> Pflege tu

>

> Phrase

>

> Translation: Be careful

>

> Definition: "Pflege tu" is a cautionary phrase, urging attentiveness and caution. This expression is commonly used in situations where there is potential for harm or error, encapsulating the Menschen's value on prudence and foresight.

Outside the castle gates, Zvoya paced back and forth, like a predator biding its time, waiting for the prey to venture close enough. In the distance, she could smell the distinct, odd scent of a wet dog and a warm pine aroma on damp earth. These smells, so peculiar and yet almost familiar, sharpened her focus. The Commander was near.

In the background, a cacophony of screams, rips, and snaps filled her ears like a melody, the dreadful symphony of chaos wrought by her brothers and sisters within the castle walls. She smirked at the idea of the feast she was missing.

While waiting and pacing, Zvoya found herself musing on her own nature, taking pride in the qualities she shared with her Master. She, too, valued to be a step ahead. To be ready for any possible scenario. In other words, to be creative in the worst-case scenario. But everything was going as planned. Like always.

She had learned to control her urges and desires, understanding the critical importance of patience and waiting for the opportune moment to attack. As her Master told her, it becomes sweeter with the wait—just like a coin. A shiny little coin.

Zvoya was the first among the forty-four Nightmares who perceived her role as not just another pawn in the game but a key player, a decisive weapon in her Master's grand scheme. She was destined to be the one who would extinguish the Sun. And then she would sit at his side as an equal. Maybe even as a queen.

In her mind, the moment to face the Sun was imminent, and she harboured no doubts about her victory. Crafted from magic akin to the Menschen and born of a Spirit, she was power. So, what chance could the Sun possibly have against a true Nightmare?

Then came the sound, pulling her out of her reverie. A deep, resonant growl cut through the air, followed by the heavy, unmistakable footsteps of a beast. Zvoya's eyes narrowed as she peered into the distance, her gaze drawn to a striking figure emerging on the horizon. There, illuminated by the moonlight, was a man with hair made of shimmering diamonds, riding atop the Howling Night itself.

Yeso dismounted from Howl, landing squarely in front of Zvoya. She quickly took stock of his armaments, noting that he carried no weapon except a simple copper dagger. A flicker of delight crossed her mind at the thought of how effortlessly she could dispatch him, but her confidence wavered slightly as he spoke.

"I wouldn't get any closer if I were you," Yeso warned, turning to face her and walking towards her. His approach was neither slow nor aggressive; rather, it was measured as if he expected her to simply step aside and let him pass.

"I could say the same, Blue-One," Zvoya retorted, standing her ground.

"I'm serious. If you even attempt anything, I will kill you," Yeso replied, his tone calm, stripping the words of any overt threat.

"And how do you plan to do that? With that little toyish dagger?" Zvoya taunted.

In response, Yeso offered a knowing smirk, casting a brief glance at Howl. He then began to unbutton his robe, letting it gracefully fall to his feet. In a swift, fluid motion, he unfurled his wings. Contrary to their usual ethereal or ghostly appearance, his wings now bore a strikingly different look – they blazed with a metallic sheen infused with an unknown golden energy coursing through each vein. The wings resembled sharps, metallic shields emerging from his back, lending him an imposing and formidable presence.

With a serene yet deliberate motion, Yeso mimed the action of drawing a sword from its sheath. As his fists moved through the air, a line of blazing light materialized, coalescing into a sword made of pure, radiant sun. The moment he grasped the hilt and the tip of the sword touched the ground, the light transformed, turning the blade a deep, ominous black.

Yeso held Zvoya's gaze for a few tense seconds, his look serving as a silent ultimatum. It was her final opportunity to retreat, to reconsider the impending confrontation.

"I am the Sun who burns land, sea and sky. I am the Master of the Golden Dragon! Would you think the Sun didn't gift me, Nightmare?"

She could feel the intense heat emanating from his wings and the sword, the warmth so intense it almost seemed to singe the hairs at the back of her neck. The air around them crackled, yet Zvoya's reaction was swift, her entire being a finely tuned weapon. She was confident that with just one bite, Yeso would be turned, becoming one of her kind.

With a rapid, decisive movement, she jerked her hand back, and from her wrist, a blade emerged, crafted from her own bone. Mirroring the action with her other hand, another bone blade materialized, rendering her armed and dangerously ready. But she had no chance even to step further to attack.

Yeso deftly manoeuvred his blade towards Zvoya, and in a swift, almost imperceptible movement, he struck. Zvoya didn't even register the sound of her bones shattering; all she felt was the acute, searing pain of her nerves being slashed. Her hands, suddenly numb and unresponsive, failed her.

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Driven by desperation, she lunged at Yeso's back, aiming to sink her teeth into his neck. As soon her teeth touched his skin, she heard a disheartening sound – one of her canines chipping against the formidable defence he presented. Yeso skin was made of dragon scales.

He reacted instantly, seizing her by the collar and effortlessly hurling her body over his head in an arching throw, slamming her onto the ground.

As Yeso poised himself for a final, decisive strike, ready to sever her head from her body, Zvoya, in a last-ditch effort to save herself, cried out, "Wait! Please wait!" Her voice was the personification of panic and plea, a stark contrast to her earlier confidence as she faced the imminent threat of true death at the hands of the Menschen.

"Ulencia, you know of her, right?" Zvoya gasped, her hand weakly pointing in a direction as she lay on the ground.

"Ulencia is here?"

"She's pregnant! If you kill me, there'll be no one left to care for her child," Zvoya blurted out, desperation clear in her voice.

"She'll come with me and my Hexe."

"No, she won't... she's dead," Zvoya revealed, bracing herself for Yeso's reaction. "She killed herself today."

"What are you talking about?" Yeso's grip on his sword loosened slightly, his stance softening with his confusion.

"She took her own life, I don't know why, but the fetus, the baby... it survived. I've kept it alive with some magic, and it's growing," Zvoya explained hurriedly.

"You're turning it into..." Yeso began, suspicion in his tone.

She interrupted him quickly, "No, I used actual magic. It's human. If you kill me, there'll be no one to look after it. I am its only chance."

"If you're lying to me..." Yeso's voice trailed off as he tightened his grip on the sword.

"I'm not lying. Let me go upstairs, take the baby out of her, and then I'll disappear. You'll never hear from me again," she swore earnestly, her eyes meeting his. "You won't hear from me because you'd be dead," she thought silently to herself.

"Go! But know this – if I ever see you again, I won't hesitate to kill you," Yeso warned sternly.

Wasting no time, Zvoya scrambled to her feet and dashed into the castle, heading in the opposite direction of the festivity hall, her mind racing, but there was an inevitable smirk of victory on her lips. “Just as planned.”

"You should have killed her," Howl remarked, his gaze following Zvoya as she fled with haste.

"It's not her blood I'm after," Yeso replied.

"Everything within these walls is our enemy," the wolf growled.

"I just want her back. That's all I'm here for," the Commander said as he began to step into the castle's threshold. “I want Zonnestra with my son and me. I want Zonnestra home.”

Inside, the corridors were alive with the sounds of horror – screams, pleas for mercy, the gruesome cracks and splashes of a relentless massacre. It was a cacophony of infernal chaos reverberating through the walls. The air was thick with the pungent odours of cabbage and garlic, so overpowering that Yeso nearly gagged. The stench, a stark reminder of the carnage within the castle, was almost too much to bear as he steeled himself to push forward.

Yeso finally entered the hall, and the scene before him was a tableau of death and destruction. The floor was carpeted with bodies, a grim mosaic of the fallen. Some lay half-eaten, their final moments marked by the savagery of fangs and claws, while others bore the clean cuts of blades, their deaths swift yet no less tragic.

Forty-three Lamias were leaping from one victim to another in a grotesque dance of death.

"Look who's arrived!" Xendrix exclaimed, rising from his chair with an air of twisted delight. He strode confidently towards Yeso, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The hero of the hour!"

At his words, all forty-three Lamias ceased their grisly activities, their six eyes fixating on Xendrix, tracking his every move and hanging on his every word.

Out of the corner of his eye, Yeso caught sight of Noctavia. Her blouse and skirt were completely drenched in blood, a mix of red and green hues painting a tragic picture. His heart might as well have shattered into a thousand pieces at the sight of her stitches. That explained the painful silence, the reason he couldn't sense her. The realization struck him with a force greater than any physical blow.

Ignoring Xendrix and his taunting spectacle, Yeso swiftly turned his back on him and rushed to Noctavia's side. "Love, can you hear me?" he asked urgently, touching her hands. She remained unresponsive, not even a flicker of recognition. "Can you talk? If not, just nod your head." Still, there was no movement, no sign that she heard him. "Noctavia, please, give me a sign."

Xendrix, observing the scene, interjected mockingly, "Oh, you need a sign?" With a snap of his fingers, he commanded, "Come here," treating Noctavia like a mere pet. To Yeso's dismay, she began to walk towards Xendrix, obeying his call. "Good girl," Xendrix said with a smirk.

As Yeso watched this exchange, his mind raced, trying to decipher the type of alchemy Xendrix had employed. Initially, he thought Xendrix had merely altered his signet, but it was evident there was more at play. The realization dawned on him that six moons – the time Xendrix spent with the Menschen – was insufficient to master the ability to raise the dead. There was something more profound, more sinister at work, and Yeso couldn't understand what it was.

As Yeso stood there, he tried to recall his first encounter with Xendrix, searching his memory for any clue that might have hinted at the dark path Xendrix would eventually take. He remembered a young man, eager and ambitious, whose stated desire was to learn alchemy for a noble cause – to create a bridge between Menschen and Humans. And suddenly, he recalled that his sleeves were stained in red blood as well. How could this be related?

"If the 'Blue-Ones' leave, so will the centaurs, the dwarfs, and anyone else with magic. Ormburg will become a power vacuum. What's stopping the Fallqueen from returning later when we have no chance?" These were the words Xendrix had used to convince his father to accept the deal.

> Although I hold a PhD in Global History, Cultures, and Politics, I consciously choose not to teach history. The reason is simple: the narrative surrounding the events following the First Winter has been so heavily distorted by layers of falsehoods, misinformation, and altered data that I cannot in good conscience impart such a skewed version of history to my students. Let's take the story of the Kaspian dynasty as an example. What the world today, in its 555th Summer, generally accepts is a hoaxed narrative surrounding the Coronation of Xendrix Kaspian the First. It is widely believed that this event was marred by a brutal attack by Lamias, which spared no one, and that this mutiny was orchestrated by the Menschen as a political manoeuvre. Why? Well, no one seems to be able to invent a plausible justification. It is what it is. That's what is taught in school. However, as a keen observer and a scholar, raised and born in the First Winter, I am acutely aware, and I believe—you too, dear reader— would concur that the true sequence of events was vastly different from this popularly accepted version. But who am I to change the written story? I'm just a Dreamer. I make the story. ——The Hexe - Book One by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer