Feen

  Noun

  Translation: Faerie

  Definition: "Feen" are enigmatic creatures, known for their perpetual youth and their residency predominantly within the forests of Faewood. Despite their appearance of youth, with slender bodies and moth wings, Feen are ancient entities whose lifespans extend over centuries. These creatures often manifest in pairs or small groups, originating from the blooms born over ley lines known as "Cunabula Pr?dictas."

  Regala led Talathon through the sprawling corridors of the Whitestone Palace, although ‘led’ might not be the most accurate term. The dragon moved with a familiarity that suggested she knew the Palace's winding paths as well as, if not better than, the Magis.

  Their procession revealed the generational divide among the staff of the Palace: some White Cloaks and servants bowed immediately upon noticing Talathon's presence, a reflexive show of respect or perhaps fear.

  Others remained motionless, only later mimicking their peers' gestures, unsure of the proper protocol in the presence of such a formidable creature. After all, she was a Dragon.

  This varied reception was nothing new to Talathon; she had traversed the realms of Menschen, elves, orcs, dwarfs, fae and humans and their constructs long enough to witness all manners of greeting. What unsettled her, however, was the emptiness that pervaded the Palace.

  The halls, which should have been bustling with the life and energy befitting the heart of the Map, echoed with a silence that spoke volumes.

  The Palace's once vibrant walls and ceilings were now cloaked in a thick layer of ice. The occasional guardsman stood watch in the halls and chambers, but their presence was a mere shadow compared to Veilla's reign.

  Back then, the Whitestone Palace thrummed with the energy of ceaseless parties and councils, its corridors alive with the voices and footsteps of countless attendees from all around the world. Now, it felt as though the very soul of the place had been excised, much like the Sun that no longer graced the sky.

  Their promenade through the Palace culminated at an imposing arch gate, the threshold to what could only be the access to the Whitestone pools. But as Regala, Redfred, and Talathon approached, they were met not with open doors but with a barrier of flesh and steel. Four guards blocked their passage.

  "The Dame is resting," one of the guards proclaimed with a firmness intended to brook no argument.

  "We both know what the Dame is actually doing," Regala retorted. The formalities and excuses presented by the guards did little to veil the reality of the situation from someone as experienced and insightful as he. After all, Lord Magi Regala Messe was the Head Councillor of the Magi Order.

  "Breaching this threshold would be considered treason," another guard interjected, stepping forward with his hand ominously resting on the hilt of his sword. The warning was clear, yet it was a token of authority from those perhaps too young or too rigid to grasp the nuances of the moment. It was almost a sense of children playing against gods.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Regala was not accustomed to being denied, especially not by guards who likely knew him by reputation if not personal acquaintance. "Do you know who I am, young lad?"

  The situation at the arch gate seemed poised on a knife's edge. However, the arrival of a fifth guard, whispering urgently into the ear of the first, shifted the dynamics.

  As the whispering guard retreated, the first one demeanour changed. The fear that flickered in his eyes upon looking back at Regala was unmistakable. "My Lord Magi, please reconsider..." he began, his voice betraying the conflict between his duty and the reality of challenging the Head Master.

  "Open the gates," Regala commanded.

  The order, simple yet irrevocable, left no room for further debate or delay.

  As the gates to the Palace's pool, the Ormsaat, swung open, the sight that greeted Redfred and the others was one of horror, a scene so grim it seemed to drain the little warmth from the air itself. The waters of the Ormsaat had turned into a murky, unsettling green.

  The room, designed to be a place of power where the Dame would craft the balance of the Map, was now a terrifying picture of death and decay. The floors, walls, and pillars were marred by stains of green blood. The violence that had taken place was still floating over the waters. The Ormsaat was filled with bodies, perhaps ten or twenty faeries with their guts wide ripped open.

  Around the corpses, an eerie glow emanated from clusters of mushrooms that had sprouted in the dampness and death. These were no ordinary fungi; their glow identified them as Star mushrooms, a species that thrived in the presence of ley lines, yet here they served as markers of tragedy, feeding on the aftermath of what appeared to be a massacre.

  At the heart of this devastation lay the Dame herself, Fiona Mageschstea, the Winterqueen feared across the Map. She was sprawled unceremoniously against the mosaic floor, her lips tinged with the same green that tainted the pool, her mouth drooling foam while her gaze was vacant and lost to the world.

  The truth of her condition struck Redfred with a chilling clarity: the Dame, revered and feared, was in the throes of addiction. Like many, she had succumbed to the allure of the ley line's source, ensnared by its power. But Fiona's addiction carried a far graver cost, not just to herself but to the lives of countless faeries. The Dame didn't consume mushrooms like any other addict, but the saatgut of faeries, which was a thousand times more potent than the mushrooms.

  So, instead of leading her people through the Long Night, she retreated into a world of dreams fueled by the very essence that should have safeguarded her realm.

  "I have seen enough!" Talathon Drach spat. She was disgusted as she turned to leave, unable to stomach this obscenity.

  As she made to storm out, Regala reached out, his hand gently but firmly grasping her arm, halting her departure. "Let's talk," he requested.

  "There is nothing to talk about, Magi!"

  "Trust me," Regala insisted, his gaze locking with hers, "we have a plan."

  

  The War of Too Many Dragons defies description. It was a conflict so devastating that the very fabric of the Map shifted. It was a war without winners, only survivors who bore the scars of a battle that reshaped the land literally. In the aftermath, a change in sentiment coursed through the people's hearts, casting a long shadow over the once-revered Summerqueen. The sun, once a symbol of protection and warmth, now cast a light fraught with fear. The mighty Eura Berdorf, though unchallenged in power, ruled over a realm where silence spoke volumes of the growing discontent and mistrust among her subjects. For me, personally, this era represented the nadir of my existence. Witnessing the catastrophic aftermath of the war, epitomized by the horrifying spectacle of a mushroom cloud—a silent scream to destruction on an unimaginable scale—I was engulfed by a profound sense of helplessness. No matter the depth of my knowledge, the extent of my power, or the passion I sought to educate and uplift, I found myself dwarfed by the magnitude of the calamity that she was facing. In those moments, my thoughts turned only to Eura, ensnared by her own emotions and the weight of perceived failure. To have the desire to protect and nurture, only to see one's realm torn asunder—this was a prison of the Saatgut that was far crueller than any physical confinement. And I couldn't do anything to protect her, to hold in my arms and tell her it would be alright. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer