“1222 days left” by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

  The Long Night shrouded Ormgrund as the rest of the Map.

  The Trial of Elements camp lay sandwiched between the Turtle District and Yellow District—a sprawling, chaotic network of tents and hastily constructed shelters that struggled against the biting cold. Bonfires were scattered throughout the camp like beacons over the mages who moved among them.

  They gathered in small groups: some engaged in rigorous training exercises, others seated on rough, improvised benches listening intently to Officers who gestured animatedly as they imparted magical doctrines, and a few simply huddled together for warmth, trying to snatch a moment of rest in the merciless Winter.

  Zora, who had thought the Winters in Ostesh were harsh for others, found Ormgrund's Long Night biting cold a far graver adversary for them.

  Mages suffered visibly—frostbite was a common affliction, particularly among those who chose tradition and walked barefoot. Blankets were a precious commodity, too few to provide warmth for every shivering body, and the food supplies were stretched thin.

  Despite these hardships, there was a rumour that floated on the icy breeze and spoke of this gathering as the largest army ever assembled in Menschen history—a formidable force in the making. Yet, in the Long Night, it was impossible to see just how vast their numbers were.

  Another whisper threaded through the fabric of the tents—a whisper filled with longing for the sun's return and the ushering in of Summer, governed by the rightful Dame—more a symbol than a reality.

  Zora, however, found herself grappling with the blind faith that seemed to infuse the spirits of her fellow mages. Rallying behind a figure borne of mere hope and ephemeral dreams struck her as a fragile basis for loyalty. Her scepticism shadowed her as she navigated the camp's labyrinth, stepping over uneven bricks and weaving through rows of tightly pitched tents.

  Her destination was the main pavilion, rumoured soon to be a grand villa meant for the Magis Officers of the Trial of Elements. In reality, however, Zora found only two incomplete walls reaching out into the cold air like the open arms of a promise yet to be fulfilled.

  Zora hesitated at the entrance of the pavilion’s tent, her ears tuned to the voices of Officers Jear and Mediah discussing matters she couldn't quite discern from her position. She was momentarily relieved not to hear the distinct tone of Officer Shuri, whose presence she avoided as the plague.

  Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Zora leaned slightly to peek inside just to confirm the officer wasn’t there.

  "May I come in?" she asked.

  "Lolth, come, come," Mediah responded, waving her over with a casual familiarity that contrasted sharply with the formal setting. The use of her alias, 'Lolth', still felt alien to Zora.

  "It's a quick question," she began, managing an awkward smile as she stepped further into the tent, the canvas walls muffling the sounds of the camp outside. "I just wanted to know if anything arrived today... for me."

  Watching Mediah's reaction closely, Zora noted the slight slump of his shoulders—a silent, telling gesture that spoke volumes before words could follow. It was clear that nothing had come.

  "I see. Well, asking doesn't hurt," Zora added quickly, trying to mask her disappointment with a light tone.

  "Why didn't you ask Shuri? She is the one who handles mail," Mediah probed, his head resting in his hand while his elbow was propped on a table cluttered with the scattered pages of a map mundis.

  His long hazel hair fell over his shoulder, gently swaying with each movement, and it barely concealed the distinctive mark that adorned his forehead. The golden symbol of infinity, intricately carved into his skin, shimmered subtly when the light caught it just right—the Ofius.

  "Well, I didn't see her today, and I didn't want to bother her," Zora replied, her voice carefully neutral and striving for an air of casual indifference.

  Despite her efforts, her response thinly veiled her true feelings. The very mention of Officer Shuri sent her a violent shiver of dread, causing her heart to race too fast.

  "Alright, do you have something to send?" Mediah asked with a hint of annoyance. Zora realised she might have interrupted something important, perhaps a strategic discussion or planning session, given the array of maps and documents spread before him.

  "Um... no, it's not worth the trouble. I apologise for the interruption," Zora backpedalled, her instinct telling her to exit the situation as smoothly as she had entered. As she stepped back, preparing to leave the tent, she barely felt the weight of hands massaging her shoulders.

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  "Hey, Little Spider, everything fine?" Shuri called out, removing her hands from Zora’s back. Her tone was light, almost carefree. Zora turned, facing Shuri with a forced smile. The Mere was beautiful, with her dark hair cropped into a haphazard buzzcut. Her eyes, a striking shade of glowing pink, brightening her features against the night. She, too, wore the black robe and the Ofius.

  Zora was caught between her desire to leave and the sudden need to throw herself at her neck and rip her head off.

  "Yeah, everything is fine," Zora replied, her voice tight as she tried to extract herself from the conversation. However, Shuri was not so easily deterred, stepping closer with an offer that seemed casual but was laden with implications.

  "Do you have mail to send? I'm going to town tomorrow," Shuri inquired, her tone friendly yet insistent.

  "No, nothing," Zora responded quickly, too quickly perhaps.

  "You could come with me," Shuri suggested with the widest smile, looking directly at Zora with an intensity that belied her casual words.

  "I have training. My Chosen day is really close. I need to focus on that," Zora explained. She attempted to step back again, eager to leave the tent.

  "If you all excuse me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, and swiftly bowed and left.

  "What is wrong with her?" Shuri commented as she opened her black robe and slumped into her chair, a sign of her own weariness.

  Jaer, who had been quietly observing the interaction while sorting through some forms and paperwork, spoke up, "She seemed... scared," he noted, his observation more to himself than to the others. He raised his eyes to meet those of Mediah, seeking in his colleague any insight that might explain Zora's unusual demeanour.

  The question hung unanswered.

  "There isn't much I can do if she doesn't talk," Mediah said, straightening in his chair with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his responsibilities. "I already have thousands of kids to take care of."

  "She is a very strong warrior. She feels no pain, no hunger, no cold. She can disappear in the shadows and reappear when least expected. She is one of your most powerful mages. I would pay close attention to what is wrong with her," Jaer advised, his tone serious and his blue gaze piercing. As the tiefling spoke, he methodically tapped a block of papers into a neat stack.

  Mediah listened, his expression growing more contemplative. The description Jaer provided wasn't just of any mage; it was a portrait of a crucial asset to their efforts—a weapon in an elf form, a Noitelven—yet clearly burdened.

  "I need you to mail this tomorrow," Jaer continued, handing Shuri the organized stack of papers.

  "Yes, Master," Shuri responded, accepting with a nod.

  "Maybe I'll talk to her first thing in the morning," Mediah said, his tone revealing a sense of defeat as he considered the potential issues surrounding Zora.

  "What? Lolth? She is fine!" Shuri brushed off the concern with a wave of her hand, dismissing the idea.

  "You know anything?" Mediah probed.

  "She is just down because her boyfriend doesn't answer her, so there is nothing to worry about. It’s just a heartache, but I'll check on her tonight. No worries," Shuri reassured with a confident smile, her expression softening into what many considered a charming, albeit enigmatic and beautiful smile.

  "Thank you, Magi Shuri." Mediah nodded, grateful for her initiative yet still carrying a trace of concern. He then shifted the meeting back to logistical matters, which were pressing and always on his mind. "So I spoke with the kitchen, and we have rations for another five moons."

  "That's not enough. Every day, we have hundreds of new candidates," Shuri pointed out.

  "But some give up, don't they?" Mediah questioned.

  “Claramae told me two girls quit yesterday. So, maybe ten per cent over a full Winter, but it's not enough to control resources. We are going to burn out way sooner than five moons," Jaer corrected. "We need more sponsorship," he added.

  "What about Sorgenstein? Did Finnegan reply?" Mediah directed his question towards Jaer, who hesitated, his gaze shifting uncomfortably.

  "He did reply... and he said for that sort of negotiation he'd rather have it in person." Jaer paused, "He wants to see me," he finally admitted with reluctance and a hint of shame. Jaer brushed his black hair away between his horns, revealing the Ofius.

  "Ah, damn," Mediah exhaled sharply, his hands moving to massage his temples. "I'm not going to force you to do anything. I will check on my side who else is left so that we can ask for help."

  "I think we need to revisit the whole plan... maybe we are way above our heads. This starts to become a catastrophe," Jaer stated, pulling a chair. He sat down between Mediah and Shuri. “Redfred can’t keep sending us funds without being caught by White Cloaks.”

  The conversation that ensued was exhaustive, but it eventually wound down. Shuri, who had maintained a somewhat detached throughout, was the first to leave the main tent. She stepped out into the chilly, ever-darkness of the camp, her face betraying none of the concerns that had just been discussed.

  As she walked between the tents, Shuri greeted other mages with a cheerfulness that seemed almost out of place in the grim setting. Her demeanour was light, almost carefree. Her steps were unhurried, her greetings warm as if she were strolling through a village market instead of a military camp gripped by the threat of collapse.

  Her casual walk continued until she reached a particular tent, smaller and more isolated than the others. It was Little Spider's tent.

  Shuri paused at the entrance, her carefree expression fading slightly as she prepared to step inside.

  Again, Little Spider was not at her tent.

  Dammit.

  

  Seven moons had passed, and yet no envelope from Ormgrund graced my eager hands. Stubbornly, I continued to send my missives, clinging to the hope that at least one would find its way to Zora. But alas, nothing. I began to genuinely fear the worst. What if their boat had sunk during the journey? What if something dreadful had befallen her upon reaching the camp? What if... and what if. The first Winter at university was particularly challenging; my heart was adrift, and consequently, my brain followed suit. My grades suffered, and I found myself summoned to the Dean's office too many times, facing the dire threat of losing my scholarship if I did not improve. In retrospect, it seems almost laughable that I felt my world and dreams crumbling beneath my feet. Ah, the melodrama of youth! The worst is yet to come. —by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition