> Ja, es tu!

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> Phrase

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> Translation: Now, do it!

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> Definition: "Ja, es tu!" is an imperative phrase in Menschen, emphasizing the need for immediate action. "Ja" is used here to convey a sense of urgency, akin to saying "Now," while "es tu" is a direct command to "do it."

"Does it matter?" Ulencia stepped back from his embrace, resignation in her demeanour, "It's too late and for sure is too late for me."

Mediah stood there, momentarily at a loss for words. His desire to ease her pain, to lift the heavy burden that seemed to crush her spirit, but it was too real. "Do you remember the question you asked me when you were leaving?"

Ulencia shook her head, "I... no, I don't recall."

"You asked if we could stand against a thousand men if we stood a chance."

"And has the answer changed?" she asked.

"Back then, no. But now, my outlook has shifted. If we had the right weapon, we could annihilate them. It's all about having the right tool," he explained. "I've conceptualized a weapon. I regret not bringing the designs with me — I sometimes have the brain of a fucking fish. Damn it... But anyway, never mind, continuing, I've named them the Ulencia swords."

Mediah's hands danced through the air as he outlined the concept. "Swords that are chained to your wrists, allowing you to spin them around, forming a shield while simultaneously attacking anyone who dares come close. And your hands," he continued, gesturing his fingers with a flourish, "would be free to weave whatever magic is necessary."

Ulencia's face remained impassive, but her good eye betrayed her interest, soaking in every detail.

"Two Magis would guard each other. That's all it would take," Mediah clarified, a hopeful smile touching his lips. "That's been my vision since your leave... to protect you... to give you a sense of safety. I can do that now. We only need two Magis to defeat a thousand men or more."

"But it's not enough," Ulencia responded, her voice flat, devoid of the hope that had momentarily flickered in her eye, "It's too late for me. However, it's a start."

"Ule..." Mediah reached out. "It's never too late. This... us, working together, it's a beginning. A way to fight back, to reclaim some control. I refuse to give up on you, on us. Let's start with this idea and see where it leads. Together." And finally, he pleaded, "Come with me. Come with me anywhere. Anywhere you want."

"I need you to head to the Trial District. I want you to mentor and teach the new generation of Magis. Cast aside the notions of honour and tradition. Because we don't need heroes! We need battlemages! We need warriors trained at fighting shadows. They've infiltrated us – adopting our forms, mimicking our behaviours, becoming unnoticeable from us," she warned, her voice carrying a premonition of darker times ahead. "They breathe, and they live among us as what we most yearn and desire. They know us."

"Ule..."

"We need a leader, a Commander, but not like Yeso. Despite my love and respect for him and Noctavia, we need a warlord, a sun – one that doesn't vanish at night but rather scorches every shadow, every Nightmare haunting our lands, seas, and skies. They must be burned until nothing is left. Only then, maybe, we might stand a chance."

"What are you implying?" Mediah asked. Was she referring to the incidents with the fleets? It couldn't be because they were wiped by the merefolks. Weren’t they?

"Sooner or later, you'll understand... you'll see the full extent. I know you can see besides what meets the eye. But it is not enough; nothing we have right now is enough. Forge a new army of Magis... please." she insisted with the most broken voice he had ever heard.

She stepped closer to plant a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Goodbye, Mediah. I must rest now… in peace. I hope you can forgive me." With those words, she drifted away, her figure fading into the shadows like a spectre retreating into the night. A ghost who didn't hear the Mediah’s pledge that one day he’d build an army that could cast away all of her nightmares.

Mediah often found himself reflecting on this pivotal moment when he had vowed to raise an army, an army of battlemages. It was a promise that would echo in his mind through many trials and tribulations.

Ironically, the first question asked to him by the Summerqueen when he finally met her was: "Where is my army?"

In the meantime, Ulencia slipped away from the echoes of celebration, knowing all too well that her husband, King Xendrix, was too much preoccupied with his ego-inflating with each toast and cheer from the inebriated crowd until it swelled too large to be contained within the grand halls. She had an opportunity now, a brief window to claim a small but significant victory from his grasp. This thought alone brought her a fleeting sense of peace.

As she made her way to the royal quarters, her steps took her past a room that once belonged to Iegan Kaspian. A low growl, the scraping of claws against the door, reached her ears. The air was tainted with the pungent stench of rotten cabbage and garlic – the unmistakable scent of death.

Finally, Ulencia arrived at the door to her personal chamber. Closing it behind her, she felt a wave of relief wash over her. The brief encounter with Mediah had stirred emotions she struggled to suppress. In his gaze, she had almost convinced herself she saw a glimmer of love. But she quickly dismissed it as a delusion, perhaps a mental trick to dissuade her from the path she was about to tread.

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She gently removed the veil from her head, followed by the layer that served as a vest. Sitting before her mirror, Ulencia gazed at her reflection, confronting a stranger in the glass. She barely recognized herself, feeling as though she had become an extension of the very monster Xendrix was – a cultivator of Nightmares, a puppeteer of the undead. Doubt crept into her mind, making her question if her once blue, magical blood had turned mortal.

Xendrix had drained so much from her, not just her blood and her teeth but anything that made her a living creature, someone with willpower—everything was gone now; she was a shell from her previous self. She realized with a heavy heart that she had been nothing more than a mere ingredient in his perverse and dark alchemy. If only Yeso knew the truth... but then, what would he do? Yeso, with his gentle soul and wisdom, lacked the iron fist needed to crush enemies. His time of diplomacy and words had passed; now, if there was any hope, it lay in swords and strength, tools Yeso didn't want to possess.

But Ulencia had none of those either. All she had was her body, a vessel carrying the future lineage of the Kaspian line. Desperation had driven her to try roots, poisons, and even mushrooms, but nothing worked. The unwanted life within her continued to thrive, consuming her from the inside. Resigned and determined, Ulencia steeled herself. She was ready to take whatever steps necessary, to do whatever it took to end this Nightmare. The reflection in the mirror showed a woman changed, hardened by her harrowing experiences but not defeated—not yet. She would do what needed to be done.

The knock at the door cut through the chaos of her thoughts. "Who is it?" Ulencia asked with caution but almost stammering.

"It's me, Ule, Mediah", his familiar voice resonated from the other side.

"Mediah?" Her heart fluttered unexpectedly at the sound of his name.

"Let me in," he implored with a tone that bordered on pleading. "Please?"

"We've already said everything that needed to be said. There's nothing left."

"We don't need words; we never really relied on them," he said in a light, teasing manner, trying to sway her, "We could once again not use them."

"I see," she replied evenly, her expression unreadable as she discreetly retrieved a pair of scissors from a drawer and slipped them under her sleeve.

"Just let me in, Ule, please," Mediah urged, "I don't want to... leave like this."

Facing the door, Ulencia gripped the scissors hidden in her sleeve and conjured a cynical smile. "Come in," she said, feigning a welcome.

As the door creaked open, Mediah stepped inside with a cautious curiosity. "This is your room?" he asked, looking around.

"Yes."

"I thought, as king and queen, husband and wife, you'd share the same room," he remarked. His demeanour was typically awkward. "It's quite lovely, though."

"Royals often have their own ways," Ulencia noted, her words edged with sarcasm, "I'm glad it meets your approval."

"I would never want you to sleep alone," he said, enticing.

"We wouldn't spend much time sleeping, would we?"

"Probably not," he agreed with a smile playing on his lips.

"So, is that why you're here? Couldn't stay away?" she asked with sarcasm, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

"No, I actually have a mission to escort you back to the banquet hall. People are asking about you, and who wouldn't want their queen nearby?" he said with a charming smile, extending his hand.

Ulencia rose from her chair but ignored his hand, her smile widening but not touching the turmoil hidden deep within. "I'm intrigued..."

"About what?" Mediah asked, his gaze intent on her, oblivious to the storm of emotions beneath her calm facade.

"About you..." Ulencia said as she circled around him, her voice laced with suspicion. "You can mimic everything to perfection – the voice, the demeanour, even the memories. But you can't know what he doesn't know."

The playful, flirty smile on Mediah's face quickly morphed into an expression of disdain.

"You see... Mediah... he is the cool kid of the block, but… he never knocked on the door," Ulencia stated, her words deliberate. As the last syllable left her lips, she lunged forward, plunging the scissors into the Nightmare's eye. But it wasn't enough. The creature reacted swiftly, grasping her neck and slamming her against the wall with brutal force.

"They are waiting for you downstairs, your highness. You should be next to your husband, celebrating!" the creature hissed, its face morphing grotesquely as six additional eyes sprouted across its visage, "Not rubbing your loins to a lowlife!"

"What are you going to do? Kill me?" Ulencia spat back, defiance burning in her eyes despite the creature's hold.

"You have no idea how much I am tempted!" the Nightmare retorted, its voice a sinister echo in the chamber.

"Ja! Es tu!!" Ulencia defiantly challenged the creature, “Come on! Es tu!”

With a deep, guttural growl, the creature abruptly released her. Ulencia collapsed to the floor, gasping for air.

"Get ready! They are waiting for you," it snarled, its attention momentarily diverted.

Seizing the moment, Ulencia mustered all her strength and courage. She charged at the creature, the intensity of her assault propelling them both through the window. Glass fragmented into countless shards as they descended from the eighth floor, plummeting towards the royal garden.

Ulencia's body landed with a heavy thud onto a bush of roses. The soft petals and thorny stems provided an illusionary cushion. It didn’t absorb enough of the impact of her fall, but it was a quick, painless death. As if a queen fell asleep over a bed made of flowers.

The creature, however, met the ground with a grotesque crunch, its body crumpling like a broken twig. But the Nightmare's defeat was fleeting. Within moments, it began to reconstruct itself, bones and flesh knitting together into a coherent form.

It fixed its gaze on Ulencia, who lay amidst the roses. Her body appeared broken, a tragic contrast to the surrounding vibrant flora. There, amidst the bed of roses, Ulencia finally found her peace. Yet, unbeknownst to her, the seed she carried within – a royal prince – still pulsed in her lifeless form.

"Fuck," the creature cursed under its breath. It scanned the area quickly, ensuring no witnesses to its debacle. Then, turning back to Ulencia, it hoisted her limp body over its shoulder and scaled the walls with spider-like agility, returning to the shattered window.

Once inside, it carefully laid Ulencia on the bed, covering her with a sheet. She would be tomorrow's problem.

The night was far from over, and nothing was going to interrupt the celebration of its Master. The creature vanished into the shadows, leaving behind the eerie silence of the room and the gentle flap of a glowing butterfly above Ulencia’s lips.

> As I pen these lines, I am anticipating the arrival of a unique specimen. It's an adult orc that has undergone transformation into a Lamia of Type Two. This particular specimen has black blood and possesses no memory of its life prior to the transformation. Notably, Type Two Lamias are incapable of reproduction or transmitting their condition to others.

>

> I've meticulously prepared its containment area, which includes a tank that will be filled with dimethyl sulfoxide. The laboratory is designed to ensure maximum safety: it's devoid of windows and secured with a double steel door to prevent any risk of contamination. One concern that weighs on my mind is whether the creature has retained the physical strength characteristic of orcs. Given my own short stature, I'm not well-equipped to physically contend with such strength. But well, as Zora used to say, “You’re short better run fast!” ——The Hexe - Book One by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, Special Edition, 555th Summer