> Blut es tu, mir blut es

>

> Phrase

>

> Translation: The Blood you bleed is the blood you own!

>

> Definition: This Menschen saying embodies the acceptance of one's inherent nature and destiny, symbolized through the metaphor of blood, whether it be red, blue, green, or stone. The phrase emphasizes the inevitability and ownership of one's true self, irrespective of its form or colour.

Mediah awoke to the blare of trumpets heralding the dawn in Keblurg. He could feel a strong aroma of lilac and cinnamon, which seemed to permeate the room. He turned his head, still groggy, and noticed beside him lay two women, their elfin naked bodies entwined in slumber—or so it appeared.

Mediah gently placed two fingers on one woman's neck, feeling the reassuring throb of her pulse. As an incubus, his magic, though powerful, was draining to wield, and replenishing it was a necessity often fraught with moral ambiguity.

The quickest and most efficient means to restore his strength was through sex, an act that invariably provided him a bed to rest, especially during these bitterly cold nights. And to be honest, it was undeniably fun.

"Good morning," one of the elves beside him greeted, turning to face him as she casually intertwined her leg with his. "Did you Enjoy yourself last night?"

"It was satisfactory," Mediah responded, attempting to disentangle himself from her gently, "but I really must be going now."

"We could have a bit more fun," she suggested flirtatiously.

"Unfortunately, I'm a bit short on funds," Mediah replied, lifting his upper body in an effort to leave the bed.

"Why don't we see if she's up for another round?" the elf said, turning to nudge her friend. "Hey!" she called, trying to rouse the sleeping elf. She shook her again. "Come on, Nadia, wake up. Nadia?"

Mediah's heart rate spiked, sensing something amiss. He quickly placed two fingers on the girl's neck. There was a pulse, but it was faint. "Damn it!" he cursed.

The Magi’s eyes narrowed as he noticed the vivid red lips of the elf lying beside him. Gently, he brushed his thumb across her lips, hoping it was just makeup, but the colour didn't budge, and it confirmed his worst fears – this was an elf with red blood.

Swiftly, he turned the elf onto her back and began emergency procedures, breathing into her mouth in an attempt to revive her. He placed his hands on her chest, pressing rhythmically, counting to three with each compression, before returning to administer another breath.

The other elf, witnessing this frantic scene, asked in a near-panic. "What is happening to her?"

Mediah responded, holding his anger, "Your friend has red blood. It's a fucking miracle she's even still breathing!"

"Did you kill her?"

Frustration creased Mediah's brow as he replied, "I specifically requested elves with green blood. Did you not think for a second what would happen if an incubus like me drained energy from a human?"

"Is she...?"

The tension was abruptly cut short by a loud, gasping inhale from Nadia. Mediah, upon seeing the first elf start to breathe again, quickly gathered his clothes. With a stern expression, he extended his hand towards the girls.

"What?" the second elf asked.

"Refund," Mediah demanded bluntly.

"You're joking?"

"No joke," Mediah retorted. "Consider it a lesson not to meddle with the wrong crowd beyond your understanding. Return the coins I spent on you girls now, or I'll have a word with your boss downstairs about what just happened here. And trust me, your friend won't just be losing her job over this; you girls will be put out in the cold. So..." He stared at her intently, his fingers making a beckoning motion. "Give me back my coins. Blut es tu, mir blut es!"

Soon enough, Mediah was out of the brothel pocket filled with coins and joined the queue in front of the castle gates, which seemed infinite, a diverse procession of creatures from every corner of the map, each drawn to witness the grand coronation. Mediah, with limited options, resigned himself to the slow march towards the castle's entrance. He shifted uncomfortably, struggling to maintain his composure as the icy ground bit into his bare feet.

The Kingdom buzzed with a multitude of rumours regarding King Ieagan Kaspian's death. Every creature in the vicinity seemed to have its own version of the tale, each iteration more elaborate than the last one with plots and conspiracy theories. No one knew the real truth.

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Ultimately, amidst the swirl of hearsay, one fact was clear and straightforward: King Ieagan Kaspian had died, leaving his son Xendrix as the sole heir to the throne.

Yet, Mediah's presence in Keblurg was not to witness the ascent of the little fat boy he met at Yeso’s settlement. His purpose was far more personal – he came for Ulencia.

Haunting in his mind was her question still: could a handful of Magis stand against an army of a thousand humans?

After much ruminating, calculation, and strategy, Mediah believed he had formulated an answer. It was still theoretical, yet it was very close to being accomplishable.

More importantly, he realized he could shield her from whatever malevolent force she was running away from that day in her tent. He wanted, and now he could protect her. It was as simple as that, but soon, he would learn that in this world, nothing was truly that simple.

As he glanced around, Mediah couldn't help but notice he was the only Magi around. Clad in a black robe, he stood out in the crowd; it was unusual, given that Magis were typically summoned for such significant events.

He would have expected to see familiar faces like Yeso, Jaer, or even Redfred – although the idea of the latter made Mediah smirk slightly, recalling how Redfred relished critiquing everyone and everything.

As dusk began to blanket the sky, Mediah finally approached the guards at the entrance.

"Name?" one of the guards asked while he held a pen and a clipboard.

"Mediah."

"I asked for your name," the guard said, sounding slightly irritated.

Mediah, maintaining his composure, repeated, "Mediah."

"Mediah?"

"M-E-D-I-A-H," Mediah spelt out, frustrated.

"Very funny, son. Your last name?" the guard persisted.

"It's just Mediah." the Magi shrugged, not understanding why the insistence, and repeated, "M-E-D-I-A-H!"

"Mediah, the Nameless," the guard stated, almost mockingly, writing it down.

For the first time, Mediah truly felt the sting of being a halfling, a child abandoned by his father while his human mother died in labour, probably drained of life force because of him.

"You're clear. Get inside," the guard dismissed Mediah with a wave, quickly turning his attention to the next in line. "Name?"

Mediah stepped through the gates. His eyes widened as he took in the scene: elegantly dressed nobles and dignitaries filled the hall, their extravagant outfits consuming the space. Women in gowns that sprawled across the floor, men in their finest fur coats, a ravishing display of wealth and status.

The diversity of the crowd was striking. Elfs mingled with humans, a few Orcs stood out with their leather gear and metal adornments, and he even caught a glimpse of a centaur in his peripheral vision. The variety of races and cultures gathered for the coronation was a sample of what the Great Continent had to offer.

However, his sole focus was finding Ulencia. He manoeuvred through the mass of people, scanning the room for any sign of her. The buzz of conversation, laughter, and music filled the air, but Mediah's mind was singularly fixed on his quest to locate the one person who mattered the most to him, the one who got away.

Mediah's search for Ulencia was abruptly halted by the booming voice of a herald, resonating through the grand hall. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Distinguished Guests and Loyal Subjects of the Kingdom," he announced, "It is with profound honour and a deep sense of duty that I stand before you today to proclaim the forthcoming coronation of our esteemed monarch, Xendrix Kaspian, the First."

Mediah was taken aback to see that the Herald, contrary to expectation, was a young dwarf dressed in the opulent, traditional garb of Keblurg but probably native from Skoe Scana. Perched atop a tall stool to assert his presence, he positioned himself confidently at the centre of the room. With a flourish that matched the gravity of the occasion, he carefully unfurled a ceremonial scroll, ready to announce the day's proceedings.

"The ceremonial procession will commence," he read aloud. "Adhering to the age-old customs of our ancestors, the King and only Ruler will embark on a sacred journey from the Royal Residence to the Cathedral of our Holy Mother, accompanied by the illustrious members of the Court and the esteemed Knights of the Realm."

The Herald's voice echoed through the hall as he continued to recite. "Upon arrival at the hallowed grounds of the Cathedral, a solemn and majestic coronation ceremony will take place. The highest dignitaries of the land and representatives of foreign states will bear witness as the crown is placed upon the sovereign's head."

After another brief pause, during which the dwarf subtly adjusted the scroll and cleared his throat discreetly, he resumed, "Following the coronation, a grand banquet will be held in the Great Hall of the Palace. As night falls, the Royal Ball shall commence."

The Herald briefly stumbled over his words, shifting the scroll as if searching for his place, and coughed once or twice before continuing.

"We invite all to partake in these celebrations, to witness the dawn of a new era under the wise and just rule of our new King. May this coronation herald a future filled with peace, prosperity, and the continued glory of our kingdom, Keblurg. Long live the King!"

"Long live the King!" echoed the crowd.

As soon as the Herald concluded his speech, he swiftly rolled up the scroll and carried the stool away with him. The crowd, now stirred by the announcement, began to move in what Mediah assumed was the direction of the Cathedral. A wave of annoyance washed over him as he realized the night ahead would likely be long and tedious. Amidst the slow-moving throng and the grandiose preparations, there was still no sign of Ulencia. Where could she be?

The question lingered in his mind, but when he turned his head, he saw someone else—her—a beautiful elf with long purple hair, black eyes like the night and a silver necklace around her neck in the shape of a web.

She was intriguing, beautiful, and enticing, and yet she smelled like death.

> I still reflect on the evolving challenge of distinguishing a Lamia from ordinary creatures. Over time, these Nightmares have developed an alarming ability to seamlessly blend into any crowd. They can speak, act, and even eat like us, becoming virtually indistinguishable from ordinary individuals. This, to me, is profoundly disturbing. One telltale sign used to be the Lamia's unavoidable odour, a pungent mix of garlic and cabbage akin to the scent of death. In the past, this distinctive smell made them easier to identify. I wish I could say that it's the same today, more than five hundred Summer after their first appearance, that a keen sense of smell is all that's needed for detection. However, things have significantly changed. The advent of perfumes, lotions, and essential oils that effectively mask their unique scent has made identifying Lamias even more challenging and dangerous. It's akin to battling an invisible enemy, one that constantly adapts and conceals its true nature. I am ashamed to confess that there are days I look at my classroom full of faces and I wonder which one is it? Which one has black blood? ——The Hexe - Book One by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, Special Edition, 555th Summer