[cough]

  Muna: Uhm… it was her, right?

  Esra: Maybe.

  [audible of paper shifting]

  Muna: It’s obvious!

  Esra: Now?

  Muna: Yes!

  Esra: Now... it is, yes. I agree.

  [brief silence]

  Muna: So… at this point, you made your robe and went to yourTrial. The Trial of Elements.

  Esra: No.

  Muna: No?

  Esra: No.

  [pen stops]

  Muna: But you said—

  Esra: I said I had a robe to make.

  [beat]

  Esra: Not that I ever did.

  TRANSCRIPT §03 | Esra Ann × M. Dragustea | Summer 554-4-4 | Antares

  The cave beneath the cellar had been left behind.

  Cold gathered low along the stone floor, trapped in shallow pools around a silent Ormsaat. The water no longer glowed, but it remembered light. It reflected dully, catching the drip of dew from the ceiling and scattering it into soft rings.

  Moss knitted into the walls. Every surface smelled of damp stone and something older beneath it, resin and a sweetness left behind by creatures and children looking for passage in the Long Night.

  There was a small corner that had once served another purpose. Esra never learned which, and he also never asked. The table was old, fixed into the rock. The shelves behind him were carved straight into the stone and had been empty for a very long time, besides some empty jars left behind.

  Now, fabric was stacked with paper. spools of thread. Scissors lay where a hand could reach them without thinking. Most of the tools were out of place, but carefully preserved.

  Doriana had let him take over the cave summers ago, and since then, it had become his.

  Esra unfolded the black fabric Berk had given him and laid it across the table. He adjusted it, smoothing it flat with his palms until the surface didn't show him a single crease.

  He didn’t usually make things for himself. That alone made this feel different. Something closer to an initiation.

  It was a shame, and it saddened him that his mother wouldn't be here to help him.

  “Ollo!”

  The words startled Esra.

  With his hand still resting on the fabric, he turned.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Lyra stood at the edge of the worklight. The mere stood there in the simple blue dress his mother had sewn for her. Modest by design, it still struggled to hide Lyra’s generous curves.

  Esra kept his eyes on the table. “I don’t want to talk.”

  He folded the fabric once more, slower than necessary. His hands trembled, just enough to notice. His fingers curled against the table without him meaning to. The absence bit first in his chest, then spread outward, pulling at his hands, as if they were meant to be filled with something that wasn’t there.

  “We don’t have to.” She said, staying where she was. “What are you making?”

  He didn’t answer at first. The chalk line blurred under his thumb. “A robe.”

  Lyra’s head tilted. “You didn’t buy it?”

  He adjusted the fabric again, aligning the edge with the grain. “I wanted to make it myself.”

  The chalk rasped softly as he marked the first line. There wasn’t much cloth. He worked carefully, measuring twice before committing. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Does yours need fixing?”

  “No.” She didn’t hesitate. “I don’t see the point.”

  Esra didn’t answer right away. He was distracted while tracing another line with chalk, then slowed. It stopped.

  “You have a robe,” he asked. "Right?"

  “I don’t need one.”

  “It’s expected.”

  “By your people.”

  He set the chalk down. “Berk has one.” He looked at her. “He’s not Menschen either. It’s not about blood, race or whatever,” Esra said. “It’s about commitment. They do assess every detail.”

  He waited for an answer from her side, but nothing came, so he asked, “You want to join. Don’t you?”

  She hesitated. “Yes, but—”

  “Then what changed?”

  The chalk slipped from his fingers and struck the stone. “You said this was for Shuri. To know what happened to her, to find her and take her back home.”

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  “I don’t have anything,” she said. “I stay here, in this house, because you let me. Because I have nowhere else to go. The clothes I wear, your mother gave them to me. I don’t have the means for something… formal like a Black Robe.”

  She nudged the shallow puddle with her toe. Ripples spread and faded.

  “Looks aren’t everything.”

  “Lyra, that’s not—”

  She stepped closer. Too close. The table pressed into the backs of his legs.

  “You’re whitedrawling,” she said. "I can feel your magic trying to feed from mine."

  His hands tightened on the edge of the stone. “Don’t. I don’t—”

  The dress slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet.

  “A robe won’t get you through your Trial,” she said quietly. “Magic will.”

  He stayed where he was.

  She was right.

  Berk’s family store squatted at the heart of the island’s main square. The doors were never really closed, and its windows were never quite empty.

  Crates split into aisles. Shelves climbed the walls. The warehouse had a life of its own, swallowing anyone patient enough to explore the clutter of goods.

  Esra was patient. He slid his fingers along bolt after bolt of fabric, pushing aside linen, wool, storm-dyed blues, and ash-greys dark. He checked the back of the rack. Then the front again. He unrolled corners, peeked beneath layers, counted the darkest shades that almost mattered.

  Midnight blue. Obsidian grey. Charcoal pretending to be what it was not: black.

  “Boy. Whatever you’re hunting for, you’re running out of light.”

  The voice came from above the racks. A shadow fell across him, broad enough to swallow him.

  Berk’s father stepped into the aisle, shoulders stretching the seams of his suit, apron tied tight across a chest that looked better suited for breaking mountains than tallying stock. The cloth did little to soften him. It only reminded Esra how much worse he could be without it.

  Esra’s fingers stalled on a roll of grey. He didn’t turn at first. “I’m… searching.” The word rasped its way out. He swallowed his guilt. “Black fabric.”

  The merchant’s gaze darkened. “And the piece Berk handed you?”

  Esra folded the loose end of the cloth back into place. “I had it… hum… let’s say it found another use, another project I couldn't say no.”

  “My boy, I don't have any black fabric. I have midnight blue, obsidian grey… no black.”

  “What about dye?”

  The orc shook his head. “Not black.”

  Esra dragged a hand through his hair, nails scraping his scalp. His knuckles tapped the shelf once.

  “I could give you the recipe,” the merchant went on. “White raw cloth. Proper ratios. But look outside.” He tilted his chin toward the door. “This damp, this wind? You’ll end up with the closest to a dark shitty green.”

  “I know.” Esra forced a smile. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr Ves’Wasser. Thank you.”

  The orc watched him for a moment longer, then nodded once. “If true black crosses my hands, I’ll send Berk your way.”

  Esra didn’t answer. He drifted toward the door and let it close behind him without a glance back.

  The light outside was harsher than he expected. His thoughts lagged a step behind his feet, and by the time he noticed the shape in front of the warehouse, it was too late.

  He walked straight into it.

  “Eyes down!”

  Esra staggered back, blinked, and found a man seated against the stone fa?ade, broad as a barrel, coat pooled around him. Esra’s shoulders sagged. Whatever had been holding him upright finally slipped.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, and slid down the wall until he was sitting on the ground beside the stranger.

  The man glanced sideways at him. “Rough one?”

  “That’s one way to put it.” A short laugh.

  The man reached into his coat and pulled a small pouch. From it, he pinched a thin, dark slice, something fibrous, almost fungal, and tucked it into his mouth.

  Esra watched. “What’s that?”

  “Something to keep my day bright.” The man tipped the pouch toward him. “You want some?”

  Esra looked at the pouch for a minute too long. Then he shook his head and smiled politely, declining. “I’ll pass. Never had a taste for stars.”

  The man shrugged. “More for me.” He tucked the pouch away and turned fully toward Esra, studying him. “So. What’s weighing you down, boy?”

  Esra raised an eyebrow. “You make a habit of asking strangers that?”

  A grin creased the man’s face. He held out a hand. “Then let’s fix that. Humbert.”

  Esra hesitated, then took it. “Ann.”

  Humbert barked a laugh. “Ann? That’s girly.”

  Esra snorted. “Humbert’s no better either. Sounds human.”

  “Good thing there aren’t any here, then.” Humbert leaned back against the stone. “Ormgrund’s got taste. Doesn’t take humans. Never has. Makes you wonder why others bother letting them in, right?”

  “Right.”

  Humbert noticed Esra’s clenched hands. “Still, you look angrier than most folk leaving that place. What were you hoping to walk out with?”

  Esra tilted his head. “Why?”

  “Because sometimes I carry what shelves don’t.”

  “You?” Esra’s doubt was plain.

  “Me.” Humbert tapped his coat. “I move. I trade. I cross roads most won’t touch. Faeries, elves, things small enough to bargain for trousers and proud enough to haggle.” His eyes gleamed, and he chuckled. “I wonder what happened to her. So if you’re missing something, boy, there’s a chance I’ve it.”

  Esra stared at the ground between his feet. “I’m looking for black fabric.” The words landed flat, already resigned.

  Humbert clicked his tongue. “Can’t help you there.” A pause, almost theatrical. “Shame, really.”

  Esra didn’t look up. “Dye, then?”

  “No.” Humbert’s hand came down on Esra’s shoulder, heavy enough to stop him from moving. “Not black.”

  Esra exhaled through his nose and shifted forward, already preparing to stand.

  “But,” Humbert added.

  The word hooked Esra.

  “I know how to make it.”

  Esra’s eyes rolled skyward as he pulled his arm back. Humbert’s grip slid, caught his wrist, firm.

  “Not the usual way, boy,” Humbert said. “No cooking. You don’t make it.” He leaned in, breath close. “You fetch it.”

  Esra sank back down, slow, as if the ground had decided for him.

  “No heat? No vat?” He shook his head once. “There’s nothing dark enough to take straight to cloth.”

  Humbert’s smile thinned. “Ever worked with Black Blood?”

  The name hung there.

  Esra searched the man’s eyes. They had gone oddly still, unfocused in a way that made him wonder whether the stars had climbed too far behind them. Or whether, for once, Humbert was perfectly sober.

  “Where,” Esra said carefully, “would someone even find that?”

  Humbert’s fingers drummed once against his knee. “If you’re serious about becoming a Magi, you don’t buy it.” He leaned closer. “You take it.”

  Esra swallowed.

  “Find a Nightmare,” Humbert said. “That’ll solve your little problem.”

  Esra’s mouth felt dry. “And where,” he asked, voice thin, “does one find a Nightmare?”

  Humbert lifted a finger and angled it toward the coast. “Start there.”

  Esra followed the man's finger.

  The lighthouse stood against the sky, pale stone cut clean against the blue. In daylight, it should have been nothing more than a landmark.

  The light blinked.

  Dark.

  Bright.

  Dark again.

  “Strange thing,” Humbert said softly, “a beacon that can’t make up its mind.”

  Esra kept his eyes on the tower as the light flared once more. A chill crept up his spine.

  Whatever waited there had no business calling out in the sun.

  Esra laid his things out on the bed: a dagger, narrow enough to slip between ribs. Two empty vials, corks tight, glass wrapped in cloth so they wouldn’t clink. That was it.

  He paused. Esra heard enough stories to know better than to chase details. Nightmares hid from the sun. They woke when the dark came. Everything else was noise.

  The plan fit in a single line: stop time, strike, fill the glass, run.

  He slipped the vials into his bag, the dagger at his side, and pulled the strap over his shoulder. Light enough to move fast. Light enough not to chicken out. No reason to make it more complicated than it really was.

  A knock cut through the room.

  Before Esra could answer, the door swung open.

  “Look!”

  Lyra spun into the room, robe open as she turned. The black robe followed, falling straight where it should have clung. It muted the sensual lines of her body, hid the softness she usually carried so openly, and gave her a sterness that didn’t quite belong to her.

  And still, she looked beautiful.

  The contrast only made her smile stand out more, bright and unguarded against the dark cloth.

  Esra tugged the strap of his bag over his shoulder and closed it. “I can tell,” he said. “You like it.”

  “You did this and I—”

  She broke off, eyes catching on the bag, the dagger’s hilt peeking where it shouldn’t. “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  Her smile hesitated. “To meet someone?”

  He met her gaze, already tired. “Lyra, I don’t have time for that. I’m just—”

  She stepped closer. “Then you don’t need to go. If it’s something you need right now, I can give it to you. I always do.”

  Esra didn’t answer right away.

  “I’m not meeting anyone.” He tightened the strap of his bag. “And whatever I’m after, you don’t have it. Not today.”

  “Then where are you going? I’ll come.”

  He shook his head. “You won’t.”

  She looked up at him. “Why?”

  “The lighthouse.” He said it plainly. “You don’t get there without crossing water. Unless you’re planning to turn to foam tonight.”

  She froze. The room seemed smaller all at once.

  She searched his face, finding answers he wasn’t offering. Whatever waited there, it wasn’t meant to be shared.

  “Is Berk going with you?” she asked.

  Esra didn’t hesitate. “I need to do this alone.”

  At their feet, a pup barked once, insistent. Neither of them looked down.

  “One more thing.”

  Lyra hesitated. “Your father’s back.”

  Esra paused with his hand on the door.

  For a moment, he looked at her, really looked, as if weighing something he couldn’t afford to carry with him.

  “Don’t tell him I went out,” he said.

  Then he was gone.

  

  “[…] IV. A Magi sees no difference in blood, and so it wears the Black Robe.[…]” from the Handbook of Advanced Elemental Theories and Practical Applications for the Trial of the Elements by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune