betrayed his words.

  "Oh, I thought it would be something big, like go high in the sky but fall like a feather," she said, her tiny paws mimicking the motion of soaring and gently descending.

  Orlo, rendered speechless by the Mouse's simple insight. The confusion, the longing, the sudden realization of his deep vulnerability—all of it converged into a singular, overpowering desire to cry.

  For the first time in what felt like forever, he yearned for his parents, for their wisdom and guidance through this maze he found himself trapped in.

  How was this possible? Orlo felt small like never before; how was he supposed to love her when she would never love him?

  Even at school, the day unfolded with an aura of surreal discomfort for Orlo, as if he were ensnared in a dream from which awakening was impossible.

  Determined to maintain some semblance of normalcy, Orlo proceeded with his plan for the day's lessons, dividing his students into groups according to their learning needs—a strategy he had devised from the outset. Bernard, one of his students, found himself among those in the reading group.

  Monica found herself amidst the mathematics group, her focus divided between explaining equations and the presence of Zora beside her. The rest of the students were engaged in lessons on History and Geography, each group immersed in their respective subjects, oblivious to the emotional storm brewing within their teacher.

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  Meanwhile, Orlo found refuge at his desk, feigning busyness as an excuse to avoid direct engagement with any of them. His heart wasn't in it today, and he was unable to muster the courage to face them head-on, especially Zora, whose proximity to Monica was a constant reminder that no matter what, she wouldn't ever see him with the same eyes as he did.

  Zora, for her part, seemed at ease next to Monica, who took every opportunity to display her affection. Whether it was a gentle brush of Zora's hair behind her elfish ear, an arm casually draped over her shoulder, or a tender kiss on her cheek, Monica was getting on Orlo’s nerves.

  At last, the school bell tolled through the corridors, its echo marking the end of another day. Orlo watched as the classroom emptied, the chatter of students fading into a serene silence. He was alone now, save for the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. He noted he had about an hour before Muna was to arrive. Intent on using the time wisely, Orlo turned his attention to a stack of essays that demanded his review, which had lain forgotten in the whirlwind of the last days' events.

  As he sifted through the papers, a slight movement at the edge of his vision abruptly drew his attention away. There, in the corner of the room, sat Monica, her nose buried in a book.

  "What are you doing here still?" Orlo asked, more out of curiosity than reprimand.

  Monica looked up, her eyes peering over her book. "I'm waiting for my aunt."

  "Here?"

  She shrugged, a small grimace crossing her features. "It's too cold outside."

  Orlo let out a soft chuckle, "Yeah, it is cold... and of course, you can stay. I was merely surprised, that's all."

  "She usually doesn't take long," Monica said while her fingers were absentmindedly tracing the edges of her book. "She's very nice… and pretty." But there was an undertone in her voice that Orlo couldn't quite place—a subtle dissonance that piqued his concern.

  Setting his pen down, Orlo leaned forward, resting his elbow on the desk. "Should I be concerned about this aunt of yours picking you up? Perhaps we should contact your parents instead?"

  Monica offered a brief smile, "I'm Nameless, so I'm adopted. It's okay, really. I have a roof, food, clothing—everything I need. I am very grateful."

  Orlo paused, observing her carefully. Her words said one thing, but her expression conveyed another, "Well, you're welcome to stay here until she arrives. I must admit, now I'm rather curious to meet this aunt of yours."

  The room was punctuated by the ticking of the clock. Yet, it was soon interrupted by the echoing tap of heels on the corridor outside—a slow, resonant sound.

  Orlo, distracted by the footsteps, glanced towards the door just as two sharp knocks rang out against the wood. "Come in," he called.

  As the door swung open, a pungent aroma swiftly pervaded the classroom, invading the space with an intensity that made Orlo's stomach churn. The smell was alien, almost toxic, forcing a gag reflex he struggled to suppress.

  Monica started to pack her belongings in a rush, seemingly unaffected by the faint, musty smell that lingered in the air. At the open foor, a figure stood in the doorway. It was an elven woman, her presence as captivating as her appearance, with her hair shimmering purple, catching the fluorescent light of the classroom. The light also highlighted a distinctive silver necklace around her neck, shaped like a spider web.

  "May I?" she asked, her voice as gentle as her step was confident. Her foot was already crossing the threshold, suggesting she wasn't really asking for permission but rather announcing her presence in a courteous way.

  Orlo stood, compelled by courtesy to welcome her despite the growing foulness in the air. "Please, come in," he managed, extending a hand. "I'm Sterling Dargustea."

  "Zvoya, Zvoya Kaspian," she introduced herself, her handshake firm yet strangely cold. "How has Monica been doing?"

  "Very well, actually," Orlo responded, eager to shift focus from the unsettling scent. "She's been a help to other students, and her grades have significantly improved. I believe next year she might transition to a more normal class."

  "Yes, the change, her adoption—it took a toll on her academics, but we are rectifying that now," Zvoya's smile widened, though it did not quite reach her eyes. “We have great plans for Monica.”

  Orlo tapped his foot anxiously, a nervous tic. The stench seemed to cling to Zvoya, growing more intense by the moment, permeating the room like a malevolent fog.

  "Come on, darling, time to go home," Zvoya said, extending her hand to Monica, who took it hesitantly. "Thank you, Teacher, for all you've done for my little precious one."

  "It's nothing," Orlo replied, his words rushed. "Monica is a pleasure to have around."

  As they left, Orlo quickly shut the door behind them, his breath catching in his throat. He rushed to the nearest window, flinging it open to gulp the fresh air. Never in his life had he encountered such a repugnant odour. "What the fuck was that?"

  The lingering stench in the classroom became unbearable, compelling Orlo to gather his belongings hastily; he needed to escape the confined space. Stepping outside into the darkness, it was abruptly split by two harsh beams of light slicing through the gloom. Muna had arrived earlier than expected.

  He hurried towards her car. However, as he approached, he noticed the windows were rolled up, an unusual occurrence since Muna typically greeted him with a wave and a smile from a distance. Had he upset her?

  Reaching the car, Orlo moved to open the passenger door, only to find it occupied by Zora. This unexpected sight took him aback, and without a word, he quietly slid into the back seat.

  "Ready?" Muna asked, her tone flat. Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead, not bothering to meet his gaze through the rear-view mirror.

  "Uh, yeah, I'm ready. Did something happen?" Orlo asked, attempting to pierce the veil of tension that had suddenly appeared.

  Zora turned around to face him, her expression unreadable in the dim light. "Monica went home with her aunt, so I asked Muna for a lift. She lives in Ortie village, and because it is far, her aunt brings and picks her up.”

  Orlo caught Muna's eyes in the rear-view mirror, rolling with evident annoyance. At least that explained Muna's grumpiness, though the underlying reasons for her dislike of Zora remained shrouded. What was the story?

  The ride was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional flick of the indicator.

  After today, Monica did not return to school for over a moon, and the reasons for her absence wove themselves into the fabric of whispered schoolyard lore—Nightmares.

  

  Ortie Village, nestled near the high road on the outskirts of Quebaca, was a quaint settlement. Its residents, a close-knit community of modest numbers, subsisted on pottery and wool weaving crafts, illustrating the industrious spirit typical of small-town life. The village also played a unique role under a government initiative from the Parliament, which offered additional financial support to families who fostered Nameless children. While the ethics of monetarily incentivizing foster care could be debated, the outcome was undeniable: these children had a home, a roof over their heads, and a community that, though driven by incentive, provided care. Ortie Village was brutally shattered when it became the target of Lamias' attack. Lamias had chosen this secluded village to establish a nest. Despite the gravity of the situation, the attack on Ortie Village went largely unnoticed. No news bulletins reported the incident; the plight of the villagers and their fostered Nameless children remained obscured and hidden from the public eye. No sign of them was left. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer