Muna: Why couldn’t your father have another child?

  Esra: You don’t know?

  Muna: I don’t.

  Esra: Menschen can only have one child. Each of us. Man or woman. Once it happens, that’s it.

  Muna: I know that. I meant… why didn’t he find someone else? Someone who hadn’t had a child?

  Esra: I don’t know. He was gone most of the time. I assume he had his own affairs. But he stuck around, took care of us. Especially my mother.

  Muna: He sounds dense from what you told me.

  [soft laugh]

  Esra: He was. I think he was fighting his own ghosts. I don’t think it was about me. Or my biological father. I never got to hear his story.

  Muna: Did you see him after the event?

  Esra: Everyone who was in Omgrund after it disappeared... No contact. I don’t know who survived, if anyone did.

  Muna: When he asked you the question, why you wanted to be a Magi… did you tell him the truth?

  [silence]

  Esra: I’ve never known a liar to be a good person.

  TRANSCRIPT §05 | Esra Ann × M. Dragustea | Summer 554-4-4 | Antares

  Esra’s mouth opened. Closed. There were a dozen answers ready, polished and acceptable, all waiting their turn.

  “I want to meet my biological father.”

  Muru’s brow lifted dramatically.

  “I want to ask him why he broke my mother’s heart,” Esra said. “Why didn’t he stay?”

  Muru said nothing.

  “I don’t think I actually want the answers.” Esra hesitated, searching for a way to unblunt what came next. There wasn’t one. “I just want to punch him,” he said. “Until there are no teeth left.”

  He drew a breath. “I want him to feel what he did to her. Every time she drifted away. Every tear, every night she didn't sleep. Every smile he stole from her.”

  His voice shook, then steadied. “Everything he took from her, from me.”

  He glanced at his reflection in the dark, uncluttered surface of the desk, then looked away. “I hate seeing him in the mirror. We could have been happy. If...”

  His hands curled. “He stole my family.”

  Muru’s expression emptied. For a heartbeat, there was nothing there at all.

  Then the sound broke loose, sudden and loud, tearing out of him. Laughter as if it had been locked away too long to come out cleanly.

  “Esra,” he said at last, breathless, “by all the stars. You still manage to surprise me.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  Muru wiped at his eyes, dragging his hand across his face, forcing the laughter down until something harder took its place.

  “You do know your father is an air mage.” A pause. “Top tier.”

  “I am too.” Esra didn’t raise his voice. “I can do things no one else can. And you taught me how to use a sword.”

  He lifted his chin. “I’m not weak.”

  Muru shook his head, smirking. “I never beat your father. Not once.”

  He lifted a hand, dismissive. “He moved like a ballerina. Hands behind his back. Perfect balance. Perfect timing. He knew his spells as he knew the palm of his hand. And still laugh at you in the middle of the fight. What a prick.”

  The smile faded. “He was powerful. And probably, still is. If not more.”

  “Then I’ll become stronger,” Esra said. “That’s what the Trial is for. To see how far we can go.”

  Muru studied him. “You think you’re stronger than him?”

  “I am.”

  “That’s bold.”

  “I am.”

  Muru straightened in his chair. “That much, I’ll give you.”

  He leaned forward, forearms resting on the desk. “If you want this fight, the basics won’t help you. Your father and I studied under the same master.”

  His mouth twitched. “But still, I can’t face him without my ass being wiped clean.”

  The admission came easily. “The last time I did, I only won because he allowed it.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Muru tried to hold back a half-laugh. “So this is it. You want to be a Magi out of spite.”

  “We can call it whatever we like.”

  “The same boy who gave up his chance at a Black Robe for someone else. And now you claim spite.”

  “I think I have my reasons.”

  “Esra,” Muru said, shaking his head, “you’re an idiot.”

  His voice softened, almost against his will. “But you’re a good man. Just like him.”

  He scoffed. “People want reasons to hate you both. You both never make it easy.”

  Esra frowned, caught off guard.

  Muru looked away. “We were friends. Close ones. Sometimes I still miss that prick.”

  “What did he do?”

  A humourless breath. “Took the girl I loved.”

  He smiled without warmth. “Forged swords used by any magi.”

  A pause, and Muru added, “She married a king. And she died.”

  “Are you talking about Ulencia’s sword?”

  “She was the most beautiful girl I ever knew.”

  Muru’s mouth tightened. “I wasn’t like your father. I didn’t have his courage. Maybe if I had said things, they would have been different, but beating a king, even I have to admit, is out of my league.”

  He rose from the chair and circled the desk. The wardrobe loomed against the wall between shelves.

  Muru opened it, stretched onto his toes, and dragged down a large box from the top shelf. He carried it back and set it on the desk.

  Brown paper, still intact. Twine knotted neatly. A faded post seal pressed into one corner.

  Esra leaned closer, squinting at the name. Only one word was legible.

  “Redfred?”

  “My mentor.” Muru rested a hand on the box. “He died during the Long Night. With his family.”

  His fingers lingered. “It arrived after. I meant to send it back. I didn't want it. But there was nowhere to send it to.”

  He hadn’t opened it.

  “What’s inside?”

  A corner of Muru’s mouth lifted. “Here’s the funny part.”

  He tapped the lid once. “I’m fairly sure I know what’s inside. But I could be wrong.”

  He looked at Esra. “Do you want to open it?”

  Esra hesitated. “Should I?”

  Muru stepped back. “Go on.”

  Esra worked the knot loose with care, easing the twine free instead of pulling it apart. He peeled the paper back slowly, smoothing it as he went.

  Beneath it, a rigid box surfaced, coated in dark velvet.

  He lifted the lid.

  Muru glanced down and smiled. “Seems I wasn’t wrong.”

  Esra didn’t finish the thought. He reached in, hands reverent, and drew it out.

  Black fabric.

  The Black Robe Muru had left behind at Whitestone, the day the last Mageschstea was born.

  Zora.

  “There’s a saying between the Black Robes,” Muru said, almost to himself. “You can take off the Black Robe. But you can't take off the Magi.”

  He watched as Esra slipped his arms into the sleeves. The fabric swallowed him, hanging long past his hands, the weight settling awkwardly on his shoulders.

  Esra turned slightly, fingers tracing the stitching without knowing why. Symbols made in black embroidery ran through the cloth, speaking memories he hadn’t learned yet.

  Muru pointed. “The rose was Ulencia’s. A joke, between us.”

  His finger moved. “Those triangles were your father’s. He worried I’d forget my hand placements. As I said, he was a prick. A good one.”

  Esra was speechless.

  “You’ve got a few days to fix it before the boat leaves for the Turtle District, and the camp is still far, even by horse,” Muru said, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “As it is, you look ridiculous.”

  Esra looked at him. At his size. A big man, sleeves rolled up, beard hiding whatever expression he hadn’t allowed himself yet.

  Esra opened his mouth. Closed it.

  The weight of the robe, the box, the words pressed in all at once. Esra was overwhelmed.

  Before he could stop himself, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Muru.

  The man stiffened, just for a moment.

  “Thank you, Dad.”

  “Rise and shine, you little prick.”

  Light crashed over Esra’s face as the curtains were torn open. He groaned and rolled away, burying his face in the pillow.

  Somewhere nearby, a plate clinked softly as it was set down. The smell of eggs followed.

  “Such violence,” Esra muttered into the mattress.

  “Violence?” Muru said. “I’ll show you violence.”

  Cold hit him all at once.

  Esra bolted upright with a sharp gasp, hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping from his lashes and down his neck. He stared at Muru, breathless.

  “That’s cruel,” he said. “It’s cold.”

  “You think they’ll light a fire for you at the Trial?” Muru said. “They won’t. If you want warmth, you earn it.”

  Esra blinked the water from his eyes.

  A chair stood in the middle of his room, a towel draped over it. A comb lay beside a bowl of water, waiting.

  “Are you getting out of bed?” Muru added. “The boat won’t wait for your highness to decide to wake up finally.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Eat. I’ll do your hair.”

  “My hair?”

  “Eat.”

  Esra sat up, swiping the water from his face with the back of his hand. He grabbed the fork and went for the eggs, hunger overtaking pride.

  Howl spun at his feet, hopping and circling, nose lifted, aiming for a bite of warmth.

  “Is Lyra—”

  “She’s ready,” Muru said at once. “More than ready. I braided her hair too. Some of us wake early.”

  Esra lowered his fork. He looked up.

  Muru was already seated, a towel draped over one knee, the comb resting in his hand.

  “Come on,” he said. “You don’t have all day.”

  Esra rose and stepped closer, kneeling until his head rested against the towel.

  “Before the Ophius,” Muru said, fingers already sorting Esra’s hair, “the braids told you who someone was.”

  The comb slid through the long golden hair.

  “Where did they come from. What they rank, they carry.”

  Esra winced as the first tug landed.

  “My master hated this tradition,” Muru went on. “Said it got in the way. It fed a Magi's pride to look like a peacock.”

  Another pull.

  “Redfred disagreed.” He, the braids, told a story and thought memory mattered.”

  He began to braid.

  “So do I.”

  Esra stayed still.

  “You’re an Ann,” Muru added. “We braid half.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll need a wife who knows how to do this. If she doesn't, I'll teach her if I'm still among the living.”

  “Maybe I should learn.”

  “Maybe,” Muru said. “If she’s a Magi, you should.”

  “I don’t think that’ll happen.”

  The braid tightened.

  “Ouch.”

  Muru didn’t stop.

  “Why would you say that? What’s wrong with a Magi wife?”

  Esra hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love.”

  Esra couldn’t see the smirk, but he felt the pause behind him.

  “Your father said the same,” Muru said. “I think he was wrong.”

  He didn’t explain.

  The comb kept moving until half of Esra’s hair was bound and the rest left loose.

  After that, everything blurred.

  Water, clothes, hands moving too fast to think. Straps checked, pockets filled. The house narrowed into a corridor.

  Lyra waited there, half-braided, wrapped in black. Gale stood at her side.

  Muru leaned against the wall, eyes scrutinising over Esra’s Robe.

  “You did well,” he said. “For the time you had.”

  Esra didn’t answer. He stepped closer and lifted his sleeve instead.

  Muru leaned in and smiled.

  “That’s a good one. A very good one. It’ll remind you not to be an idiot.”

  “Esra?”

  Esra turned.

  For a moment, the corridor wavered. His breath caught.

  “Mum?”

  He crossed the distance in two steps and folded into her, arms tight, face buried.

  “You’re here,” he said. “You’re awake.”

  The thought struck him mid-breath. He pulled back just enough to speak.

  “I can stay. I can wait until next summer, I—”

  Her fingers found his chin and tipped his face up, gentle but firm.

  “My golden boy. Greatness is waiting. This is your lighthouse.”

  A soft smile.

  “I’ll be here when you come back. I promise, my uncrowded king.”

  Esra nodded once.

  Then he stepped away.

  The door waited. He crossed the hall, opened it, and walked out to meet his Trial.

  They left together.

  The cart waited at the corner, Berk already seated beside his father. Wheels creaked as they set off toward the docks, the house slipping behind them.

  Lyra glanced at Esra. “What did you show your father?”

  Esra didn’t answer. He turned his arm instead.

  Black thread caught the light along the sleeve.

  Lyra and Berk leaned closer.

  “A lighthouse,” Esra said.

  Lyra traced the shape with her fingers. “How did you make the light?”

  He hesitated, then shrugged. “My hair.”

  The cart rolled on, the road uneven beneath them. Wind tugged at Esra’s robe, lifting the sleeve just enough for the stitching to shine again.

  A lighthouse, stitched in black with Esra Ann’s own hair.

  The robe was a legacy.

  So was he.

  

  “[…] VI. A Magi does not turn against another Magi. Opposition is permitted. Blood is not. […]” from the Handbook of Advanced Elemental Theories and Practical Applications for the Trial of the Elements by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune