Muna: She did what now? Completely naked?

  [Esra laughing]

  Muna: You mentioned something earlier. “Doing a Lyra.”

  Esra: Yeah. We call it that. Getting naked in the middle of combat or... You know. It's doing a Lyra.

  [soft exhale]

  Esra: It happened more times than you’d think. Lyra is… a very peculiar creature. She can be the life of a party or the worst nightmare ever. Sometimes both, if she’s bored.

  Muna: You said "is". Is she—

  [pause]

  Muna: Is she still alive?

  Esra: She is.

  [chair shifts]

  Esra: We check in sometimes. Nothing fancy. Just making sure the other one hasn’t died yet. And when she comes to Antares, we usually get a drink or two. It’s… nice.

  Muna: Did you ever get back together? After the event?

  Esra: No. Not even close.

  [brief silence]

  Esra: Let’s say she’s in a very complicated… situationship.

  Muna: How so?

  Esra: You’ll learn soon enough.

  [paper shifts]

  Muna: All right. Going back on track. Berk?

  Esra: Yeah. Berk.

  [almost a laugh]

  Esra: I miss that son of a bitch.

  TRANSCRIPT §07 | Esra Ann × M. Dragustea | Summer 554-4-4 | Antares

  Lyra and Esra watched Berk take the stairs one at a time, his usual swagger nowhere to be found.

  Esra cupped his hands around his mouth. “You’ve got this, pretty boy!”

  Berk didn’t turn. He stopped at the top and stood there with his arms hanging stiff at his sides.

  The officer waiting for him was not the one who had judged Lyra. This one loomed taller than Berk himself, horns curving back from a masked face, a red tail tracing slow, idle circles against his feet.

  Berk swallowed, stepped forward, and listened without interruption to the same instructions as provided to Lyra, keeping his eyes fixed on the markings at his feet. When the officer finished, he stepped forward and entered the pentagram.

  Below the stage, Lyra leaned forward, fingers knotted together. Esra held his breath without realising it.

  The first pillar answered.

  Fire lifted from its bowl and drifted toward Berk into a perfect, smooth ball. It stopped at eye level, hovering inches from his face.

  Earth followed. A perfect globe shape of packed soil and grit pulled free and slid into place beside the fire.

  Water took longer. It rose reluctantly, drawing itself upward in a slow spiral, folding inward until it sealed into a smooth, turning ball. It settled beside the others.

  Three elements floated before Berk’s face, waiting.

  Lyra shifted on the balls of her feet, eyes darting between the hovering spheres and Berk’s lack of reaction. The fire flickered lower, its glow thinning. The water’s rotation slowed. Berk was slowly losing control.

  “Why is nothing happening?” she whispered nervously.

  Esra bit his lower lip, hands clenched on the rope. “He got the yips,” he muttered, forcing a grin that didn’t quite hold. “Come on, man. You’ve got this.”

  On the stage, the three spheres dulled further. Fire lost its light, earth shed a few grains that fell harmlessly through the air, and water wavered.

  The officer began to move with steps thudding against the wooden boards as the distance closed. The red tail swayed once, then stilled.

  Everything else stayed frozen in place.

  “No, no, no, no way!”

  Noise cut clean. The crowd froze mid-breath. Dust hung with grains suspended like pinned stars.

  Esra was already ducking under the rope.

  His feet hit the wooden steps hard as he climbed, heart racing faster than his thoughts. On the stage, Berk stood locked in place, shoulders rigid, eyes fixed on the hovering spheres.

  Esra circled him once, close enough to feel the wrongness of it.

  Berk’s hands stalled mid-motion, fingers half-curled, caught between impulses that no longer reached anything. Esra had seen Berk cheat at a card game without touching it. Had seen a ball curve mid-throw, drift just enough to win an argument no one could prove. Berk never lost unless he chose to. That orc hated to lose.

  Nothing answered him now.

  The elements sagged, light thinning, as if whatever usually carried them had been quietly taken away.

  Esra frowned, "Why now?" He studied the space between the elements.

  Fire burned motionless. Earth hung there as it should. Water was turning until now.

  But the air around them felt wrong. Like if there was none. How did Berk make them float with no air?

  He stepped closer and, with one breath, then another, pushed the air forward gradually. Just the work of lungs, a feeding motion where there was none.

  "This should do the trick." Esra turned, already retreating, slipping back toward the rope as if he had never crossed it at all.

  He didn’t see the shorter officer’s head tilt. Didn’t see the eyes tracking him behind the mask.

  The moment Esra reached Lyra’s side, the world lurched forward again and sound crashed back in.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Berk’s face brightened as the elements spun, air finally carrying them in a clean, circular flow. The horned officer froze mid-step—

  “Stop.”

  Colour drained from Berk’s face. The murmurs rippling through the crowd thinned, then vanished altogether.

  Lyra leaned forward. “What’s happening?”

  Esra didn’t answer right away. His eyes were locked on the stage. “He had it,” he said. “Why did they stop him?”

  The smaller officer, Lolth, stepped out from the other officer's shadow. Her dark-blue hair slipped free at her temple as she bent, seized one of the elemental pedestals, and flipped it upside down.

  Fire slid and caught beneath the bowl, trapped.

  She set it in front of Berk. Then another. And another. And the last.

  Four inverted pedestals. Four elements held wrong.

  “Turn the pedestals upright,” Lolth commanded. “Then put each element back where it belongs.”

  Berk’s gaze slid from the overturned pedestals to the ground as he shook his head once. “I can’t,” he said. “Not like this.”

  The officer didn’t soften. Her voice cut across the platform, loud enough to carry to the far end of the crowd.

  “Of course you can’t.” She stepped closer. “Not if you use air. You are not that type of mage.”

  A ripple of Oh passed through the onlookers.

  “If you were,” she continued, “those spheres would tremble. They would wobble, shear, resist.”

  Her hand lifted slightly. The inverted bowls did not move.

  “They didn’t,” she said. “Because your magic removes the air entirely. Your elements were perfectly shaped, smooth.”

  Esra frowned. “What did she just say?”

  Lyra’s eyes stayed on Berk. “That he cancels air or something. Is that… even possible?”

  Berk stood frozen, eyes locked on the nearest pedestal with crippling doubt.

  “Stop looking for air!” the officer said. “Look at the object. What do you want it to do?”

  Berk swallowed. His hands twitched, then stilled.

  Up.

  Wood groaned. The first pedestal snapped upright with a sharp clang, its element snapping back into place, fire rounding itself into a flawless globe.

  A heartbeat later, the second followed. Then the third. Then the fourth.

  Berk stared at the line of restored pillars, breath shallow. “I don’t… I thought I was just—”

  “Driftbender,” the officer said, cutting in. “You don’t move air,” she went on. “You tame it, you cancel it. You bend gravity instead.” She tilted her head. “It only looks like air, but it isn't.”

  “So I failed,” Berk said. “Because of air.”

  Lolth didn’t answer right away. She watched the pillars instead. All three elements hold their shape without trembling.

  Then she stepped closer. “You demonstrated command,” she said. “Fire. Earth. Water and even air.”

  Berk frowned. “But I didn’t—”

  “You removed it.” Her voice cut clean through his doubt. “Subtraction is still control. And what you showed goes further than elements. You shaped the flow itself, Driftbender.”

  “So…” He lifted his eyes, afraid to hope. “I passed?”

  Lolth extended her hand. “Welcome to the Trial of Elements.”

  He stared at it for half a heartbeat before taking it. Her grip was firm, anchoring. She leaned in just enough that only he could hear her next words.

  “You have allies who would break any rule and law of this world to see you stand,” she said. “Don’t waste that.”

  Berk nodded, fast and clumsy, then bowed. Too deep. Too rushed. Even worse than Lyra’s. The moment he turned, he ran.

  Bare feet thudded down the wooden stairs as he barreled straight into Esra, arms already wrapping tight.

  “I won!” Berk laughed. “I won!”

  Esra staggered back a step, hands coming up defensively. “Please don’t you kiss me too.”

