Bonus Short Stories

The Wraith’s Afternoon Leisure

Every professor at the Imperial College of Magic enjoyed considerable privileges; among these was an atelier so large that a researcher’s workshop couldn’t even begin to compare.

Each of these elite magia had a massive amount of space in the bedrock underneath Krahenschanzeto fill with personal rooms and storehouses. A full studio was comparable to a small mansion—though the fussier of highborn professors derided their studios as mere chicken coops.

It followed that the founder of the prosperous Daybreak faction’s largest cadre, Professor Madalena von Leizniz herself, had one such sanctuary. And as a matter of course, she had dedicated one of her many rooms to suit a very personal purpose indeed.

“Ugh... Every day is so exhausting...”

Leizniz had just returned from yet another morning class on thaumic fundamentals in front of a massive, packed lecture hall. She was to teach another set of students in the evening, and she’d decided to spend her midday break in her own abode. Despite her two centuries of experience as an instructor, repeating the same topic twice in one day was always difficult; thus, she had determined that a bit of mental nourishment was in order.

Wraiths were closer to living phenomena than their peers, even amongst the unliving. They had no need for food, drink, or sleep, naturally; they had no body that would necessitate such things, instead merely branded their existence onto the world with their ceaseless mana output. However, that did little to change their minds. Habits learned in life proved difficult to forget, and the history books contained records of wraiths longing for an end to their eternal lives all for the inability to sleep.

To live an honest life—an expression that was somewhat defective in this case—Leizniz required some sort of emotional sustenance to replace basic mortal needs.

“Heh heh heh heh...”

Such was this room. Its physical make was second only to her all-important laboratory, and she’d erected mystic barriers to protect a display room valuable only to someone with her particular inclinations.

A gallery of rows upon rows of dolled-up corpses of pretty and pretty girls...did not line the walls. In their places hung an array of portraits depicting the golden days of their youth. Everything from massive oil paintings to simple sketches scrawled on parchment had its place. The overwhelming density of art spoke to the woman’s manic obsession with immortalizing any slice of beauty she deemed worthy.

“So wonderful,” she sighed. “So very wonderful... I can feel the beauty seep into my soul.”

Surrounded by all that she loved most, the undead professor took a deep breath to soak in the smell of contentment the room produced. She had nothing to breathe with, of course, but going through the motions helped her feel closer to the marvelous past the paintings represented—as evidenced by her enthralled expression. The memories advanced from old to new as one walked deeper into the hall, and Leizniz took her time drifting down her treasure trove.

Most of the pieces near the entrance depicted cats and dogs. A few showed either old schoolmates who had long since left the College or sworn friends now enjoying eternal rest carrying the little pets. In the beginning, her hobby had begun as a way of soothing her weary heart by gazing at cute creatures and the colleagues that had been by her side before she passed.

Just a bit deeper hung the first painting of a lone figure: a bashful young girl in a brand new robe, clearly unused to posing. On both sides of her stood old classmates who had grown much taller since the paintings where they’d appeared with cats in their arms.

This girl had been Leizniz’s first disciple—a joint apprentice shared with her colleagues. Shortly after ascending to the rank of professor, she had lacked the confidence to take charge of a protégé, especially with her physical condition. Her fellow professors had offered to join her, only for them to all end up fighting over who got to doll up their students instead.

Thinking back, this had probably been where it had all started. Excited by her first student, Leizniz had used her ample salary to test any and every piece of clothing on the girl.

The still lifes of people grew in number until the animals eventually disappeared. Although she still loved cats and dogs, nothing was as fun as dressing up a person. The children in the frames grew with passage: most first appearances were at age five or so and continued to the student’s midteens. Even now, Leizniz could recall their names and stories without skipping a beat.

Her first apprentice was Michaela von Bloomberg. She had become a researcher, but then fell in love and left the College to marry.

Her second apprentice was Aloysia von Marsbaden. She too had been shy of attaining professorship, but Leizniz remembered celebrating her treatise’s addition to the Imperial Library like it had been yesterday.

After a few more girls, boys began to adorn the walls. About half a century after her resurrection as a wraith, Leizniz had found herself terribly jealous of a boy who got along with her then-disciple, until thinking to herself, Wait... What if I dress him up too? She’d then prettied the two up as a pair, and the rest was history.

Liesel and Edgar. The adorable young couple smiled back from upon the canvas. As anachronistic as it was, the portrait beside them showed their beautiful son; in a strange turn of fate, he, too, had apprenticed under Leizniz.

Next came Christhard, Miriam, Saskia, then Reimer. The dazzling memories stored in these bygone visages cradled the woman’s heart. Some of her students had gone on to become rather vain, and the statues and busts that periodically interspersed the paintings were just as filling to her soul.

At long last, Leizniz came to the empty end of the hall. A spell of hers left it stretching far beyond the last lonely portrait, but as she stood and stared, she let out an intoxicated sigh.

A little blonde girl sat on a chair with a stiff expression; beside her, a young boy doted on her with a soft smile.

This oilwork of a brother and sister from Konigstuhl was Leizniz’s current favorite. The painting itself was of particular excellence, and the love of siblinghood that oozed from the brushstrokes was a precious treasure she had not yet had a chance to behold.

Novelty and cuteness were the best nutrition for her tired spirit. Elongating mortal life was yet a pipe dream, but one day, the unhinged wraith swore, she would find a way.

Soon, their new outfits would be tailored. They were sure to pair gorgeously with their dazzling golden locks. That thought alone was enough to get the immortal professor through her evening chores.

Still, she couldn’t help wishing for some new kind of stimulation... In due time, Leizniz would realize that she had yet to try pairing a boy with another boy, but that was a tale for another day.

As her motionless heart fluttered at a future yet unseen, someone somewhere far away began to violently sneeze.

[Tips] Wraiths can, to some degree, mimic their actions from before death.

Like the Actors Onstage

I enjoyed a stroke of good fortune today, and I decided to invite my friend to join me.

“A play?” Erich asked.

“That’s right,” I said. “My master gave me these and said I need to take a break sometimes.”

The two vouchers I had in hand were a reward for an especially well-written essay. My master had given them to me expecting I’d take a friend, but it was only recently that this sort of kindness had become easy to accept.

Nowadays, I had someone to invite. Not having to sit by a spot left empty from an unused ticket was such a blessed feeling.

“Are you sure?” Erich asked as he prepared some red tea in his kitchen. “Tickets to a play don’t come cheap.”

“It isn’t a fancy theater or anything. I wouldn’t have even accepted these if they were for a magic lantern show, but they’re for a more casual place.”

I showed him the tickets to ease his fears: there were two imperial theaters granted to the public by the crown, and these were for one of them. Even commoners could enjoy a performance there if they were willing to save up a bit.

To begin with, I wasn’t brave enough to try and watch a show put on by aristocrats for social purposes, or set foot in the kind of auditorium reserved for state-sponsored opera crews to entertain foreign diplomats. Wearing my everyday robe would get me kicked out for being an eyesore anyway.

Our destination came with far less anxiety. We would never go on our own dime, since we’d need to cough up silver pieces, but acting brought sagas to life more than a lone minstrel could. Erich and I had similar tastes; I had a feeling he’d appreciate the play they were putting on.

“Oh, it’s the saga of Jeremias and the Holy Sword!”

“That’s right,” I nodded. “It’s the second act—The Falls of Mourning. Pretty cool, huh?”

The story followed Jeremias as he received a sword and mission from the heavens. Persecuted as a heretic in a foreign land, he set off on an odyssey to save his disgraced god. The popular tale arose from events that had occurred in the short period between the Age of Gods and Age of Antiquity, and the second act was particularly well-known in the long, multipart epic.

“It really is,” he agreed. “I’m imagining the way my brother’ll just writhe with envy when I write to him about it.”

Ticket in hand, my friend began to recount his childhood memories with a great big smile. Apparently, his older brother had always wanted to lead their party as Jeremias whenever they played adventurers.

“O God, mine eye I render gladly to the rapids should it lift a thimble’s weight of sorrow from your daughter’s soul. Guilt take thee not, for this is mine own will.”

Erich pretended to gouge an eye as he put verse to sonorous melody. Jeremias was said to be a black-haired mammoth of a man, so he didn’t fit the part with his shining golden hair; still, his acting was quite something.

The heroine of the tale was a saint serving a foreign deity, to whom Jeremias offered his eye to free the woman of a curse. Taken by his self-sacrifice, she asked to accompany him on his journey; the scene was exceptionally famous for the moment she swore in her heart that she would spend the rest of her life repaying him.

I responded with a snippet from the saint’s soliloquy: “If ever harmed he be, I am his shield always. If night should rob his will, I am his warmth. If hardship rears its head, I stand with him beside. Not life of mine nor heart makes fair his missing eye.”

Her oath remained forever unspoken: she simply offered to join him for a time as a minor repayment for his kindness. Through their short time together, the saint had seen through Jeremias’s morality. Although she considered herself no more than a pawn whose greatest worth was to die for his sake, she realized that to say that aloud would cause the hero to slip away in the night to prevent her from spending her precious life on him.

What a heartrending way to love.

Perhaps one day I too would come to understand what let her throw herself into the raging ocean without hesitation.

For a while, we bandied lines back and forth. I would have died of shame had these not been excerpts from a poem, but as it stood, it was all fun and games.

Come to think of it, there had been a boy in my own hometown who’d gotten a little too wrapped up in his Jeremias act. He’d always worn an eyepatch even though he hadn’t needed it, and he’d only stopped when his dubious depth perception led him to tumble straight into a vat of fertilizer.

Listening to the stories was well and good, but showy looks were best suited to fiction. In that sense, maybe that boy had been lucky to learn his lesson so young. If someone were to ask me to wear the outfits actors wore on stage at my age...I would probably die of disgrace.

“Man, I’m really looking forward to this.”

“Me too. I don’t think I could ever wear any of that stage costuming, but seeing them is a lot of fun.” I laughed and added, “It must take a lot of confidence to go out in public wearing something like that, huh?”

However, my comment didn’t quite get the desired response... In fact, I had never seen Erich make the face he was making now. It was somewhere between a frown and mourning: his lips pursed like he’d eaten something sour, and his eyes glanced away like he had something to hide.

“Er... Old pal?” I asked. “Did I say something weird?”

“No, uh, well—it isn’t your fault... Just forget about it.”

That’s a tall order, I thought.

I tried a few more times to see if I could do anything to help him with his troubles, but he kept insisting that there wasn’t anything wrong with a half-hearted smile.

Uh... Hrm... I wonder what got under his skin?

Erich was still trying to lift himself up by talking about how excited he was for the play. For now, I figured the best I could do was treat him to dinner.

[Tips] Plays performed on stage instead of in open-air public spaces are considered a luxury among the common folk of the Empire.

An Ashen Soliloquy

I like the cool scent of morning. It means my diligent tenant is close to waking; it marks the beginning of a new day.

I like the ice-cold well water. It makes my hands feel like they’ll crack, but that’s perfect to start working; it marks the beginning of a new day.

I like the sound of my knife on a cutting board. My tenants can’t hear me, but this is the sound that guides them to waking.

The rolling boil of beans in a short pan. The sizzling of an egg right beside. The whistling of the kettle for a pot of red tea. I like all of these sounds.

But my favorite sound of all is the creaking staircase. That’s the sound of my hardworking tenant coming down from his bedroom to start his day.

But today he hasn’t come down, even though I’m already cutting the black bread into thin slices. I can hear anything in this house from anywhere, so I listen...and hear him snoozing.

Come to think of it, he came home late last night. Maybe he’s tired.

I go upstairs to find that he really is tired—he’s still sleeping. But his breathing is shallow. He’s probably half of the way to waking up and is just clinging to the warmth of his sheets.

I like the window and the rays of dawn shining through it. They bounce off his golden hair to make another sun indoors.

I like his gentle breathing. It’s proof that he’s cozy in the bed I made.

I want to let him keep sleeping, but I can’t; he has work to do. I don’t know the outside world, but I heard him mutter about how servants don’t have any time to themselves. I have to wake him up.

Besides, I had readied a pail of water for when he always wakes up. I don’t want it to go cold. It’s better for him to wash his face before it does. I even went out of my way to put herbs in the bucket, so I want him to enjoy it at its best.

I gently rock his shoulder and he moans quietly. I secretly put a bit of honey on his lips during the night so the dry autumn air won’t crack them.

Is he still asleep? I try again by poking his cheek. It’s very soft. I know most like his hair, but I think to myself that his cheek is nice too.

He finally finds the willpower to crawl out of the covers. He opens his eyes and pulls off his blanket. He stretches and sits up and lets out a great big yawn.

I hurry to the stairwell to not be seen. As I do, I hear a word of thanks.

Oh, I know I’m not supposed to accept too much gratitude, but I can’t help it when he’s so nice. Silkies aren’t supposed to accept praise from the tenants we care for. We’re not supposed to take candies that they forget on purpose either.

And worst of all, we’re not supposed to be happy when someone names us the Ashen Fraulein.

I’m supposed to get a little bit angry and scold him.

Alfar have rules to follow. We follow these rules out of instinct, and we can’t break them if we want to stay in the world. They help make up the core of our being, and they’re supposed to bind us so tightly that we can’t resist.

Ah, but maybe I’m soft on him because he’s our Beloved One.

The sound of the creaking staircase officially heralds a new day. He comes down freshly dressed.

Warm breakfast lines the table—I can’t believe people of this country can eat cold food!—and he sits down. He eats so neatly that it makes me happy to cook.

He was sloppy when he first moved in, but he perfected his table manners before I knew it. The way he handles his silverware is like an elegant prince. He carefully chews every bite and is careful not to get his mouth dirty. Seeing him perfectly clean the whole plate makes me feel very pleased.

Nothing can make a cook happier than having someone finish a whole meal.

I pour him the red tea I’ve been keeping warm in the pot after his meal. He drinks it and says that the food was good. He makes sure to speak to himself in a way that anyone else in the room can hear.

This is allowed. The way he tiptoes around our rules shows how truly kind he is.

Every now and again, I see mensch try and talk to fairies on mortal terms. Sometimes we get angry. Other times...they mistake my actions for courtship and I have to expel them. The unmannered persons who once lived here are perfect examples.

Oh, but he is such a good boy—so good that I want him to stay here forever.

But you know, I can’t help it. I know he’ll leave one day, but sometimes I wish I could keep him this way for all of time.

This fey desire is one I can’t deny. Hair and eyes are pretty, but we can’t help but be drawn to those who treat us well. So much so that I’m a little bit jealous of my sistren dancing with their favorite boys and girls on the twilight hill at the back of my mind.

But I have to fight the urge. Serving honest tenants and protecting their homes is a silkie’s job.

Besides...I think he’s prettier living his life like this than dancing for all of eternity.

“Thank you, Ashen Fraulein, for your kindness and the wonderful meal.”

These words are supposed to vex me, but I can’t help but be happy. They linger long after they’re said, and I chew on them as I lap up the delicious sweet cream on the stove.

I smile. I wonder what I should make for dinner...

[Tips] Attempts to excessively praise or honor a silkie can trigger unbridled fury.