The Spirit said child, the court said queen,

but no one asked me what I mean.

Berdorf, E. Poems of a Wingless Princess. Unpublished manuscript, Summer.

It was today. Eura's birthday.

She didn't look like four, but that's what the maids said, over and over, as they pinned ribbons and puffed sleeves and tried to wrangle her into lace like it was armour.

Now, she ran barefoot through the garden paths of Pollux, the hem of her dress clenched in both hands to keep from tripping over all that royalty.

Sunlight dappled the stone with a taste of honey, birds leapt from branch to branch, and not even the weight of her painful elven ear clips could touch her joy. Not today.

Her cheeks were flushed. Her hair glittered where the diamonds caught the sun. Every step pounded out a rhythm in her chest: Today. Today. Today.

She darted past the last hedge, spun around the lake, and skidded to a breathless stop in front of it.

Balma-Saat.

To Eura, it wasn't sacred or ancient or whispered about in prayer. She didn't know it was an Ormsaat, a node connected to the flow of magic on the Map. Not yet.

It was just a lake. A wide natural pool, still and so clear. Bright fish darted beneath the surface like living gems, flashing blue, gold, and green between the stones.

She crouched at the edge, lowering one hand into the water.

The moment her fingers broke the surface, the lake shimmered. Lines of light rippled outward—thin, golden trails with geometric shapes.

Eura giggled. She didn't know why it happened. She only knew it was pretty.

"Vem Auf… Vem Auf!" She chanted once, then again, louder.

The lake answered.

Water curled upward in a sudden, spiralling column—fast, bright, but careful enough not to brush her dress. The ripples quieted until something rose. A Mere.

They didn't walk on the surface so much as belong to it. Skin-like liquid silver shifted with each breath, their form never still—shoulders narrowing, then broadening, cheeks softening before sharpening again. Not a boy. Not a girl. Not.

Just water in the shape of a question.

They blinked at her, unbothered, voice like a drop falling into silence.

"What is it this time you seek from me, child?"

Eura sprang to her feet, arms flung wide.

"Look!" she spun for full effect.

The Mere tilted their head. "Look at what?"

"My dress!" she beamed. "I look pretty."

The Spirit's eyes glimmered with obvious judgment. "You look like a bland cupcake."

Her face fell. "It's my birthday. You could at least pretend to be nice."

The Mere shrugged, the surface of their skin rippling. "Did you bring one hundred and two of what I want the most?"

"Yes!"

"Then where is it?"

Eura pointed proudly to her mouth. "In my lips."

"Are you mocking me, child?"

Eura placed her hands on her hips. "Well, you didn't like the one hundred and two precious stones. Or the biscuits. Or the hugs. So…" She shrugged, tilting her head with seriousness. "Maybe you're just a kisser. One hundred two princess kisses on the cheek on their way!"

Koimar's form shimmered darker for a moment, the surface of the lake trembling beneath them. "I am not a kisser," they hissed. "This is a sacred pact. You should treat our deal with gravity."

Eura stepped a little closer to the lake's edge, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Then what do you want the most?"

"What I most want," Koimar said, "I can't be clearer."

"I don't remember making a deal," Eura said, arms crossed now, dress puffed like a cloud.

"And yet, you did."

"But how could I possibly know what you most want?" she threw her hands up, exasperated. "I want apple pie. Everyone knows that. I don't make a secret about it."

A sudden spark lit her face.

"Wait—do you want apple pie?"

Koimar's face twisted in visible horror. "No!"

Eura's shoulders slumped. "Figures."

She straightened up, squinting toward the glimmering surface. "Will you at least wish me a happy birthday?"

Silence.

Then—splash.

Koimar vanished, leaving only a swirl of gold rings behind without happy wishes.

"Eura, what are you doing?"

Jaer walked as an angry giant across the garden, devouring the space between them.

"I just came to see Koimar," she mumbled.

His eyes narrowed, jaw tight. "How many times have I told you to stay away from that fish? He's not a pet. He's dangerous."

She twisted a finger in her sleeve. "But… I have a deal with him." Her gaze dropped to the water. "And I think… he is mean because... he feels lonely."

Jaer's frown faltered. His shoulders eased, and after a breath, he knelt and swept her up in one arm.

He held her close, his voice softer now. "Sunbeam," he murmured, forehead brushing her hair, "the world doesn't deserve you."

This was Eura's favourite part.

The music had softened, the crowd hushed, and the steps through the court gardens felt almost magical—carpeted in petals, dappled in gold.

Eura walked beside the Elven King. His hand wrapped around hers. First time all Summer. She squeezed it tighter. It wasn't warm. It was not cold either. Just careful. Like holding a glass ornament, not a daughter.

Behind her, she could hear Jaer's feet and the faint, rhythmic shuffle of cloaks. Lolth was silent, the Magis even quieter. Ten in all, shadows in formation, watching every branch, every breeze.

But Eura didn't look back. She stared up at Finnegan, face tilted like a sunflower, searching for something warmer than light.

He didn't speak. She waited anyway. Waited for the words. Just three of them. Happy birthday, Eura.

They didn't come.

But she didn't loosen her grip. She could be very patient.

Then, she watched them come, one after another, like waves dressed in silk.

Tall elven nobles with silver circlets barely bowed. Orc merchants with thick fingers offered polished wood carvings and bolts of fabric. Dwarves in embroidered vests brought seeds in crystal jars, each labelled with looping script. Fae stepped forward in silence, eyes like mirrors. Faeries danced instead of walking.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Others came too, creatures Eura didn't have names for.

Each stepped forward. Each held something out. Toys with too many moving parts. Books whose pages smelled like pepper and old rain. Spears capped in gold. Ribbons woven with firefly threads.

All for her.

Or rather, for the girl, hands folded, dress puffed into the shape of obedience.

She stood very straight. She didn't squirm. But inside, she wondered if anyone saw her at all.

They didn't hand these things to a child. They laid them down before a crown that hadn't been shaped yet. A title not yet spoken.

From the corner of her eye, she counted them, nine apple pies stacked like treasure. Neat crusts. Golden edges. She did the math silently. Three for her. Three for Jaer. Three for Lolth.

Unless they weren't hungry.

Her fingers twitched on her dress, already tasting the cinnamon.

But the voices kept droning. One after another. Deep, slow, important.

It didn't matter if they had tusks or pointed ears, braids down to their knees or crowns laced with horns; every grown-up spoke the same way. Long words stacked like furniture. They weren't talking to her. They were talking about the idea of her. And it was very boring.

One after another, they came.

A man with horns and goat legs bowed so low his curls brushed the carpet. "Majesty, I bring to the princess [Something Eura doesn't know the word.]"

Her Father smiled the way he always did when he didn't mean it. "I thank you. May our conversation [be long, and may it keep my mind off the child beside me.]"

"As you wish, Your Highness."

Eura stopped listening. She'd already forgotten what they were pretending to agree on.

It went like that. For hours. Her knees began to ache. No one said happy birthday. Not really.

Just when Eura's heart began to droop under the weight of silk and silence, the hall shifted.

A woman stepped forward—braids swaying, shawl coiled like dusk on her like a crown. Behind her came a tall man, his wings dragging behind him like a royal mantel.

They didn't move like the others. They didn't bow. They walked.

The woman's smile was crooked like a secret. The man's eyes swept the hall like a soldier checking for exits. They looked like a prince and princess from some storybook no one had written yet—except their hands were calloused, and the dust on their feet hadn't been cleaned away.

Voices stilled. Fans lowered. Even her Father's grip on her hand tensed just slightly.

Eura didn't know, but she would remember this moment. The way the story began to tilt.

"Lekutua," the Elven King sneered, like the name tasted sour. "I thought time would've buried you by now."

The woman didn't flinch. "If an elf can live this long, so can I," she replied.

Eura watched from the podium, half-hidden behind Finnegan, her small hand still nestled in his. She saw the bundle cradled in the woman's arms—black fabric, folded tight.

Finnegan's smile stretched without warmth. "So," he said, "you're here at last to recognise your king?"

The woman laughed. "You expect me to believe you bedded a Mageschstea? That you earned the crown of the world? Don't mock me, elven child."

She took a step forward, her shawl catching light like a shadow, trying to look pretty. "Your ink on a deal fools no one. You're no king of mine, elf."

Eura's breath caught. The hall hadn't felt this tense all morning.

"At least you recognise my daughter," Finnegan called out. "She is my heir—and heiress to Whitestone."

"Oh, I recognise her," Lekutua said, drawing closer with a sway in her step. Her skirt swung low around her feet, the room parting around her without a word. "I see the ribbons. The lace. The weight stitched into her sleeves." Her gaze sharpened, fixed on Eura. "I see the fake ears, too. Earrings that don't make her an elf."

She was close now—closer than anyone else had dared approach the podium that morning. Her eyes didn't waver. "She's in pain, little King. Any fool could see it."

The black bundle she carried was set down gently, without ceremony, atop the table of polished gifts and silver trays.

"Do you know what it is?"

Eura blinked and shook her head once.

"Pants," she said. "A few of them. I'll send the rest tomorrow. A real Menschen wardrobe—for a girl who shouldn't have to trip over silk to feel like herself. A Menschen. The blood of the olds. The blood of Magic."

Eura's eyes flew wide, but she didn't speak.

Lekutua's gaze narrowed. She stepped forward—not toward the King this time, but to the child. She raised a finger and tapped her own brow.

"The mark," she said. "Who gave it to you?"

Eura's hand rose on instinct, fingertips brushing the golden loop etched into her skin—the Ophius.

"I was born like this," she said, unsure why that answer felt so small in the space it filled.

"Where is your Trial of Element?" Lekutua tilted her head, "Born with a Magi seal," she mused aloud. "But no wings?"

She let the silence hang. Just long enough. "The child is not yours," she said, loud enough to slice through the garden. "And never was. Never will be. You'll be lucky if she doesn't kill you."

Jaer stepped forward. The line of guards behind him straightened without command.

"Lekutua, enough."

She turned to him. Her eyes—sea-glass blue locked onto his with something older than fury.

"You," she breathed, "You were his friend. He pulled you out from the star-elves' chains. You breathed again because of him."

Jaer's jaw tightened. A vein pulsed near his temple.

"And now you stand by him?" she spat, the last word dipped in venom. "How can you—"

"I said enough." Jaer didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

The room stilled.

Eura felt it before she understood it—Jaer's anger humming through the air like a tight string pulled too far. Her fingers curled into the folds of her dress. The sweetness on her tongue from imagined pie curdled into something bitter.

Something shifted in her. A single breeze slipped through the court—soft at first, like someone sighing from the far end of the hall. No one reacted.

Not yet. But the air noticed. The wind had teeth. And it was hers.

"She has the Sternach eyes," Lekutua hissed, but not loud enough for the court, but enough to cut Jaer where it mattered.

His back stiffened. The muscles in his jaw worked like something ancient grinding its way to the surface.

"I said enough. Your bitterness won't bring the dead back. This isn't a trial. It's a birthday."

"She shouldn't be here," she snapped. "She belongs in Whitestone, not dressed up like some...." Her hand slashed the air toward Eura. "We won't lend our strength to a child paraded in an elf's skin. Not while she lives in this circus."

Lekutua's braids swayed behind her back while her skirt tugged sideways next, the fabric twisting around her legs.

She turned, sharp-eyed. "What Magi plays with the wind?"

Then, the drapes stirred.

A goblet tipped, red wine bleeding across the stone. Papers lifted from scrollcases like startled birds, spiralling toward the ceiling.

The hush of the court cracked.

Heads turned. Eyes scanned corners. A ripple of whispers slipped through the chamber, quiet at first—then louder. Should we leave? Should we stay?

Someone stumbled. Someone else reached for a blade they didn't draw.

But in the eye of it all, one figure didn't move. Eura stood still.

Feet planted. Eyes distant. Her hair shimmered faintly, catching the light like tiny prisms. The air bent around her like it knew who to obey.

The wind is no longer playful but wild, unruly. Her dress billowed like storm-borne silk, sleeves snapping, skirts twisting as if trying to lift her from the floor.

Then came the lightning.

Not from above, but from her.

Threads of gold shimmered down her neck, spilling from her collarbones like melted starlight. They slid down her arms, pooled at her feet, then stretched outward—thin, glowing lines that etched across the palace floor in veins.

Lekutua moved before anyone could stop her with a cautious step toward the child. Her voice was a thread pulled tight. "She has the Sternach eyes… she is..."

Jaer moved faster.

He caught her arm mid-step. "Don't you dare!"

Lekutua's eyes didn't leave the girl. "She's blood of the uncrowned king," she breathed. "He's returned through her."

"I said—don't. Or you'll die tonight."

"Crown her as a Menschen," Lekutua hissed, her voice rising. "Or I will remind every court, every kingdom, how the elves won the war. I will remind them why the oceans are called the Red Sea!"

Jaer's hand clenched. His shoulders squared, shadow swallowing the fury in his voice. "You forget who I am."

Lekutua's smile turned razor-thin. "A slave. Still wrapped in silk. Still bowing to a throne that isn't yours."

Lolth was already holding her swords.

Her black robes spread across the floor like a shadow trying to cradle the princess. Eura knelt in the eye of the storm, her tiny frame stiff, eyes wide but unfocused.

Her lips moved. Not trembling. Reciting.

"I am the Sun… who burns over land, sea, and sky…"

Her voice was strange—too even, too old. It echoed, but not through the hall. Through something else.

"I am… Eu Ra Mir… Land… Wasser… und Luft…"

Her hands were outstretched, palms glowing faintly where golden lines coiled across her skin like runes not yet named.

Lolth reached gently and brushed the wild strands of hair from Eura's damp brow. "Sunbeam," she whispered, "it's alright. No one got hurt. You're safe. Come back now. There is no danger."

Eura blinked, breath catching as if waking from underwater.

Across the podium, Finnegan said, "What in the hells is happening?"

"She's scared," Lolth answered without looking up. "That's all. She's just… scared."

The wind stopped.

Not like it faded. Like it was cut. But the gold kept crawling.

Lines split from Eura's skin and traced the marble, shapes folding into shapes. Triangles. Circles. Arcs of light etched across the floor and ceiling, curling like constellations, caught mid-breath. They pulsed, slow and certain, and the air changed.

It was the feeling before a storm. That breathless, static hush. Hair lifted. Skin prickled. Breath caught in throats.

Finnegan grabbed Eura by the shoulders.

"Eura—listen!" he barked. "Control yourself!"

He shook her.

Jaer moved. Swift. Pulled the Elven King back with one arm and crouched beside her.

"Sunbeam," he said gently, "it's alright. You're here. You're safe."

"I'm me," Eura cried, fists clenched. "I'm Eura! Not what they say, not some fake! I'm just a kid!"

"I know," Jaer said. "Lolth knows. Even your Father—"

"She doesn't!" Eura screamed, spinning to face the woman across the room.

Her finger pointed at Lekutua.

"She's mean! I'm not lying! I'll be a good queen! I'll be the queen they need!"

Lekutua's mouth parted. No insult. No mockery. Just silence.

"You are an elf. Menschen will not kneel to you, child. I'm sorry"

As she left the court, Jaer's eyes seemed to dictate the woman's life.

By now, you've likely noticed the recurrence of two numbers: 102 and 44. I assure you, I have as well.

What began as narrative coincidence now stinks of structure. I've documented too many instances to dismiss them as symbolic noise. So I must ask: are these runic numbers? A mathematical spell in disguise? Coordinates? Dates? Hours? A cipher waiting to be solved? The pattern repeats like a whispered joke I'm not quite in on.

To name a few:

102 lashes

—the punishment my father endured in Whitestone.

102 spiders

, said to have been the

initial vector

—until they wove themselves into

44 original Lamias

.

And elsewhere... in poems, contracts, trials, losses.

There are more, I promise you. Too many to catalog here.

What am I missing?

If you, dear reader, possess any theory—no matter how absurd or unacademic—I invite you to send your thoughts. You know my address. I've mentioned it before.

(And if you don't—well, I suspect you're not truly reading.) ——The Hexe - Book Three by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.