  Night settled over the Trial of Elements without an invitation. The heat bled out of the ground, leaving the wooden stage slick with damp footprints and ash. Around it, only a small knot of mages remained, scattered and quiet, waiting for names that came slower now.

  Lyra leaned back on her hands, shoulders slumped. Berk sat with his elbows on his knees, tail end of his earlier energy long gone. Neither had left Esra’s side.

  They watched the ritual repeat itself. Some mages descended the stairs clutching instructions, eyes already searching for the final lists. A few stepped down lighter, smiles breaking through exhaustion. Most walked away, staring straight ahead, robes dragging through the dirt. Many returned home.

  A big shadow fell across them.

  “Excuse me, mind if I join you?”

  The three of them hesitated, looking up. Then Lyra glanced down.

  A dwarf stood at the edge of their little circle, hands tucked into the pockets of a long leather coat that brushed his ankles. Blond curls escaped in every direction, catching the light of the nine moons. His face was stern but mixed with youthful malice, completed by the absence of a beard.

  Lyra shifted, scooting sideways and patting the ground beside her. “Sure.”

  He dropped down easily, coat creasing around him, eyes already roaming. They paused on Lyra, unapologetic.

  “Aren’t you the one who went full commando up there?” he asked.

  Lyra’s chin lifted. “Did you like what you saw?”

  He clicked his tongue, unimpressed on purpose. “Meh. Seen better.”

  Esra snorted. Berk followed, a rough laugh rumbling out of his chest.

  “I’m Esra,” he said, gesturing between them. “That’s Berk, and—”

  “Lyra,” she cut in, extending her hand.

  The dwarf took it, grip firm and confident. “Tariq Keplan,” he said. “Been here since yesterday.” His eyes flicked back toward the stage, then returned to them. “And you two…” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “That was pure magic.”

  Tariq leaned back on his hands and tipped his head toward Esra, studying him from the corner of his eye. “Didn’t see you on the stage.”

  Esra shrugged. “Haven’t been called yet.”

  Berk frowned, brow creasing as he looked the dwarf over again, as if reassessing old assumptions. “I thought dwarves didn’t really do magic. I mean… I know about the strength, but—”

  Tariq’s smile sharpened. “Trust me. My magic’s in my pants.”

  Lyra blinked. “Excuse me?”

  He gave her a sideways look, all confidence and mischief. “Relax, sweetheart. You’ll see it soon enough.”

  The answer was still hanging in the air when a voice boomed across the camp.

  “Tariq Keplan.”

  The dwarf rocked forward and sprang to his feet in one smooth motion. He dusted off his coat, already grinning. “That’s my cue.” He glanced back at them. “We’ll talk later. We should be friends, you guys seem fun to have around.”

  Then he was gone, boots thudding lightly as he cut through the thinning crowd toward the stage.

  Esra watched him go, tilting his head. “Strange little guy. You think he’s going to pull a Lyra?”

  “What, you think?” Berk folded his arms. “Drop his pants and flash a gun?”

  Lyra snorted. “You guys are impossible.”

  “They do say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover,” Berk went on, interest sharpening as the officers finished speaking. “And that cover is… promising.”

  All three of them tracked Tariq as he moved against the wide stage. Then he shrugged out of his coat.

  Berk straightened. “Well then,” he murmured, anticipation lighting his face. “Let’s see that gun, you beautiful little bastard.”

  Lyra laughed. Esra did too.

  And then the laughter caught in their throats.

  At the small of the dwarf’s back, hooked into his belt, sat a gun.

  It caught the light of the nine moons and threw it back in clean, pale lines, metal polished to a shine that didn’t belong to a battlefield weapon. At least not in Ormgrund.

  A murmur rippled through the nearby onlookers.

  Tariq didn’t acknowledge it. He walked to the nearest officer and paused. The officer gave a single, silent nod.

  Then Tariq stepped beyond the etched lines of the pentagram.

  Calmly, almost casually, he moved along the edge of the stage and did exactly what Lolth had done during Berk’s trial. One by one, he tipped the pedestals forward, inverting them so their bowls faced the wood. He didn’t drag them away or scatter them. He left each where it stood, elements trapped beneath, waiting.

  Only when the last pedestal lay overturned did he return to the centre of the stage.

  Metal slid free with a soft, confident click. The gun settled into his hand as if it had always lived there. The camp heard it before they understood it. A low, precise rotation. Click–click–click. The magazine turned.

  The first shot cracked through the night.

  The nearest pedestal snapped upright as if yanked by an invisible hand, its bowl righted in a single clean motion. Fire bloomed back into place.

  A second shot followed immediately.

  The bullet struck nothing anyone could see, but the air screamed. A sharp triangle ignited mid-space, hanging there, burning without fuel.

  The third shot rang out. The second pedestal jerked upright. Another bang.

  A symbol flared above it this time, etched in glowing lines. A triangle, scored at its peak. The mark of earth.

  The show continued. Shot after shot. Each pedestal righted itself in turn. Fire. Earth. Water. Wind. Above every one of them, their sigils appeared, suspended.

  When it looked finished, Tariq stepped forward instead of back.

  He reached out. Bare fingers closed around the fire.

  There was no hesitation, no hiss of burned flesh, no reflexive recoil. The flame bent around his grip, compressed, its light folding inward as if kneaded. With his other hand, he seized the earth sigil and crushed it against the fire, fingers digging in, grinding heat and grit together.

  Sparks spat. Ash dusted his knuckles.

  He turned, dragged the fused mass through the water pillar just long enough for it to scream.

  Steam exploded outward in a white rush. The hiss rolled across the wooden stage, but Tariq didn’t flinch. He pulled his hands apart slowly.

  Something solid stretched between them.

  Metal grew, lengthening with each motion of his arms, glowing dull red beneath the steam. It cooled as he worked it, surface hardening, weight settling into shape.

  A bar.

  He lowered one end to the wooden planks. The boards groaned softly under the sudden pressure. His thumb pressed into the metal, leaving a shallow dent that stayed.

  Silence spread through the camp. Lolth approached without a word. She stopped in front of Tariq and lifted one hand, palm up.

  He understood. The gun settled into her fingers. Lolth turned it once, then again, metal catching moons light along. She tested the mechanism with careful precision, thumb rolling the chamber, ear tilted as if listening for something only she could hear.

  Then the bar.

  Tariq placed it across her hands. Lolth weighed it, shifted her grip, and ran her fingers around it, making it rotate. Satisfied, she returned both. A brief handshake followed.

  Tariq stepped back down from the stage.

  He rejoined them, leaned against the rope, arms folding loosely, eyes already elsewhere.

  Esra studied him. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Tariq said.

  Lyra squinted. “Nothing doesn’t look like that.”

  “So,” Esra tried again, “you passed?”

  Tariq glanced sideways, smirking. “Of course. I turned elements into metal. What did you guys expect?”

  Berk tilted his head. “Then what was the gun for?”

  “Bianca?” Tariq lifted it just enough for the barrel to catch the light. Pride softened his stern face. “I’m not an idiot. I’m a dwarf. I don’t create elements. I bend them. She helps. And I wanted to show her off.”

  He turned to Lyra. “So? What do you think? You liked to see my gun, Sweetheart?”

  Lyra opened her mouth to answer, then stopped.

  Movement rippled around the camp.

  Black Robes emerged from the dark in a quiet procession. One after another, they took their places, forming a loose arc around the platform.

  Facing inward.

  Lyra took an instinctive step back, her heel brushing the rope. “What’s happening now?”

  Tariq didn’t answer right away. His eyes tracked the shifting formation, the way the robes closed ranks without a word. “This trial,” he said at last, voice low, “is full of surprises.”

  Between the dark silhouettes, a figure appeared on the stairs.

  She climbed slowly, one hand on the rail, her steps almost hesitant. The moons caught fragments of her shape and then lost them again. Her face stayed hidden by shadow.

  But even from where they stood, one thing was unmistakable.

  She wasn’t wearing black.

  

  “ […] XIII – A Magi does not rule. Not land. Not Sea. Not Sky. Not even itself. […]” from the Handbook of Advanced Elemental Theories and Practical Applications for the Trial of the Elements by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune