Mir fado

  MeerFah?doh

  Type: Phrase

  Meaning: A sense or omen that something is about to happen, both good and bad. Used to express a premonition or feeling that something significant is about to occur.

  Noctavia scrubbed until her arms ached.

  Blue blood clung to the cotton sheet like a curse, bleeding into the Meerio River. Her fingers stung, her knuckles white around the brush. Strands of gold hair fell over her face, failing to hide her tears.

  She didn’t brush them away.

  With sudden frustration, she threw the bar of soap into the river. It skipped twice.

  Noctavia stayed kneeling beside the washing stone, then she broke.

  Her hands covered her face, muffling her cries.

  The sheet lay forgotten. The stain might as well have been on her skin.

  She felt marked, useless. Just not enough.

  “Noctavia?”

  She turned. Claramae hurried toward her, little moth-wings fluttering in anxious bursts. The faerie’s embroidered dress danced around her ankles.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

  Noctavia spat out, “Scheida!” Then, bitterly, “Eu mir blut.”

  Claramae winced. "You know we're all ordered not to reply to you when you speak in Menschen. You have to say it in Human. You know... we want every race to get along... sorta thing."

  Noctavia pushed herself to her feet, skirt twirling with the motion, embroidered vest gleaming in the sun. She was radiant and painfully so. A vision of gold and blue, as her lineage promised.

  But Human words never sat right on her tongue.

  She wanted the softness of Menschen speech, its cadence, its precision. Not this clumsy, stiff substitute. She knew Human well enough.

  Yeso always said she spoke it flawlessly, but knowing wasn’t wanting. She knew many things, but that didn't mean she would do them all.

  Her transparent wings unfurled behind her, trailing like a queen’s cape atop the grass. Barefoot, as most Menschen.

  “I’m… bleeding again,” she finally forced out in Human. “No baby. Again.”

  Claramae giggled, relieved, as she was already thinking of the worst scenario possible. She closed the distance between them and grasped Noctavia's shoulders. "Listen, you're a Menschen. It will happen in due time. You'll have a child eventually. Until then... well," her cheeks flushed, "just enjoy the process. You know… o-o."

  Noctavia snorted and nudged her away. “It’s not funny. You don’t understand. You can’t—”

  "I think I do," Claramae retorted, bending down to pick the stubbornly stained sheet from the river's edge. "You have an eternity ahead with Yeso. It's not like he's going anywhere, especially after binding both of you with that curse. Honestly, it makes me a bit envious that someone would hex themselves just to be with another. That's quite foolish and… romantic, isn't it?"

  “Very,” Noctavia muttered. "And foolish."

  "So don't dwell on it. Just enjoy the journey. By the way, the others are preparing the reception of the Magis... they should arrive now at any moment. Maybe it would be good if you help, to set your mind into something other than your belly and..."

  Claramae cut herself off, rushing to gather Noctavia's golden strands out of the way as she doubled over, retching into the river. "Oh dear, not again."

  The nausea trembled through Noctavia like a storm. Every breath was a shard. Every heave was a pull of magic she didn’t control.

  Claramae sighed. “I did say they were close.”

  Every time Yeso and Noctavia drifted too far apart or suddenly drew close again, sickness struck them both.

  "There, there," Claramae soothed, "it's almost over. Maybe you should go lie down until they arrive?"

  Noctavia wiped her mouth. If Yeso was close, he brought news. Maybe even change.

  She rose slowly, Claramae steadying her. “I still can’t believe you two did it… hexing yourselves,” the faerie murmured, half scolding, half dreaming. “You feel each other’s joys, fears, pain… If one of you—”

  “I know,” Noctavia whispered it, almost welcoming. “If he dies, I die.”

  She didn’t say it like a warning.

  "As much as you two are blessed," Claramae spoke, "you're also hexed. Love like yours, only in fairy tales."

  Noctavia wandered through the camp like someone moving through a vivid dream. Laughter rose from men hoisting timber. Women shaped pastries and layered dishes with careful hands. Children darted between tents, chased by drumbeats and flutes. Everything pulsed with life.

  Yet she felt apart from it all — hovering at the edge, present and distant.

  She smiled, nodded, and helped where she could. But her heart was elsewhere.

  When she reached her tent, she pushed aside the woven flap and stepped inside. The moment the fabric fell back into place, sealing her off from the outside, she exhaled deeply while sinking into an opulent nest of velvet pillows.

  It didn't take long for a rustle of fur and paws to give away the arrival of the Howling Night. With grace, the Spirit nestled next to her.

  Noctavia's fingers found their way by heart behind his ear, scratching softly. In response, the wolf's tail swayed.

  “Where is he?” she whispered.

  The Howling Night looked away dramatically.

  “Howl,” she warned.

  He rolled onto his back in exaggerated innocence.

  “Fine. I’ll pretend you’re invisible.”

  The wolf whimpered, nudged her neck, then licked her cheek.

  “Where is he?” she repeated.

  “In the village,” the wolf mumbled.

  “What is he doing?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  "Really, Howl? You won't tell your master what my own Hexe is up to?"

  With a reluctant sigh, the wolf spilt the secret. "He's buying you a gift."

  Noctavia's stern demeanour broke into a chuckle as she resumed her earlier position and rubbed the wolf's exposed belly. "Who's a good boy, then? Who?"

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The Howling Night's tail resumed its joyful wagging, and for a moment, all was right as long as his master was happy and rubbing his belly.

  Noctavia’s hand stilled as a distant roar of voices rose. Hooves thundered. The camp erupted in cheers.

  “Magis.” She darted outside — straight into a wall of bodies. Taller bodies. She hopped up a few times, craning her neck, but could catch only fleeting glimpses of the Magi procession through the gaps between heads and shoulders.

  Exasperated, she started to weave her way through the crowd, but her petite frame was lost in the sea of people taller than she was. Just as she felt a sense of futility creeping in, Noctavia focused, closing her eyes and feeling the very fabric of her Saat.

  Instantly, time seemed to freeze; dust motes hung suspended in the air, breaths were captured mid-exhalation, and even the flicker of a smile paused on the faces around her. Her magic had ensnared time.

  No sound, no motion, except the slow crunch of footsteps approaching.

  Her heart stuttered.

  Yeso stepped through the stillness, his presence bending the air around him. His eyes were a colour she could never quite name — not blue, not silver, something between star and storm, a new, unknown colour.

  “I should’ve known better than to trust a wolf with secrets,” he said.

  Noctavia cupped her hands in expectation, eyes closed like a child awaiting a promise.

  Laughing, Yeso reached into his robe and dropped several tiny wrapped spheres into her palms.

  She blinked at them. “What are these?”

  “Chocolate,” he said, smiling.

  Then he pulled out a small flask.

  “That does not look like chocolate.”

  "It's medicine," he clarified. "That's what took me so long to return."

  "I'm not sick. Menschen don't get sick," she retorted, but softened the words by pressing the unwrapped chocolate against his lips. He accepted the sweet offering with a grateful bite, nibbling her fingers.

  "I know you're not sick, but you do get cramps. You always have them around this time."

  Her cheeks flushed. "Oh... you know."

  He chuckled. "Did you really think you could hide it from me?" Pausing for effect, he continued, "I consulted an herbalist. It's an anti-inflammatory concoction. A few drops should do the trick."

  For a moment, she looked down, her wings folding a bit as if to shield her. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

  He reached out, tilting her chin up to meet his eyes. "Why are you sorry?"

  "Because you suffered on account of me. I'm... used to the pain."

  He stepped closer, so close that their foreheads touched.

  "You're used to it? I spent my audience with kings feeling like I was being stabbed from the inside by my own Saat. I had to traverse lands populated by centaurs, each step an agony, and you say you're used to this sort of pain?"

  She met his eyes, her own widening a bit. "Uh... yes?"

  "After all these centuries, when will you accept not carrying your pain alone?"

  Yeso leaned in, his lips touched hers.

  But suddenly her eyes landed on a young, chubby-faced creature astride a horse next to Mediah. The magnetic pull between her and Yeso broke, leaving a lingering tension in the air.

  "Who's that?"

  Yeso followed her gaze and replied, "That's Xendrix, a human prince who wants to learn magic. Quiet the chatter."

  Noctavia kept her eyes locked on the young prince. A bitter taste surged in her mouth, a mingling of iron and blood that seemed to crawl its way up her throat. Her wings subtly tensed as if preparing for an unfathomable threat.

  Yeso sensed the change. "Is something wrong?"

  She hesitated, then finally broke her gaze from the young prince to meet Yeso's eyes. "I don't know," she confessed. "But something feels... mir fado."

  The remnants of last night's festivity were scattered around the camp.

  A few Magis snored amid the backdrop of a disassembled stage and emptied barrels of beer. Here and there, a faerie lay tucked beneath benches now cluttered with food crumbs and dishes stained with spilt drinks.

  Inside his tent, Yeso was nestled among a pile of plush pillows. His sleep-addled brain barely registered the persistent nudging against his head. "Five more minutes, my love," he mumbled with a sleepy grin curling his lips.

  The nudging continued. With a contented sigh, he turned his face, expecting the warm touch of Noctavia. But only to be met by the wet slap of a wolf's tongue across his cheek.

  "Howl, really?" Yeso sat up and cleaned his cheek with the back of his hand. He blinked away the haze of sleep to find himself alone in the tent. The wolf had laid himself out in a clear invitation, presenting his belly for a rub, tail wagging expectantly.

  "You're the Howling Night! The very essence of the embodiment of time itself!" Yeso exclaimed in mock exasperation. "And you're telling me you want belly rubs?”

  The wolf's tail thumped against the ground, its eyes twinkling with a playful mischief.

  Yeso shook his head, chuckling at the absurdity of it all. Then, with a resigned sigh, he gave in to the creature's simple request. As his fingers made contact with the wolf's belly, Noctavia entered their tent.

  She returned, balancing two dishes and two mugs of clay in her arms. One was laden with an assortment of colourful fruits; the other held an item that immediately captured Yeso's attention.

  The familiar, divine aroma of apple pie wafted through the air, invading his senses and making his mouth water. Yeso was a man of simple tastes, content with little. But apple pie? That was his sweet spot.

  Setting the dishes down, Noctavia took a seat beside him. Yet, Yeso's gaze was fixated on the golden-brown crust of the freshly baked pie before him.

  "Eyes up here," Noctavia said playfully.

  His eyes reluctantly tore away from the pie to meet hers, but only for a moment before they darted back down. "That looks..."

  Chuckling, Noctavia slid the plate toward him. "Here," she said, handing him a fork and a mug filled with steaming tea.

  As Yeso cut into the pie and watched as the molten filling oozed out, he paused, fork in mid-air, as his joy mingled with a pang of guilt.

  Noctavia had woken early to make this pie, a labour of love, and here he was, about to savour it alone. He looked over at her as she peeled an orange.

  He picked up a small piece. and then moved it toward Noctavia's lips.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, eyebrows arching.

  "You should be the one to taste it first," he replied.

  Noctavia sniffed at the forkful of pie and then took a bite. "Is something wrong?" she asked after savouring the flavours, "I don't taste anything wrong."

  He cut another piece with his fork and offered it to her. "You don't like it?" she queried, puzzled by his actions.

  "I haven't tasted it yet, but I already love it just from the smell."

  "Then why aren't you eating it?"

  "Because I'm sharing what I love most with you," he said, his eyes locked onto hers.

  As she took the second bite. "Eat, now! It's all yours."

  Yeso was a study in contrasts: elegant and precise with a sword, but he was a messy eater. Crumbs littered his lap, and splotches of caramelised apple decorated his shirt. Yet, the plate before him was wiped clean.

  Noticing the contrast, Noctavia set aside her own mostly untouched plate and leaned over to him. With a tender motion, she used her thumb to wipe away a stray smudge of filling from his lips.

  "Look at you."

  "I did nothing!" Yeso grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he leaned back. Seizing the moment, he gently grasped her waist and pulled her closer.

  "Yeso. I'm still bleeding."

  "If I let a mere pie leave its mark on me, I don't see why my Hexe should be any exception," he murmured, “Besides, I’m a warrior. I’m used to some splashes.”

  Noctavia laughed. "That is so cringed."

  Yeso's fingers slid deftly past the hem of Noctavia's skirt, making their first contact with the warmth of her skin. The sensation seemed to ignite him from within; a soft, almost involuntary, moan escaped his lips as his fingertips pulled off her panties.

  The Hexe lived within the darker spectrums of mortal experience: pain, sadness, sickness, anger, frustration and others. But there was another side of the coin: an untapped reservoir of sensations so intense they were unimaginable to the average creature.

  They would know 'what' and 'how' to touch, they could feel it as if in their own skin.

  Suddenly, the morning light spilt through the flaps of the tent. A voice shattered their intimacy. "Hey guys, we... is that blood?"

  As if yanked by the break of his strings, Yeso's wings folded in an automatic reflex, partially enveloping Noctavia's exposed form. Just as Mediah's head poked into the tent, time froze.

  The tent fabric ceased its gentle sway, the grains of dirt outside the door hung motionless in the air, and Mediah's expression was locked in a frame of startled curiosity. Noctavia took advantage of the stilled world to hastily redress.

  Yeso, immune to her time-stopping capabilities, sighed audibly, his eyes narrowing at the interruption. "What is he doing?" Yeso's voice was tinged with irritation, as if Mediah had committed an unforgivable breach of privacy.

  "They need you."

  "They always need me!" he retorted, his words frustrated. "You need me too!"

  "Yes, I need Yeso, but they need their Commander. Go."

  His wings slowly relaxed, folding back, even though nothing about this moment felt remotely normal. With a reluctant nod, he gave the sign to Noctavia. Only then did she let the universe resume back to life.

  Yeso turned toward Mediah. "What's so urgent?"

  "We've got a situation, Commander," Mediah began, clearly oblivious to what he just interrupted. "Balenos is here."

  With a final glance at Noctavia, Yeso sighed and moved past her, stepping out of the tent and into the urgency of the now.

  Upon stepping out of the tent, a member of their camp offered him his black robe. He draped it over himself, grateful for its cover, particularly over his stained shirt.

  But his thoughts were abruptly diverted with the sight of the monumental figure waiting for him at the camp's entrance—a centaur. Not any centaur, but Balenos himself.

  The creature was an awe-inspiring blend of raw power and grace, his lower body equine and as muscular as a prize stallion. His torso was sculpted like a warrior's. His face seemed almost unnaturally perfect, chiselled with features that could belong to a Spirit, and his eyes bore the focused, assessing look of a hunter.

  The centaur had come unarmed. In the complex politics of Mir-Grande-Carta, or the Great Continent as humans called it, this was a gesture of peace or a plea for help.

  "One of the kings lied," Balenos spoke when he saw Yeso. "Either the King of Keblurg or the King of Spiyles has deceived us, and it's led to an attack on Moonbay. We are asking the Sun to burn the land! We come asking for the Commander's power to end this, once and for all!"

  

  "The chapter of the Exodus, for the centaurs, was a catastrophic intersection of greed and ambition that almost wiped them from the pages of history. Keblurg and Spiyles, rival warlords kingdoms of formidable power, vied relentlessly for the possession of these noble creatures. Each recognized the centaurs as not sentient beings but as walking arsenals—a confluence of physical strength. As their bitter struggle intensified, the centaurs found themselves ensnared, forced into servitude, and their numbers dwindled alarmingly. All this sacrifice to protect their biggest secret.

  ——Between Lore and Legacy: The Mystifying Histories of the Menschen Vol. I by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune

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