[—static—]

  Muna: That was the dream?

  Esra: Yes.

  Muna: Did it ever end? I mean those recurring dreams...

  Esra: I would guess they stopped when Eura escaped from Whitestone.

  [audible of pencil scratching]

  Muna: How often did you have it before?

  Esra: Every night since I can remember.

  Muna: How did you know it wasn't just a nightmare?

  Esra: It spoke to my Saat.

  [Silence]

  TRANSCRIPT §01 | Esra Ann × M. Dragustea | Summer 554-4-4 | Antares

  “Good morning, Young Master.”

  Esra’s eyes flew open, not at the softness of the voice, but at the taste of a spider still clinging to his tongue.

  “Happy twentieth birthday!” she sang, and daylight tore into the room as the curtains were flung wide. Light spilt over silk sheets and bare skin, too sudden, too clean, chasing the dream back into the forgotten corners of his mind, at least for a while.

  Esra swung between sleep and waking when he finally noticed that the maid stood too close. Her fingers were untying the lace of her blouse, the fabric loosening inch by inch. His mind lagged, slow to assemble meaning, catching the dark shape of her nipple shape finally.

  “Eileen, stop!”

  From behind him, a flash of pink hair burst wildly. Lyra rose from the sheets with a fury that had already claimed her face.

  “What the fuck, bitch?!”

  Her hand slammed into his ribs, not to steady herself but to launch past him. Power coiled in her muscles, ready to go.

  And then, everything locked in place.

  Half of him was still drifting, his mind dulled and his bare skin feeling cold, exposed to a scene frozen mid-breath. It would have made a striking painting for a birthday gift. Just not one he cared to keep.

  He turned away from it and grabbed some trousers, then a loose chemise, and dragged them on with hurried hands.

  He caught his reflection as he passed the mirror and paused, fingers lifting to his mouth, then his eyes. His skin was smooth, unmarked, with no trace of damage, no matter how insistently he prodded.

  Still, the sensation lingered. A tightness. A phantom pull, as if fine threads were being drawn beneath the surface, stitching something he couldn’t see. It was just a dream.

  Esra swept his long golden hair back from his face and left the room, pulling the door open.

  “Young Master, happy twentieth Summer.”

  “Gale.”

  The goatman stood squarely in front of his door, polished hooves planted with ceremonial care. A silver platter rested in his hands, steam lifting from warm bread, the citric scent of fresh juice cutting through it, and a bowl of homemade oatmeal nestled carefully at the centre. Exactly as Esra liked it.

  Gale’s eyes slid sideways, spectacles sliding closer to his snout as he peered past Esra toward the bedroom. The two girls stood caught mid-motion, violence suspended a breath before impact.

  “I see Eileen tried once more,” he said mildly. "Very persistent young girl."

  Esra followed his gaze, then looked away. His shoulders dropped a fraction. “Yes, she is,” he sighed. “This is going to be ugly.”

  Gale adjusted his grip on the platter. “Well, Young Master, I would imagine they will survive. Didn't you call off your relationship with Miss Lyra?”

  "I thought I did. She didn't agree."

  Esra reached out and took the tray from him. “I’ll have breakfast with my mother.”

  Gale hesitated. His hooves did not move. Esra's hands tightened, just enough to resist.

  “Your mother is still—”

  Esra applied just enough force to make his point. The platter slid from Gale’s hooves into his own hands, the metal chiming softly at the contact.

  “I will take breakfast with my mother.”

  A short bark cut through the corridor before Gale could answer. Something small and fast barreled into view, nails skittering against the floor as a pup skidded to a stop at Esra’s feet. Its tail wagged furiously.

  “And Howl agrees with me,” Esra said while looking down.

  Gale resigned, sighed, adjusting his spectacles. “I see he does.”

  “Come, boy, come.”

  Esra turned and walked down the corridor. The house narrowed as he went, light thinning, sound softening. He stopped at the last door.

  He didn’t knock. He never did.

  The room was dark, plunged with a scent of sweetness of burnt wax and wilting flowers that needed to be replaced.

  He set the tray down with gentle care, then walked to the window. When he pulled the curtains aside, the morning light found her face.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  She sat propped against a pile of cushions, back curved, head tilted toward her shoulder as if listening to something only she could hear. Her eyes were open, but no one was there. Blank mismatched eyes resting over the nothingness.

  Esra came closer. He eased her upright with all the gentleness of a kid. His thumb touched her cheek, brushing stray strands of hair away from her face, the gesture familiar enough to hurt.

  “Mum,” he murmured. “Good morning.”

  He waited.

  Nothing.

  “I brought breakfast,” he added quietly. “We could eat together. Would you like that, mum?”

  He lifted the bowl from the tray and took the spoon, measuring the portion. He brought it to her mouth, the spoon hovering there, close enough to feel her breath.

  “Please,” he said. “Eat. You need to eat something.”

  Her lips parted. “Medi?”

  The name struck like a fist to Esra's stomach.

  “No,” he said. “It’s me. Esra.” He forced a smile that didn’t hold. “Your little boy. It’s my birthday today. I’m twenty, mum.” His voice wavered despite him. “I’d really like… really, really... that my mum spends this day with me. I really need you.”

  Her eyes drifted past him. “The lighthouse is off,” she murmured.

  “You always say that. I don’t know what it means.”

  Esra let the spoon fall back into the bowl. He set it back on the tray with care. Whatever hunger he’d brought with him had vanished. He stood there, gathering himself, refusing to let the tears win.

  “I have decided to go...” His fingers worried at the edge of the bed. “To go to the Trial of Elements. Lyra’s coming too; she has filled the forms with me. Berk too. Do you remember Berk?”

  He glanced down at the pup curled near his feet. “Will you look after Howl for me? I don’t think I can take him where I’m going.”

  The words thinned as he went on. His shoulders sagged, just a little. “I’m scared to leave you here alone. Who will take care of you? Father is never here, Gale is... Gale... and Eileen need to be fired. It's not her fault, I know, but... It's safer if we hire male staff instead of girls at least until next Summer.”

  He hesitated, breath catching. “But, if I go, maybe… if I find this Medi.” A fragile hope crept into his voice despite him. “Maybe you’ll come back to me. And next Summer we can spend my birthday together. You. Me.” A pause. “And whoever it was that broke your heart.”

  A tear slipped free from her eye, soundless.

  Esra brushed it away with his thumb. He didn’t notice the one that followed, tracing its way down his cheek, until it dropped from his chin.

  They had claimed that little piece of sand since they were kids. A small pocket where the beach gave way to frost-burnt grass, hidden far enough from the path so that no one would wander there by accident.

  Esra stopped, the soles of his feet bitten by the cold. He drew his coat tighter to his chest, shoulders hunching against the breeze. Locals called it already Summer, but it was still cold like Winter.

  Berk was seated on the sand already, mind lost somewhere beyond the waterline. Not watching the sea exactly, neither. But somewhere, Esra had never learned how to reach.

  “It’s freezing!” Esra complained.

  “Not for long,” Berk replied. “Not for long.” His eyes stayed on the sea, as if the answer lay out there in a block of ice or a nearby ship.

  Esra sat down beside him, the cold creeping through his pants. He saw what Berk had already prepared. A blanket, rope, two clay jars still warm to the touch, and a small bundle of food, all within reach. Simple sandwiches. Pork and rice. Nothing fancy. Always enough.

  Esra lifted one of the jars. “Tea?”

  Berk finally looked at him. “You know the drill.” He smiled, showing pointed teeth set against thick, dark-purple skin. His scalp was smooth and bare, with tipped ears but shorter than an elf’s. An orc, unmistakably so, and an uncommon sight this close to the Fisherman's District shore.

  The jar passed between them, steam curling into the cold air as Berk added, lightly, “Just to ease your mind before it happens.”

  “I don’t like how it feels,” Esra muttered while placing the jar close to his nose. The steam carried a strong, bitter-sour smell. “Last time I threw up.”

  “It’s your birthday,” Berk said. “You’re allowed some booze.”

  Esra took a cautious sip. His face twisted instantly, the grimace impossible to hide. Berk watched him, amused. “I’ve got a little something for you, pretty boy.”

  Esra coughed. “You didn’t have to.”

  “I wanted to.”

  Esra rolled his eyes. “You already do more than enough.”

  Berk snorted and threw a small package wrapped in brown paper into Esra’s lap with more strength than necessary. “Shut up, pretty boy,” he said. “And open it.”

  Esra ripped the paper. Inside lay a length of black fabric, darker than anything he’d ever managed to find. He ran his fingers over the weave. It was coarse, thick beneath the touch. It didn’t please the hand. It resisted it. There was nothing elegant about it except its refusal to be anything but black.

  “My dad picked it up on his last trip to Sorgenstein,” Berk said, watching him. “Humans sell all kinds of things there. Stuff they shouldn’t have. Even star-mushrooms.”

  Esra didn’t look up, still testing the fabric between his fingers. Berk grinned. “So we figured—why shouldn’t an Ann make his own black robe?”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Esra murmured at last. He glanced up at Berk. “What about you?”

  Berk shrugged. “My dad bought mine ready-made. I’m not as fancy as you.”

  “Fair.”

  Berk hesitated, the grin gone. “How’s your mum?”

  “Not… well. But she spoke some words today.”

  Berk’s brow lifted. “She wished you a happy birthday?”

  Esra shook his head. “No. She talked about the lighthouse. Said it was… off.”

  “Do you know what that means?”

  “No. I have no idea.”

  The silent gap between them was filled with the sound of the waves, the wind dragging over sand and dead grass. They sat with it, both waiting for something that didn’t come yet.

  Berk broke the quiet. “Did you have it?”

  Esra nodded. “Yeah. Like every night.”

  Berk stared out toward the water. “Maybe it’s connected.”

  “We had this conversation yesterday, Berk. Nothing changes.”

  “Then tell it again,” Berk said. “You might’ve missed something.”

  Esra let out a breath that came close to a laugh. “That’s insane. You don’t get different results by doing the same thing.” He scrubbed both hands through his hair. “I’ve been telling you this every day since we were sixteen. It’s always the same.”

  He stared out at the water as he spoke. “I wake up, and I’m not me. I’m a woman. Same hair as me. Diferente body. Always the same tent. Then there’s this man. Diamond hair. Eating pie like it’s… like it’s the best orgasm that he ever had. And I love him.”

  A beat. “She loves him,” Esra corrected quickly.

  “Do you think about him when you’re awake?”

  Esra scoffed, defensively. “I already told you, I’m not gay!” He stopped himself, regretting his own words. “I like girls, okay? I don’t know how to explain it. I'm not like...”

  “Me?”

  “I... fuck. I'm sorry, Berk.”

  Esra hesitated and finally admitted. “Yeah. He crosses my mind during the day. More than once. And it’s… strange. I want to meet him. To know who he is. I don’t even know his name. Where do I start?”

  Berk glanced at him sideways. “Zonnestra’s a common name among my kin.”

  Esra shot him a look.

  “You sure she’s not an orc?”

  “She’s too pretty to be an orc.”

  Berk snorted. “My theory—”

  Esra let his head fall back, staring up at the washed-out sky. “—is that I’m a reincarnation of this Zonnestra.” The words came out flat, rehearsed. “That she died so violently it left a mark. Imprinted itself in my Saat.”

  Berk blinked. Then he looked down at his jar, turning it slowly in his hands. “I've already been sharing that theory with you?” His brow furrowed. “Maybe I’ve had too much tea.”

  Esra dropped his gaze back to the beach. “Reincarnation isn’t real.” He picked at the sand with his fingers. “People die. Their Saat stays behind. Magic goes back where it came from.”

  He brushed the grit from his palm. “We don’t come back. We just rot.”

  Berk reached over and pressed Esra’s jar back toward his face. “Drink,” he said firmly. “You’re not turning into a downer on your birthday.”

  Esra nudged the jar aside. “Berk?”

  Berk stilled. “It’s starting?”

  Esra didn’t answer.

  His body tilted, weight slipping to one side as the jar toppled from his hand, warm liquid soaking into his clothes and the sand beneath.

  Berk was already moving. He surged to his feet, snatching up the rope into motion. Esra’s wrists, then his ankles, were bound with quick knots. Berk dropped back down, hauling Esra’s head into his lap just as the first jolt tore through him.

  Berk locked his arm across Esra’s chest, pinning him down with his full weight.

  Esra’s scream tore out of him, ripped loose by the first convulsion. The second hit harder. His spine arched, teeth shut so violently Berk felt it through his own bones.

  Sand sprayed as Esra’s heels dug furrows, his body jerking as if struck by something no one else could see. Then it kept coming.

  Esra was attacked by invisible blows as if coming from the inside, punching ribs, gut, throat. Berk gritted his teeth and held on, forearm locked, mumbling numbers under his breath because numbers were the only thing that he could control.

  “…ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One hundred.”

  By one hundred and two, Esra stopped. His body sagged, breath calmer. Berk didn’t move for a long minute, keeping his grip until he was sure it was over.

  Esra lay there unconscious, mouth drooling, sweat dripping fast, even in the winter air.

  When he woke later, Berk already knew what would come first. Hunger, cold. And the profound feeling of loneliness that Esra never wanted to speak about.

  

  "II. […] A Magi follows mind, heart, and Saat, not the laws of the swords or words. […]" from the Handbook of Advanced Elemental Theories and Practical Applications for the Trial of the Elements by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune