Mere

  Noun

  Translation: Mere

  Definition: Mere are creatures residing within the depths of the Red Sea. Unlike sirens, which are known for their distinct half-humanoid, half-fish appearance, Mere possess the extraordinary ability to shapeshift into any form. This ability makes them capable of blending seamlessly into various environments or adopting the guise of other beings.

  The crackle of bonfires, the distant clang of Ulencia's blades, and the diverse chatter of mages unwinding after another gruelling day.

  As Jaer followed the pathways, his mind was occupied with the troubling pattern that had begun to emerge. The departure rate among the girls was alarmingly higher than that of the boys, a disparity too significant to be a mere coincidence. And when they left, they did so silently, without leaving a trace of explanation, as if compelled by reasons too powerful—or perhaps too threatening—to voice.

  Approaching the construction site of what was meant to be the Officer Villa—a skeletal structure of ambition that stood far away from completion with only two walls—Jaer paused. The site, bathed in the soft glow of the nearby firelight, seemed almost symbolic of the unfinished business and unresolved issues weighing on him.

  His thoughts drifted to Lolth, the dark elf who had taken to sleeping on the beach rather than in her assigned tent within the camp. This anomaly was just another piece of this puzzle. Her choice was a deviation from the norm, a silent protest or perhaps a protective measure against something—or someone—within the camp.

  Everything pointed to a deeper malaise, and every instinct in Jaer's seasoned mind whispered one name: Shuri.

  His intuition, honed over years of leadership and battle, sensed her involvement, whether direct or indirect. The question of her exact role nagged at him relentlessly.

  He liked Shuri and valued her as a member of their community. Claramae trusted her, and they all welcomed her as a friend. So what had changed? Deep down, Jaer knew the answer—the Ofius.

  Since acquiring it, Shuri had grown increasingly arrogant, her personality shifting in subtle but unmistakable ways. But what exactly had she done with that newfound influence?

  Lost in his troubled reflections, Jaer's introspection was suddenly broken by the harsh, grating sound of rock scraping against metal, followed by the dry thud of stone on stone, then repeating. The rhythmic, laborious noise drew him toward the villa under construction.

  As he approached, he saw Mediah, shirtless despite the chill. His hair pulled back into a messy bun as he worked on one of the villa's incomplete walls. The man Jaer once knew as a boy was pushing himself relentlessly, driven by a torment only he knew. But that seemed close to breaking him. As Jaer drew closer, he could hear Mediah's stifled sniffles between the harsh sounds of his labour.

  Mediah came here to cry.

  Since day one, the Magi had not stopped working for a single day, and his dedication contrasted with the disarray around him. Jaer could now see the physical signs of strain—Mediah's shoulders were tense, and his movements were slightly erratic and fatigued. It was clear that Mediah was nearing his limits, and the burden of whatever he was carrying was evident in every stone he set and every tool he wielded.

  Jaer paused, watching Mediah silently for a moment.

  "Shouldn't you stop? It's late," Jaer said with a certain command as he leaned against one of the half-finished walls, arms crossed in a casual pose that belied his worry.

  "How do you know if it's late or morning?" Mediah shot back. The fatigue edged with anger.

  "The taste of dew... that's how I guess it's really early. And the night tastes like moss or something close," Jaer replied, attempting to lighten the mood, “bark?”

  "Very funny," Mediah retorted, his voice flat, unamused.

  "I wasn't joking."

  Suddenly, the sound of something heavy hitting the ground punctuated the strained conversation, followed by Mediah's exasperated scream, "Fuck!" And then another, louder and more desperate, "Fuck! This is fucking impossible! How is it possible to have a camp full of mages, and it's impossible to build one single house?"

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  Jaer, still leaning against the wall, straightened as he listened to Mediah's outburst. Although he could not see Mediah clearly in the dark, the distress in his voice was unmistakable.

  Stepping forward, Jaer moved toward where he heard the crash. "Mediah," he began, "Let's sit down a minute, alright? You're pushing too hard. It's more than just this house, isn't it? Talk to me, boy."

  "How did he make it look so easy? How? Why am I not able to follow in his footsteps? Why is everything so hard?" Mediah's voice cracked, his frustration spilling into the Long Night air.

  Jaer froze at those words. It wasn't hard to discern that Mediah was talking about Yeso. It had been Winter after Winter that none of them—not him, not Mediah, not Claramae—had dared to speak his name aloud. Yeso had been a pillar of strength, a beacon of leadership, hope and dreams whose absence now cast a Long Night over all of them.

  The tiefling moved closer to the young Magi, he placed his hand on Mediah's shoulder, "Come on, boy, stand up."

  Mediah's frustration erupted violently as he shoved Jaer's hands from his shoulders, his voice breaking with raw, unfiltered despair. "All of this is a circus! I have no clue what I'm doing. I don't have the resources for all these kids, and we are running out of coins again. I don't know what to do. How did he make it look so easy? I fucking need him! How the fuck did he dare to die without teaching me! How? Fucking how?"

  "I don't think he planned on leaving us. Nor Noctavia. It happened; they trusted the wrong person. But, they also trusted you, and they trusted right," Jaer said.

  Mediah's eyes, which had been flickering with the heat of his outburst, showed a glimmer of incredulity. "Oh, what the fuck! Are you fucking comparing me to Xendrix?" he asked.

  "No, I'm not comparing you to anyone," Jaer responded calmly, releasing his hold slightly to give Mediah some space but maintaining eye contact.

  "No, I'm comparing you to yourself. You travelled with them, and you prepared their food. Yeso trusted you with the younger mages when he went to Whitestone. Believe me, he wouldn't do it if he didn't trust you. If he..." Jaer's voice trailed off and was about to break, too.

  "If... so many ifs... but there is no if... just this circus." Mediah slumped to the ground, landing with a thud, his hands cradling his head as if trying to physically hold himself together. "I'm... I... I can't do this."

  Jaer crouched down to Mediah's level, "I miss him too. Every day, I wake up with this feeling: I will share a meal, a story, or just a laugh with my best friend. And then, there is this, the Long Night. I don't even have the right to feel the Sun to feel a piece of him. I miss his warmth, his light... I miss him. The only thing we can do is to carry them with us, not in the Sun's light, but in how we continue what they started. We honour them by living, by leading, even when it feels impossible."

  Jaer continued, "You're not alone in this, boy. You're not supposed to walk in his footsteps. You're supposed to forge your own path. It won't be easy. It never is. Yeso wasn't perfect, and he didn't expect us to be either. He led us, yes, but he also learned from us—from you, from me, from the faeries. He never shut up about it."

  Mediah's chuckle broke the sombre mood, a brief glimmer of lighter memories surfacing amid the darkness. "He did talk a lot about faeries," he remarked, a small smile playing at the edges of his lips.

  "Yes, he did," Jaer agreed, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly in response.

  "And apple pie."

  "And apple pie… Never saw a creature so obsessed with dessert." Jaer chuckled back, the sound mingling with the night air, easing some of the heaviness that had settled around them.

  "What a weirdo!" Mediah chuckled. The sound was more relaxed and lighter now. “He was so weird!”

  Jaer chuckled back, the shared amusement bringing momentary ease. He stood up and extended a hand to Mediah, helping to lift him from the ground. "He could be very peculiar sometimes."

  As Mediah accepted Jaer's hand and pulled himself up, the sudden sound of a voice caused them both to turn sharply.

  "Excuse me, Masters?"

  Jericho and Zora emerged from the darkness, their expressions grave. Seeing them, especially under such tense circumstances, instantly signalled that this was no ordinary interruption.

  "What is going on?" Mediah asked, now fully upright, his previous exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

  "We believe the camp is in danger," Zora said clearly. “We believe there will be an invasion."

  "How?" Mediah asked.

  "Shuri," Jericho said simply, his one word.

  The mention of Shuri in such a context didn't shock Jaer and Mediah. The pieces of disjointed observations and uneasy feelings that had been accumulating suddenly began to form a coherent but disturbing picture.

  Mediah's gaze shifted between Jericho and Zora, seeking confirmation, denial, anything that might explain the stark assertion. Jaer, meanwhile, processed the information with a growing sense of betrayal.

  "We need to discuss this immediately," Jaer said. "Jericho, Zora, please follow us. Time seems to be of the essence."

  

  The Faerie Hunt, a sombre chapter in our histories, spanned approximately nineteen winters. Unfortunately, scant documentation exists, leaving us to speculate about its origins and motivations. Equally enigmatic is why this prolonged period of turmoil concluded so abruptly. One might hazard a guess—speculation, really—that it aligned suspiciously with the advent of the Summerqueen's reign three Winters before. Perhaps Fiona Mageschstea found it necessary to emerge from the shadows and present herself at the courts of the Map as the mother of her successor, an endeavour that would have been considerably complicated were she still indulging in faerie pursuits. Or other vices. However, this remains conjecture, unsupported by tangible evidence or bold witnesses willing to recount what transpired behind the cloistered walls of Whitestone before the Sun reemerged. As a former resident of Faewood, I can attest to the very real horrors of a faerie hunt and its profound effects on anyone being caught in its wake. Fiona, for all the rumours, never faced retribution for these alleged misdeeds, though she was held accountable for other transgressions. One could argue that justice was served, yet there lingers a sense of insufficiency in her punishment. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer