[—click—]

  Muna: That sounds… awful.

  Esra: Awful. That’s a nice way to put it.

  [audible of glass set gently on wood]

  Muna: Did it ever stop?

  Esra: Yes. Eventually. A few moons later. When the ice started to melt.

  [audible of pencil scratching. It stops.]

  Esra: We were sitting on the beach. Berk and I. Same spot. For the first time… the jars were empty. We didn’t touch the food. We weren't hungry, I guess

  Muna: What did you do then?

  Esra: [exhales] I kept going with my life. What else was I supposed to do? Nothing, besides starting to prepare for my Trial. I hadn’t started my robe yet.

  TRANSCRIPT §02 | Esra Ann × M. Dragustea | Summer 554-4-4 | Antares

  They sat at opposite sides of the bed, naked skin no longer touching. The messy sheets between them were cooling, the sweat already drying.

  What remained on Lyra's skin was not sex but pure anxiety, tensed across her shoulders as she stared at the floor. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers curled between her thighs, almost hiding shame.

  Esra watched her without a word. He knew the way she held herself just before her tears came out. He had seen it before. Too many times. His chest ached too; he didn't want to be the villain.

  She finally spoke. “I don’t understand.” The words came out raw. “We just had sex a few minutes ago. What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Esra exhaled slowly, eyes locked on a loose thread of the sheet between them. “I know,” he said. “I told you already. It doesn’t work like that for me.”

  He scratched his thigh, grounding himself. “Someone who’s starving doesn’t eat because they love the food. They'll eat, anything really, because they are... starving.”

  She shifted her torso on the mattress until she faced him. Her eyes were bright with the effort of not crying, daring him to look away. “Ann,” she said. “I left the Red Sea for you.”

  She met his sad eyes at last, and there was no anger in them. Only fatigue. “Don’t do that.”

  A small shake of his head. “You left because you chose to. I never asked you to go after me. I never made you stay, either.”

  “I thought you cared about me.”

  “I do.”

  Esra leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, hands open as if showing there was nothing hidden there. Nothing to give. “I love you,” he said. “But not the way you want. Not the way you need.”

  He lifted his eyes to her. “You’re my friend. One of my closest. But I’m not in love with you. And I don’t think I ever will be.”

  She laughed once and then forced a smile. “I could teach you. I could show you how to love me.”

  He closed his eyes, just for a moment. “You’ve been trying since the day we met,” he said. “Nothing’s changed. I can’t.”

  Her expression hardened, something dark threading through the hurt. “Then who is she?”

  His hand came up to his face, palm pressing over his eyes as if to block the room out. “Lyra,” he said. “Please. Not again.”

  She surged to her feet, anger burning through the last of her restraint. “Say it. Who is the bitch?”

  “There is no one,” he stated, dropping his hand at last. His voice didn’t rise. That, more than anything, seemed to enrage her.

  She snapped. “Liar. You fucking whore.”

  She stood up from the bed and threw the pillow down on him. The first blow landed soft, almost absurd. The second came harder. Then another.

  Esra didn’t flinch; he wasn't surprised, only resigned. He raised an arm to shield his face. “Lyra,” he said. “Please. Stop.”

  She didn’t.

  “I’m the only one who accepts you as you are,” she shouted, the pillow striking again, breath ragged now. “The only one who lets you sneak at night. Who doesn’t ask questions when you come back smelling like sluts.”

  The pillow slipped from her grasp and her hands hit his chest.

  Esra said nothing. It was true. He was an incubus. Hunger wasn’t metaphorical for him. His magic chased its source the way lungs chased air, the way a body refused to starve. His magic begged for sex.

  “We’re done, Lyra. This was the last time.”

  The words barely finished settling before her fist landed on his cheek. The impact snapped his head to the side. A second blow followed, then a third, knuckles punching wherever they could.

  He didn’t block them. He’d learned long ago that stopping her only made it worse. It wasn’t the first time.

  She stopped only when her arm began to ache, or when a line of blue blood finally slipped from his nose and dropped onto his bare chest.

  Esra wiped it away with the back of his hand, smearing across his skin.

  Lyra froze, horror rushing, replacing her rage. “Ann, I— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “You never do.”

  He looked at her then. “I don’t like the way you love.”

  “We’ll talk about this later.”

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  Lyra turned away as she pulled on her clothes. Without looking back. No hesitation.

  The door closed behind her with a soft, final sound.

  Esra stayed where he was. Blue stained his palm. He turned his hand once, watching the colour catch the light, wondering when love had learned to look like this.

  His parents hadn’t loved each other. His mother had been abandoned, and it had broken her.

  Why would it be any different with him?

  Dois Trae was a regular presence in Maria-Se island. Too often for the locals.

  By now, it followed a ritual the island knew by heart: boats arriving more crowded than they should, fires lit before the sun finished setting, music reaching loudly into the dunes. Locals mingling with strangers without asking names. There were no rules besides traditions, and excess was happily invited.

  Esra and Berk slipped into it the way they always did, coats pulled tight against the wind, feet already digging toward the shore.

  Berk walked ahead, unbothered, shoulders loose. Esra didn’t.

  His eyes kept snagging the crowd, on figures that didn’t fit with the music or the regular crowd.

  “What are you looking around for?” Berk asked, looking back.

  Esra slowed, eyes tracking a cluster of White Cloaks near the rocks. “Have you noticed,” he said, “there are more White Cloaks than usual?”

  Berk glanced where Esra was looking and shrugged it off. “Looks normal to me. They always show up around this time, when people from the Great Continent start passing through because of the trial. Easier to spot humans. I still don't understand why they aren't welcome. They are just Menschen with ugly blood.”

  Esra slowed his pace instead of answering. The night felt awkward. He had this gut feeling, as if something or someone kept following him no matter where he stood.

  Mir Fado.

  The sandy path opened beneath their feet. Bonfires burned in circles, flames cracking and moving with the wind. Long tables stretched across the beach, picked over already, drinks and crumbs reached by hands faster than manners. Beyond them, tents dotted the shoreline, ready for the heating mood of the night.

  Esra’s eyes slid past the fires, past the noise, out toward the sea. The lighthouse pulsed.

  On. Off. On again.

  “What’s going on there?” he asked.

  Berk squinted toward the tower. “Someone’s probably siphoning the fire flow from the lighthouse,” he said, unconcerned. Then he inhaled deeply, changing the conversation. “You smell that? Whatever it is, it's promising.”

  The crowd had become a single intoxicated entity. Voices chanted together, rising and falling out of tune and drunk. Somewhere near the centre, laughter erupted as a chair was boosted overhead, the Dois Trae boy perched on it like an offering, carried from hand to hand amid cheers and spilt drink.

  Berk and Esra claimed space at a long table. They filled their glasses first, then looked around for anything that might still qualify as food. Berk’s attention went straight to what remained of the food.

  Esra didn’t.

  “Ann,” Berk said without looking up, already sensing it. “You are not leaving me alone tonight. Keep your pants on, pretty boy!”

  Esra turned his attention back to Berk and lifted his chin toward a nearby knot of faes.

  The girls wore little more than strips of fabric and too much confidence, horns catching the firelight as they laughed too loudly, eyes already drifting in his direction.

  Berk followed Esra's gaze and snorted. “How do you do that?” he muttered. “You sit down for five seconds, and they’re already deciding who will take turns on you.”

  “Later,” Esra said absently. “First, we need to find you someone worth your time. I’m not seeing anything interesting so far.”

  Berk tipped his glass back. “That’s why I drink. Helps me to see the world more... attractive.”

  The night suddenly broke.

  “Stop the scoundrel!”

  The shout cut through the music like a rolled blade. Drums stuttered, voices broke off mid-chant, movement seized. Esra and Berk turned together.

  Two figures in White Cloaks were pushing through the crowd, boots hard against the sand, eyes sweeping faces that suddenly looked very aware of themselves.

  Berk leaned closer. “What are they doing?”

  The two cloaked men halted at the centre of the beach, white fabric stark against smoke and firelight. Their heads turned slowly, eyes cutting through each face at a time. One of them raised an arm and gestured downward.

  “We’re looking for a fugitive,” he announced. “About this tall.”

  His hand hovered at chest height. Short.

  Esra felt it before he saw it. Something brushed his calf. He looked down.

  A small figure was crouched beneath the table, swallowed by shadow and a ragged mantle. A scarf hid most of the face, but a pair of dark eyes watched him. A finger lifted, pressed gently to covered lips.

  Don’t.

  Esra didn’t move.

  He stayed perfectly still, then nudged Berk’s knee with his own. The orc’s looked down and didn't move a finger.

  The White Cloak circled closer. Boots crunched against sand. A gloved hand lifted tablecloths, checked beneath benches, prodded at shadows with the casual impatience of someone certain they would catch their prey and make them pay.

  Esra let his breath grow loud, uneven, deliberate. Too fast. Too much.

  The cloak stopped in front of them.

  “You,” the man said, pointing at Berk. “Move.”

  Berk didn’t. “I can’t.”

  “I said move!”

  Berk moved his hands with exaggerated care. “Sir,” he said, lowering his voice, “there’s a girl under the table and—” He hesitated, pointing with his eyes toward Esra. “—as you can see, my friend is… busy.”

  The man frowned. “Busy?”

  Esra let out a low, strained sound, just obscene enough to finish the sentence for him.

  Esra let his breath hitch, then slip into something rougher, wilder. Just enough sound to be unmistakable. His shoulders rolled forward, head dipping as if concentration mattered.

  Berk caught on instantly.

  “Can’t you give him a moment, please?” he murmured, leaning closer to the White Cloak. “It’s his first time. You know how it is. She looks… wild. You can be next if you want, Sir?”

  The answer came as gunpowder.

  A whip of flame cracked across the space above the table, heat roaring close enough that Esra felt his hair lift, and Berk had to jerk back hard to avoid being scorched.

  And then a shadow moved.

  A small silhouette burst from beneath the table in a blur, darting fast, slipping between benches and bodies. Sand sprayed as they landed beneath the next table, already rolling as the second white cloak surged forward, twin swords flashing.

  Esra tracked the motion without thinking, pulse hammering. Whoever it was moved wrong for a cornered animal. Too precise. Too light. They were trained.

  For a heartbeat, as steel rang and the figure twisted aside, Esra could have sworn they weren’t empty-handed.

  A stick caught the firelight. They were fighting shiny blade with a wooden stick.

  The figure moved in tight arcs, feet barely touching the ground, body moving in and out with a rhythm that belonged more to music than combat. Blades slid close to their skin but always failed.

  A leap, a turn, a clean spin beneath a swing. It looked so rehearsed, effortless, almost playful, as if the space between attacks was a playthrough. That small creature was having the time of their life.

  Then the air shifted.

  From behind, a third white cloak stepped in, arm raised. Sand tore loose from the beach in twisting strands, rising and snapping forward like grasping hands.

  “Stop.”

  The word left Esra’s mouth without permission.

  Everything stopped.

  Fire hung mid-flicker. Sand froze in the air, grains suspended like dust. Voices suddenly muted and faces locked in half-formed, weird expressions. The world held still around him.

  Esra stood from the bench.

  And then he saw them moving, freely. Their arms swept food from tables as fast as they could.

  Esra’s stomach lurched as he saw the whole scene in front of him. Whoever they were, they weren’t trapped in his spell.

  The incubus lifted one hand, “Hi.” The word felt absurdly small.

  The figure stopped moving. They turned to face him. For a moment, they only stared. Esra became acutely aware of his own pulse thudding too loudly inside his throat. It was almost as if two heartbeats lived inside his chest.

  The figure stood there, arms full, clutching bread, fruit, whatever they’d managed to gather. “Thank you.” The voice was young. Female. Collected in a way that didn’t match her size.

  “I won’t forget. I won't forget the now, or all the times you saved those I loved and... even the whole world.”

  Esra swallowed, not sure he understood her. “I… I just try to be a good person.”

  She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “So do I.”

  Her gaze dropped to the table beside her, where the stick rested, waiting. She tilted her head slightly, expecting something to happen, but didn't.

  “Could you please let time come back?” she asked. Then, almost gently, “Time Master.”

  Her words settled.

  Time rushed forward. Sound crashed back into the beach all at once. Fire roared. Sand fell like snow. Voices resumed mid-shout, mid-laugh, mid-breath. The White Cloaks surged toward her, boots tearing through the sand, hands already reaching.

  Too late.

  The stick snapped up from the table, jerked skyward as if claimed by something unseen. She caught it without looking, feet finding their place in the same motion, weight settling as natural as breathing. Then she lifted and was gone in a single fluid flight.

  One blink, she was there.

  Next, it was as if she had never touched the sand of this Dois Trae.

  Esra stood speechless. “Wow,” he finally let out.

  Berk exhaled hard. “That kid is—”

  “Breathtaking.”

  Berk glanced at him. The air felt different tonight. Something had shifted.

  And Berk would never quite have the chance to understand what it was.

  

  "[…] III. A Magi serves all creatures and only all creatures. […]" from the Handbook of Advanced Elemental Theories and Practical Applications for the Trial of the Elements by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune