Muna: I’m quite confused about Lyra.

  Esra: What about Lyra?

  [paper shifting]

  Muna: I understand you had a friends-with-benefits situation.

  But there are moments in your account where it sounds like you wanted nothing more from her. She could be gone and you’d be... happy. And then…

  Esra: Then I made her a robe.

  Muna: Why?

  Ann: Why not? I didn’t love Lyra as a romantic partner. But I love her to death as a friend. She is one of those creatures you either hate or love. It’s hard to hate her once you know her. She is a badass.

  [short pause]

  Muna: So, moving on. After the lighthouse's flop. How did you make your robe?

  Esra: I didn’t.

  TRANSCRIPT §04 | Esra Ann × M. Dragustea | Summer 554-4-4 | Antares

  Esra jumped out of the boat and grounded it on the pebbled shore. Howl leapt after him, skidding on the wet stones, tail whipping back and forth.

  “No, boy. Stay!”

  The pup buried his paws in sand and stone, wagging his tail faster. Esra sighed and pointed back to the boat. “There. You stay there like a good boy.”

  Howl tilted his head, ears twitching, clearly unconvinced this was an order worth obeying. With a quiet curse, Esra scooped him up and set him back inside the boat. He took off his coat and covered the pup, tucking the edges in until only a dark nose poked out.

  “Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

  He stepped away and didn’t look back.

  The lighthouse waited ahead against the night. He walked straight toward it, counting steps, rehearsing the sequence in his head like a hex. One: go in. Two: find the thing. Three: stop time. Four: take the blood. And last: leave.

  Easy.

  The door loomed at the base, buried under crossed planks, logs wedged tight, chains looped and knotted. It took only a few moments to pull them loose from the outside. Whatever they were meant to keep in, they shouldn't have been able to leave.

  The door finally creaked open.

  Inside, the space lay hollow. A few boxes, split and empty. Barrels long since bled dry. And beyond them, a staircase spiralling upward like it won't ever end.

  The smell hit him then. Putrid, rotten eggs and cabbage cling to the air and oxygen. It was almost impossible to breathe.

  Esra gathered some courage and stepped inside anyway. He had too, but the stench wasn’t what would slow him.

  Esra tugged his shirt up, pressing the collar over his nose, and started up the stairs.

  Then a sound slipped through, unexpected.

  Click. Click-click.

  It sounded like a tongue: a soft, acute pop, as if moisture pulled free.

  Esra froze. The fine hairs along his arms lifted all at once. He counted in his mind, measuring distance, timing, how far he could climb before pulling his magic out. There was no source to draw from, no second chance.

  He kept moving. The clicking followed, nearer.

  At the final turn of the stairs, the rot broke through. Even his shirt over his face couldn’t keep it out. His stomach lurched when a shadow slid across the floor ahead of him.

  Only one. That was enough.

  Esra snapped his spell into place. The world seized. Sound went into a nought, and the shadow didn't move anymore.

  He stepped into the upper chamber. The rotating lens that fed the tower crouched against one wall. He scanned the room, pulse ticking loud in his ears despite the stillness. And then he saw her.

  She stood near the far side of the chamber. A girl, not much younger than him. Untouched by the decay soaking the air. She wore a Menchen dress, a red skirt stitched with vivid embroidery, and a matching vest fastened neatly at the front. Not a stain. She looked like she belonged somewhere else entirely.

  Esra stopped short.

  His hand tightened around the dagger, then loosened again. He couldn’t imagine driving the blade into her skin. Couldn’t picture blood spilling from someone who looked so… ordinary.

  What if she wasn’t a Lamia at all?

  Esra moved in a slow circle, feet tracing the same worn stones. His eyes kept finding the girl’s hands. Her fingers were bare. Close enough.

  He lifted the dagger, just an inch. Enough for a pinprick. Enough to know.

  But his blade hovered.

  His stomach turned. The thought of cutting skin, even that little, while she stood frozen and helpless, made his grip falter. He lowered the dagger, wiped the sweat of his palm against his trousers, and tried again.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  What if she was hiding it? If this was the trick. How else was he supposed to tell? She was just a girl.

  A dark, low voice cut through the stillness. “Your magic’s running out, pretty boy.”

  Esra turned his eyes toward her face.

  The pressure holding the world in place slipped suddenly. Sound rushed back in louder than before.

  She was still just a girl.

  No twisted limbs. No scales. No sign of the thing people said about in taverns. Only the smell lingered, and even that could have belonged to the tower itself.

  “It looks like it,” Esra said. Then the thought caught up with him. How did she even realise the time had stopped?

  “How did you—”

  She smiled. “Why do you think?” She took a step closer. Then another.

  Something shifted.

  She was still just a girl.

  Skin split and eyes opened where eyes had no right to be. Six eyes tore through the illusion.

  Her smile widened, showing pointed, wet teeth. “I’m hungry.”

  Esra took one step back.

  The distance between them closed without her moving. His throat tightened. Running crossed his mind, and he died there just as fast. The stories he’d half-laughed at the taverns now fell like bricks landing on his head.

  His hand held the dagger still, tight. Realising it was useless even to try to kill a Lamia. The night was still young, and dawn was way out of his reach.

  The words slipped out before he could stop them.

  “I’m fucked.”

  “Step back!”

  The floor buckled. Stone surged upward in a sudden wave, throwing the Lamia off balance. She hissed, claws scraping uselessly.

  Something yanked Esra hard by the collar. He stumbled, barely keeping his feet, and caught a glimpse of his father at the centre of the chaos. Muru stood with his sleeves rolled to the elbows, jaw set, eyes locked on the creature. The ground answered his hands. Earthen tendrils burst from the walls, coiling, tightening, pinning the Lamia in place.

  Dawn would finish what the night had started.

  Esra didn’t get to watch for long. Muru pulled Esra by his ear toward the stairs, dragging him down and out into the open air.

  “What were you thinking?” Muru shouted, releasing him.

  Esra flinched, shoulders hunching, bracing for impact that didn’t come.

  “What were you thinking, you idiot?!”

  Esra swallowed. “I just wanted—”

  “What?” Muru cut him off. “What could you possibly want from a Nightmare?” He paced once, then stopped short in front of Esra. “People use that tower to end them. Everyone knows that. Did you know? No, you didn't because you don't care.” His hand cut through the air toward the lighthouse. "You are just a lowlife chasing girls and spending my coin in taverns."

  Muru paused to rub his face and run his hand over his beard, trying to calm down. “So, what's the plan, boy? Did you think you were saving her? Is that it? Because she is cute?”

  The questions came fast and overlapped; Esra had no chance to explain himself. Yet, the answer tore out of him before he could soften it. “I needed black blood.”

  The heat drained from Muru's face, replaced by something colder. “For what?” he asked. “By the stars, what would you need their blood for?”

  “Dye. Black dye. Mr Ves'Wasser ran out of black fabric.”

  Then Muru laughed once, humourless. “You are the most stupid creature I have ever had the misfortune to deal with.” He shook his head, disgust plain in every line he spoke. “I am glad I'm not your biological father, I don’t think I could live with myself knowing I could produce someone so... you.”

  Two knocks landed on the door. Before an answer could come, the latch turned.

  Gale stepped into the dark room. The air was stale, clinging to the walls like dreams had come to die.

  “Young Master. Breakfast.”

  Esra lay facing the wall.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Gale paused, the tray dipping slightly. “You haven’t eaten.”

  “What’s the point?”

  The goatman's came closer. “You should eat something. Your mother—”

  “She isn’t here, Gale. She hasn’t been for a long time.”

  Gale crossed the room and set the platter on the side table. He lowered himself beside Howl, who stayed curled against Esra’s back.

  “She could return,” Gale said. “At any moment.”

  Esra drew the pillow closer and hid his face as a reply.

  “Your father—”

  “He isn’t.”

  Esra said, muffled by fabric. “He said so himself.”

  Gale hesitated. Then he reached out, brushing Esra’s hair with the side of his hoof, careful, tentative.

  “He said, and I quote, please call my son to my study.”

  Esra turned his head. For the first time, his face showed. His eyes were swolled, lashes clumped, skin tight with drying tears.

  “Liar.”

  Gale stood. He lifted one hoof and pointed to the platter on the table while adjusting his spectacles.

  “Young Master, eat,” he said. “Wash your face and then go. He’s waiting.”

  Esra left the breakfast untouched. He rinsed his face, brushed his hair with his fingers, and twisted it into a loose knot that wouldn’t quite hold.

  He moved through the house without looking at anything, down the stairs, past doors. Muru’s office was at the end of the corridor. Before his courage vanished, he reached for the handle and opened the door without thinking twice.

  “Knock on the door, you idiot!”

  Esra froze. He shut it again, stood still, drew in a breath he hadn’t taken yet. Then he raised his hand and knocked. Once. Twice. A third time.

  “Come in.”

  Muru sat behind the desk, eyes lowered to a clutter of papers. He turned one page, then another. Esra had no idea what they were about and never asked.

  He stopped a few steps from the desk.

  “So,” Muru said without looking up, “you enter without knocking, but require permission to sit?”

  Esra obeyed and sat.

  Muru leaned back, the chair creaking softly. He rubbed his beard, studying Esra in silence.

  “You look like shit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gale tells me you’ve kept to your room for four days.”

  Esra said nothing. His gaze drifted back to the papers spread across the desk, tracing their edges, their weight, anything but the man behind them.

  “You're sulking because you failed your little mission.”

  The question came softly, almost with some fatherly tenderness. Muru reached for another sheet.

  “I spoke with Berk’s father yesterday. He mentioned you were there earlier this week, asking about black cloth.” He glanced up then. “And that the fabric he gave you for your birthday was no longer in your possession. He spoke about a little side project?”

  Esra lifted his eyes. For a moment, it looked as though he might speak, might arrange an explanation from what little he had left.

  He didn’t.

  His gaze fell again. There was nothing to add.

  “I thought you were an idiot,” Muru said, almost mildly. “That I had raised one.” He shifted a paper aside. “Then yesterday, I saw the little mermaid crossing the hall.”

  His eyes flicked up. “She was wearing black. A robe I didn’t recognise. I didn’t pay for it. She didn't ask me for any coins.”

  Esra drew a breath. His mouth opened. Closed again.

  “Why?” Muru asked.

  Esra swallowed. “She was going to go without one.”

  The words came faster now. “I heard it’s harder to get in that way, so I made it for her.”

  He hesitated, then went on. “Lyra deserves to pass the Trial. She has nowhere else. She was shunned by her people for a stupid mistake. There’s no one for her but us. And she left the sea because... she is looking for someone and all points for the Trial.”

  His voice almost cracked. “Lyra helped me when I needed it the most. I couldn’t say no.”

  “So,” Muru said, “you gave away the black fabric meant for your own robe.”

  He leaned forward slightly. “To your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not.” Esra stopped himself. “At least that’s what I keep telling her. But...”

  Muru didn’t say anything right away. He leaned back, eyes drifting past Esra.

  “I used to enjoy coming home after a long trip,” he recalled. “I couldn't wait to see you. You were such a happy kid. You’d be waiting at the door. We’d play, run around, and I taught you how to hold a sword.”

  Then you turned ten. An incubus child. And suddenly, you looked just like him. It was almost as if he were here in front of me.”

  Esra’s shoulders folded inward. His head dropped, his eyes settling on the floor, on his bare feet.

  “You are the personification of all my failures, of all I lost that I took for granted. There will be no other child. Your mother already had one, and that's biology. She won't be able to have another, my seed.”

  “She will never love me, either. Nor will I love her. It's not in my Saat.”

  He exhaled slowly. “You’re the reason why. I know it isn’t your fault.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Muru rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Why?”

  Esra lifted his head, confused. “Why?”

  Muru leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

  “Why do you want so badly to be a Magi?”

  

  “ […] V. A Magi is a friend to all Spirits and serves to all Ormsaats. […] “ from the Handbook of Advanced Elemental Theories and Practical Applications for the Trial of the Elements by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune