> Hexe

>

> Heh−xeh

>

> Type: Noun

>

> Meaning: A creature who is both cursed and blessed, resulting from a mutual spell performed with another individual.

HEXE - BOOK of The Great Exodus

It was a beautiful night to say goodbye.

The night glowed with nine moons that adorned the sky, each in varying states of wax and wane, suspended like a string of radiant pearls across the firmament. It was almost as if the cosmos itself were paying tribute to this simple human child on her last journey. At least for now.

A wolf lingered in the shadowy border where the forest met the clearing. His fur was so deep and raven that it seemed woven from the darkness itself. The Howling Night, they called him—one of the most powerful Spirits to ever exist, believed to possess the arcane ability to weave time, to make, to stitch, and to break the strand of continuity. But now, his black eyes bore their attention only to the unfolding drama before him.

The villagers amassed at the riverbank, with faces etched in a sombre blend of pain and ritualistic sorrow. It was a child's funeral and the birth of a new Spirit. But only the wolf could know the latter.

The men lowered a small wooden boat into the water. It was the child's last vessel, bearing the fragile form of a pale, lifeless girl swaddled in linen. A howl cut through the air, raw and anguished. Not of the wolf but of a mother's cry, her pain overflowing the assembled crowd, through the whispering reeds, and across the water's surface, as if seeking to breach the very veil of night.

"My Marie, my little Marie, no, no..." she screamed, “no, no, no…” Her face contorted, teetering between despair and the futile hope that her voice might summon her back to life. "My baby, my Marie, she is... she is... no, she can’t."

Friends and family began to lay offerings on the boat—wreaths of wildflowers, trinkets of bone and stone, and parcels of food for the journey to the beyond. The air became heavy with the scent of jasmine and lavender while beeswax candles flickered like the souls of the departed.

As the boat drifted and docked downriver, the archers took their positions. Longbows were nocked, their arrowheads soaked in burning oil. A reverent hush fell upon the crowd.

"May your aim be true," intoned the village elder, a grizzled man with weathered skin like tree bark, while he and two other men pushed the boat to the water.

The archers drew back in unison, sinews straining and bows creaking. A moment of suspension, like the world was holding its breath—and then they released.

But not a single arrow found its mark. They arced high, veering left and right, some plunging into the water while others vanished into the misty night with a dying flame. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"It's a sign," whispered a woman, her eyes wide.

"Or a curse," retorted another, nervously clutching her shawl.

"Try again!" the old man shouted.

The archers dipped their arrows in oil, set them aflame, and finally lifted their bows. They pulled back the strings with a sense of grief.

"Release," commanded the elder.

The archers let go, their strings vibrating like the chords of a sad harp. The flaming arrows arced through the air, drawing luminous trails against the night sky. Every eye followed their path, and every heart held a silent prayer. They descended in a flawless arc toward the drifting raft.

And then, a miracle—or perhaps the divine intervention of the gods or the veiled influence of the Howling Night—each arrow halted mere inches above the raft as if hitting an invisible barrier. A collective gasp swept through the villagers.

The arrows hung there for a moment that felt like an eternity before they extinguished and plummeted harmlessly into the river, leaving the child untouched in her final resting place.

A gasp of surprise swept through the villagers, interrupted by the sound of approaching hooves on the stony ground. The noise cut through the silence, startling the assembled men and women. A procession of five horses, seemingly conjured from the mist, threaded its way through the narrow lanes, their riders draped in black robes that seemed to drink in the light.

One of them dismounted and walked barefoot toward the grieving mother kneeling by the water's edge, her hands clasped in fervent prayer. When he reached her, the man paused for a heartbeat, his eyes searching hers, finding mute permission in her tears. With a quiet, almost reverent motion, he began unfastening his robe. The fabric whispered as it slid off his shoulders, and he gently placed it around the grieving mother, covering her quivering frame.

As the robe settled over her, the villagers gasped once more. Translucent wings unfurled from his back, their tips brushing the earth like the long, flowing cape of a stellar king. There was no room for doubt; a Menschen was grieving with them.

"That's Yeso," one man whispered, eyes widening.

"The Commander!" another voice confirmed.

"What's he doing here?"

Yeso's features defied the obsidian backdrop of the night. His skin was the shade of the moon, framed by locks of hair that were not hair at all but fine threads of diamond.

However, it was his eyes that dispelled any doubts of his identity—eyes of an indescribable hue, as if borrowing colours from realms yet undiscovered. They lent him an unnatural aura, making him appear as if he were a Spirit incarnate.

With a touch, his fingertips—tinged a celestial blue—wiped away the tears coursing down the mother's face. It was a gesture so tender that it seemed almost incongruous, coming from a man known more for his martial and magic prowess than his empathy.

"Look at me," he said, his voice as soft as the wind rustling through autumn leaves.

When the mother's eyes met his, something passed between them—an understanding, a glimmer of comfort in a world that had suddenly become unfathomable. With one arm still wrapped in his robe, he helped her to her feet. Her posture straightened, fortified by his presence.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"Tonight is not the funeral of your child," Yeso murmured and raised a finger towards the water. “This is the rebirth of a new Spirit."

As Yeso pointed, the woman's eyes followed, and what she saw stole her breath away. There, defying the laws of nature, a massive, dire wolf strode across the water. It wasn't just its size or grace that captivated the onlookers; it was its very being—a creature spun from the same cosmic tapestry as the sky above.

Its fur swirled with constellations, nebulae, and pinpricks of radiant light as if the universe had lent a portion of itself to craft this arcane being.

"The Howling Night," the woman murmured, her voice barely more than a reverent whisper.

The wolf reached the drifting boat and, with an agility that belied its size, settled beside the child's lifeless form. It turned its eyes—depthless pools that seemed to have captured the essence of the night sky silenced any murmurs from the crowd.

All who observed, Men and women, young and old, felt they were part of something greater than themselves. Tonight was a beautiful night to see a Spirit to be reborn.

The wind seemed to speak to the Howling Night as it rustled through his dense, inky fur. His dark eyes fixed on the child's face, innocence frozen in eternal sleep. Gently, he leaned down and nudged her cheek with his nuzzle.

The girl's eyes flicked open with surprising speed, her brow furrowing in a comically peeved expression. "What are you doing?" she snapped, as though irritated by an unwelcome awakening.

"It's time," responded the Howling Night.

"Don't you see I'm dead?" the girl retorted, her eyes narrowing in annoyance.

"Yet you speak," countered the wolf.

"You woke me up!"

For a moment, the Howling Night simply locked his gaze with her.

"Why am I talking?" The girl's voice trembled as realization dawned on her.

"Because Spirits can’t leave the living, and your journey has not yet ended," the wolf responded, a note of ancient wisdom colouring his words. "It has begun."

“Said who?”

“Your Master!”

The child sighed and rolled her eyes, a remarkably human gesture that seemed incongruous with the surreal tableau. "Very well, give me a moment."

She closed her eyes, her face scrunching up in concentration. Her head quivered subtly, and then, her mouth opened to release a tiny white mouse. The creature jumped free from between her lips and scampered onto the raft, its nose twitching as it surveyed its new surroundings.

The little white mouse circled the vessel, almost as if searching for something—until its eyes, glowing an unearthly red, finally met the gaze of the wolf standing in front of her.

"So where are they?" The mouse's voice was barely a squeak, but it carried a gravity that belied its small stature.

"Who?"

"My master!" The mouse's tail twitched impatiently. "We had an agreement, Howl. You said you'd call me back to this realm only when my master was born. So, where is he? Or she—is it a girl?"

Howling Night's eyes flickered as though a secret danced just behind them. "Well, they haven't been born yet."

"That wasn't the deal!" The mouse's voice hit a high note of irritation. "You promised to wake me when there was someone for me to serve. Why am I here, a Spirit in a world where I have no master? What am I supposed to do?"

Howling Night looked away, its gaze drifting to the moons. Finally, its eyes met the mouse's again, but it offered no answer.

The mouse's whiskers quivered in more annoyance. "Do you think this is some sort of game? My existence hinges on having a purpose, a master to serve. You have your master! I need mine!"

Still, Howling Night remained silent, its enigmatic eyes revealing nothing. The wolf seemed to grow larger, its presence enveloping the Night, yet he refused to answer.

The mouse sniffed disdainfully, its small frame shaking with indignation. "Fine. If you won't tell me, I'll find out myself. I'm good at that, you know. I always find a way. I am the Dreamer, the walker between realms!"

"That is why I called you. I need you." the wolf confessed.

"Why? Why me?" The mouse's red eyes narrowed, its whiskers twitching as if tasting the weight of Howling Night's confession. "You need me? The walker between realms, the Dreamer? That's rich, coming from you."

"That is precisely why I called you back," Howling Night finally admitted, his voice tinged with a weariness that seemed almost human. "I need you. Your Master needs you!"

“They are not here!”

“They’ll come soon enough.”

"Why not summon the other Spirits? The Dual-Headed Fish, the Ram, the Wind-Eagle, or—" The mouse paused, trying to recall. "Who was the other one?"

Howling Night's eyes flickered again as if irritated by the interruption. "I need you. The fish lacks empathy for what's required. The Ram is too skittish, too unreliable. The Wind-Eagle—well, you know them. Impossible to have a decent conversation with. I need someone who can perceive more than what merely exists before them."

The mouse felt a chill crawl up its spine. "What's going on, Howl? What's so dire that you've disturbed my rest and broken our agreement?"

"The End of Time is near," Howling Night said, lowering his head as if the weight of his failure bore down on him. "I've tried to prevent it, done everything within my capabilities, but I can't stop it alone. I don't know where I went wrong."

The mouse blinked, letting the wolf's words settle in. "How much time do we have?"

"Two generations are to be born."

”Two generations? That's not a ticking time bomb. That's a leisurely countdown."

Howling Night didn't raise his head. Instead, he met the mouse's eyes with a look of such profound sadness that it took the smaller creature aback. "It's not as much time as you think. The end always comes, always takes the same form."

"How many times have you tried?" The mouse's voice was softer, “How many times did you turn back time?”

Howling Night paused as if measuring each word. "As many times as it took to realize that I needed to awaken you."

The mouse sat back on its haunches, contemplating the wolf's admission. A thousand questions buzzed in its mind, each begging to be voiced, but the wolf didn’t need them. He needed words of affirmation—hope!

"Then let's not waste any more time," the mouse said finally. "If the End of Time is coming, and I'm the missing piece of the cosmic puzzle, we'd best start putting it together. If I'm to be a Spirit without master but with a purpose, then let that be this: to help you mend whatever rift is tearing at the fabric of Time itself."

Howling Night looked at the mouse, his eyes shimmering with something that looked a lot like hope. "Then we begin, Dreamer. Now we walk."

The mouse nodded, its red eyes glowing brighter as if fueled by the newfound purpose. It leapt off the raft, landing gracefully on the riverbank beside the wolf. "To save the world, then!"

"To save the world," Howling Night echoed, "again."

And so, under the watchful eyes of the moon and stars, the two Spirits ventured into the night, bound by a quest neither fully understood but both were desperate to complete.

Yeso caught a fleeting glimpse of Howling Night and the new Spirit departing from the raft and disappearing into the shadowy maze of the woods beyond from the corners of his eyes.

Turning to the woman beside him, he gently touched her shrouded shoulder. "She's ready now," he said softly, the barest hint of a smile touching his lips.

The woman nodded, and Yeso gestured for his companion to draw near. They joined a small group of villagers standing at the ready, bows taut and arrows nocked. A quartet of mages completed the semicircle, their fingers flickering with firelight and crackling magic. The mages moved their wrists in circular eights, sending sparks of fire dancing around their fingers like fireflies at dusk.

"Para!" Yeso barked, his command slicing through the night air in the guttural language of Menschen.

Obedient to his word, the mages halt their incantations, their fireballs suspended in mid-air as if awaiting their leader's next directive. The villagers instinctively retreated, moving away from the heat and the glow.

"Ja!" Yeso shouted, giving the final order.

Like meteorites plummeting to earth, the four fireballs surged forth, crashing into the solitary raft that bobbed gently on the water's surface. In an instant, the wooden vessel was consumed by flames, a pyre on the river, carrying away the last physical remnants of a life passed.

As the raft burned, the crowd fell into a hushed reverence. Their eyes fixated on the fiery spectacle as if mesmerized by its tragic beauty. The mourning mother lowered her head, her shoulders trembling as if releasing a burden she'd carried far too long.

Yeso, watching the raft disintegrate into ashes and embers, thought of its end that was also a beginning, and as he glanced once more toward the forest where Howling Night and the Little Mouse had vanished. He couldn't shake the feeling that their world stood on the precipice of something his nightmares could not even fathom.

> "In the threads of history that my father, Yeso Sternacht, wove into, one confronts an inescapable enigma. Did the man who mastered the arcane of the Sun beyond mortal comprehension succumb to the very powers he tamed? Or did he, perhaps, transcend this realm by some other Hex? As his son and a chronicler of history, I find his absence as telling as his life—both are phenomena that enrich our understanding of the magical and mundane worlds. His mystery remains a curious footnote that beckons us to question: Where did the Magi start, and where does the magic end?" —Between Lore and Legacy: The Mystifying Histories of the Menschen Vol. I by Orlo Yeso Sternacht Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune