Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

If you want to skip ahead to the first chapter, go ahead! This is just a collection of notes that I've been trying to keep. I will edit this page periodically with the chapters that include Magnus and (EVENTUALLY you little rodents) the smut chapters, too. I personally just like knowing what kind of fiction I'm about to read, so I want to lay down some ground rules.

Magnus chapters AS OF 6/10: 4-8, 10, 12-17, 19-23, 25-28, 31-34

SMUT IN CHAPTER 13!!! SKIP IF YOU'RE JUST HERE FOR THAT!!!!

Firstly, this is based off Stardew Valley. Duh. Specifically, I was inspired by Jellonip's RRRR mod (link: https://www.nexusmods.com/stardewvalley/mods/16893) and the Stardew Valley Expanded mod by FlashShifter (link: https://www.nexusmods.com/stardewvalley/mods/3753).

I would like to say, however, if you are a fan of the RRRR mod, my Magnus is very separate from Jellonip's Magnus, but I think it would be unfair to say I'm not inspired by/ greatly appreciate their work.

This is my first fully written fanfic before, and I'm trying to base my style based on a lot of other fanfics I've read. It's not my usual style, so please have some grace with me. I got a pretty nasty comment about my writing style, so if you want to give me criticism, that's fine, idc if it's mean, just make it constructive so I can actually use something with it.

With these mods, there's a lot of expansion on the vanilla Stardew Valley game, but essentially just think of it as a lot of extra added characters and settings, including the townspeople, and extra worldbuilding on magic. If I'm being honest, this won't be entirely faithful to either Jellonip or FlashShifter's mods, simply because I can't remember/gather all of their exact scenes and dialogues and character development. But, it is still definitely based on these mods. Here is the rest of my notes drawn out for you guys to understand what you're getting into.

• Inspiration: RRRR mod by Jellonip on Nexus and Stardew Valley Expanded, but specifically for our Magnus, I have been inspired mostly by a blend of the characters of Howl (Studio Ghibli), Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice), and Rochester (Jane Eyre, but in a hot way).
• Age of MC: I feel like I need to make this clear because there’s a lot of controversy with age-gap relationships. Our main character starts as 24 years old at the very start of this fic. Most of the other characters’ ages are pretty vanilla game lore friendly (although none of their ages are stated in the original game), so it’s noted that Lorelai (MC) can feel a lot older than the “younger” single townspeople.
• Age of Wizard: Magnus is 700 years old in this fanfiction. Just be thankful I didn't make him look 700 years old because I love old men (TONGUE OUT EMOJI).
• Age of Lance: I’m keeping his age vague as of right now (mostly because I would think that you have to be pretty old to learn so many kinds of magic to be so powerful), but he is definitely a lot younger than Magnus. It’s a point of contention between the two.
• Townspeople: pretty much all of them will be lore-friendly, and I am not going to slander any of them. This won’t be a fluff fanfiction, so there’s definitely going to show a lot of the townspeople’s flaws, but I really hate completely slandering the hell out of some of these awesome and complex characters. So yeah.
• DEI: originally titled this section as DEI as a joke but it's lowkey not a joke for me because I HATE how undiverse the original Stardew Valley game is. So, there are no "countries" in this besides Ferngill Republic and Gotoro Empire and some other unnamed ones, so it would be hard for me to describe some of these characters' races besides referencing their skin color. I have headcannoned most of the characters that are typically considered white as being different races. I will give you the basic rundown of SOME of the characters. Sophia (SVE mod) is East Asian, Alex is Latino, Abigail is half white and half Filipino from her dad's side, Sandy is middle eastern, Sam is mostly white and a quarter black, Lance is half Latino, and Leah is indigenous. This is all I could write down off the top of my head, but I will attempt to update this list.
• Lance Timeline Jump: In the base SVE mod, the romanceable bachelor Lance isn’t introduced and then made available until you make it to the forge on Ginger Island. That will remain largely true, but I will move his introduction up by a LOT. You’ll see.
• Mr. Qi: He has been excluded from this narrative indefinitely. He’s literally the most meta and fourth-wall breaking feature about this game, and it doesn’t make sense in this story so I think I’m just gonna get rid of him altogether. If I get a good suggestion on where to put him, then maybe, but I already know how the story is going to end, so I think I’m okay with leaving him out.
• Slow Burn: I would like to say that this is a LONG SLOW BURN ROMANCE. I mean, it's not the longest slow burn I've read on this site, or in other media, but if you think these characters are going to fuck after only 100k words, you are sorely mistaken. I just want to clear that up for any readers that don't like what I consider to be actual slow burns.
• TWs: This is an NSFW work for many reasons, including the following. There will be explicit language. Sorry! There will be mild fight scenes which will include some minor descriptions of gore, blood, violence, and some scary tension. There will be some sex scenes but they will ALL be COMPLETELY consensual and safe– I will have fully written out sex scenes. There might be some BDSM elements, but once again I have to be perfectly clear that these will all be completely consensual. But also before you get too excited, this is going to be the biggest slow burn I’ve ever written. I’ve written a lot of novels but I haven’t written a fanfiction in years.

And without further ado, let's get started!

Chapter Text

There is something distinctly cruel about the way a life can continue as if nothing has happened.

The morning after my grandfather dies, the trains in Zuzu City still run on time. The buses still screech at their stops. The office lights still flicker overhead with that faint electrical hum that no one else seems to notice anymore. People still file into their cubicles, still log into their computers, still sip their coffee and complain about the weather like the world has not shifted even slightly. And I am expected to do the same.

I remember sitting there at my desk, the blue light of my monitor reflecting back at me, my inbox filling with messages that all feel urgent and completely meaningless at the same time. My phone buzzes once with a message from my mother. No call. No explanation. Just a confirmation of what I already knew was coming.

He is gone.

I stare at the message longer than I should, waiting for something else to follow it. Waiting for instructions. Waiting for something that tells me what I am supposed to do with that information.

Nothing comes.

When I ask for leave, I am denied before I even finish the sentence. My supervisor barely looks up from his own screen when he says it, as though grief is an inconvenience that can be scheduled around quarterly reports.

So I stay. For a few more weeks, I stay.

I wake up in my apartment that never quite feels like mine, walk the same streets that always feel too loud and too crowded, sit in the same chair that leaves my back aching by noon. I move through the routine like it has already decided what I am before I have the chance to object.

It is not until the letter arrives that something changes. It sits in my P.O. box longer than I care to admit.

I know what it is the moment I see the handwriting. There is something unmistakable about it, even after all these years. It is careful, deliberate, slightly uneven in places like the pen lingered too long between thoughts.

I do not open it right away. Still, I keep it in my purse. It goes with me to work, to the break room, to the buses, and back home. Part of me thinks that as long as it stays sealed, whatever it contains cannot fully reach me. That I can delay whatever comes next simply by refusing to read it.

That illusion lasts exactly three days. I’m in my office when the urge finally hits me. I think it’s probably the harsh blue-white LEDs have finally seeped through my brain and killed any passion in me. It reminds me of labs in undergrad. Rows of fluorescent lights, the hum of machines, everything sterile and controlled. At least back then, there had been a purpose to it. A system I could understand. And I have been pushed to the point of more than confusion. I think I have gone fully insane. Either the letter will push me over the edge, or it could be the thing that can save me.

When I finally tear it open, I do it quickly, like ripping off a bandage, before I can change my mind.

Inside is a single sheet of paper. The message is simple. Direct in a way that only he could ever manage. Every summer and holiday I got to cherish him, he would always tell me how only I could find a way to make a one word answer into a thousand pages.

He tells me that if I am reading this, it means he is gone. That he has left me something, something that he hopes I will need someday when the weight of the world becomes too much to carry.

He tells me not to open the envelope he left for me until that moment arrives.

And then, at the bottom, almost like an afterthought but not quite, he writes that he loves me.

I sit there for a long time after reading it. The noise of the city continues around me, muffled now, distant in a way that feels almost unreal. I turn the second envelope over in my hands, tracing the edges, feeling the thickness of whatever rests inside it.

I do not wait this time. I open it immediately.

Inside is a deed. A farm. Not just any farm.

His farm.

Stardew Valley.

The name settles into my mind with a strange familiarity. I have been there before, though the memories come back in fragments rather than clarity. Warm afternoons that stretch too long. The smell of grass and soil. The feeling of being somewhere quieter, somewhere that did not press in on all sides.

I do not give myself time to overthink it. There is nothing in Zuzu City that feels like it belongs to me anymore.

So I leave.

By the time I reached the farm, the sun had just begun to crack its colorful whip against the sky. Buses to the valley were pretty hard to come by.

It is not early enough to call it evening, but the light has softened, stretching longer across the land and settling into the uneven terrain like it has done this a thousand times before. The path that leads up to the house is narrower than I expect, more suggestion than structure, barely worn into the ground through what must have been years of use. Or disuse.

The gate creaks when I push it open, the sound sharp against the otherwise quiet air. It feels like an announcement, like something in the valley has taken note of my arrival whether I intend it or not.

For a moment, I just stand there. The farm is… not what I had imagined. Not ruined, exactly.

It had been years since I had last visited Grandpa on his farm. It had been even longer since he was able to take care of it. In his final years, my mom spent a lot of time either coming down to the farm to take care of him, or helping him come up to stay with her. His last year, however, he told her he wanted to spend his final moments on the farm. I will always regret how I didn’t just quit my job to spend some last few months with him.

The house might have looked familiar, but the land looked much worse than I cared to remember.

It was neglected in a way that feels deeper than surface-level disorder. The grass has grown wild and uneven, patches of it bending in different directions like it has been left to decide its own shape. Stones are scattered across the land with no clear purpose, some half-sunken into the soil, others resting on top as if they had simply decided to stay. Branches and debris collect in small clusters, as though the wind has been trying to organize the place in its own imperfect way.

And yet, beneath all of that, there is a faint but present structure.

The outline of what this place used to be still lingers. Rows that once held crops. Paths that once connected different parts of the land. A rhythm that has been interrupted, but not erased.

The house sits slightly off-center, smaller than I remember, though I suspect that has more to do with perspective than reality. Time has a way of changing things like that. The wood is worn, the paint dulled, but it stands. Solid. Unyielding. Waiting.

I take a slow breath, letting the air settle into my lungs. It smells different here. Earthier. Cleaner. Alive in a way that feels almost too present, like I am stepping into something that has been continuing without me and is now adjusting to my presence.

There is a faint rustling to my left. I turn instinctively, expecting to see something obvious. A bird, maybe. A small animal moving through the grass.

There is nothing. The movement stops the moment I look at it.

I frown slightly, scanning the edge of the property where the trees begin to thicken into forest. The leaves shift again, softer this time, like something retreating rather than approaching.

It is probably nothing. Just wind.

Still, I make a quiet mental note of it.

Before I can settle further into the space, I hear footsteps approaching from behind me, accompanied by the unmistakable murmur of conversation.

I turn. Two figures make their way up the path toward me.

The first is a woman with bright red hair pulled back into a loose braid, her posture confident and purposeful in a way that suggests she is used to being the one who knows what to do in any given situation. Her clothes are practical, worn in the way that comes from actual use rather than style.

The second is an older man, though not frail. His steps are slower, but deliberate, his expression carrying a kind of practiced warmth that feels equal parts genuine and rehearsed.

They stop a few feet away. The woman smiles first.

“You must be Lorelai,” she greets, her voice open and friendly. “I’m Robin, the local carpenter.” Her handshake is firm when she steps forward, her grip steady and confident. It grounds the moment in a way I did not realize I needed.

“And this is Mayor Lewis,” she adds, gesturing toward the man beside her.

Lewis inclines his head slightly, offering a polite smile. “Welcome to Pelican Town. We’ve all been expecting you.”

Of course they have. Small towns work like that.

I return the greeting, trying not to feel too out of place standing there with a single bag slung over my shoulder and no real idea of what I am doing yet.

Robin gestures toward the house. “Your grandfather’s place has seen better days, but there’s good bones here. With a little work, it’ll be just fine.”

Lewis nods in agreement, his gaze sweeping across the property with something that almost looks like nostalgia. “Your grandfather was a respected member of this community. We’re all very glad to see someone taking up the mantle.”

The word mantle sits strangely with me. It sounds heavier than it should. Like my character was getting a lot more expectations than I was ready for.

I glance back at the land again, taking in the overgrowth, the scattered debris, the quiet persistence of something waiting beneath it all.

“I’ll do my best,” I tell them.

Robin lets out a small laugh. “That’s all anyone can ask.”

There is a pause then, the kind that comes when introductions have been made but nothing else has quite settled into place yet.

Lewis clears his throat, shifting slightly. “If you need anything, the town is just a short walk south. Pierre’s General Store carries most essentials.”

“And if anything breaks,” Robin adds with a grin, “you know where to find me.”

I nod, committing the information to memory even as it all feels slightly unreal.

They linger for only a moment longer before excusing themselves, their footsteps fading back down the path the way they came.

And just like that, I am alone again. The silence returns, but it feels different now. Less empty.

More… aware.

I step further onto the land, my boots pressing into soil that feels softer than I expect. Not muddy. Not unstable. Just… responsive. As I move, the grass shifts around my ankles, brushing lightly against the fabric of my jeans. It is not unusual, not enough to draw immediate attention, but there is something about the way it moves that feels almost intentional.

I crouch down, reaching out to pull at a stray weed near the base of a stone. The roots come free more easily than they should. Cleanly. As if the ground had already decided to let it go. That’s not how roots work. They should resist; anchor into the soil, cling. That’s the whole point.

I frown, turning the plant in my hand. Maybe the soil composition here is just… loose. Different. I didn’t study and research biology for four years to leave things up to chance, but for my sanity, which was slowly getting pieced back together every minute I spent outside the city, I needed to let my questions go.

Still. It feels like the ground let it go. I pause, the plant still in my hand.

“That’s convenient,” I mutter under my breath.

The wind stirs again. Or something like it. The trees at the edge of the property rustle softly, their leaves shifting in a pattern that feels just slightly too coordinated to be random.

I straighten slowly, brushing dirt from my hands. It is probably nothing. Just a new place. New environment. My brain adjusting to unfamiliar surroundings. Still, as I look out over the land again, I cannot shake the feeling that I am not just observing it.

That something, somewhere beneath all of this overgrowth and quiet, is observing me back.
I exhale, steadying myself.

One thing at a time. The farm needs work. That much is obvious. And whatever this place is, whatever it used to be, whatever it might become again, it is mine now. That thought settles deeper than I expect.

I step forward, reaching for the nearest branch to begin clearing space. The moment my fingers close around it, the wind picks up again, just slightly, carrying the scent of soil and leaves and something faintly sweet I cannot quite name.

For a brief, fleeting second, it feels like the land exhales.

And then the moment passes.

Leaving me standing there, alone on a piece of land that is no longer entirely unfamiliar, with the quiet understanding that this is where everything begins.

Chapter Text

The first four days of settling into Stardew Valley are uneventful in the way that only relentless physical labor can be. I spend almost the entirety of those days on my land, attempting to tame and mold it according to what grandpa's old diaries direct me to do, which turns out to be considerably more demanding than reading about it had suggested. Grueling is the honest word for it. And yet, even falling asleep every midnight with an aching body and lids so heavy they feel weighted, I wake up each morning feeling something I have not felt in years. Not rested, exactly. Something more specific than that. Like I am being used correctly for the first time in a long time.

On my fourth day of chopping down every tree that is in my way, relocating stones, and untangling every other inconvenience the land has accumulated over years of neglect, I decide that the fifth day belongs to me. Yoba may have rested on the seventh day, but I am not Yoba, and I have earned this.

The first place I go is Robin's shop up the mountain.

The hike is not short, but the valley makes it difficult to resent. The whole place seems to breathe color in a way that Zuzu City has long since forgotten how to do, every slope and tree and patch of sky arranged into something that looks less like weather and more like intention. I have not gotten tired of stepping outside and simply looking at it. I suspect I will not for some time.

Grandpa was not a native to Pelican Town, just like me. He left behind diaries stuffed beneath his old rickety bed, the kind that look like they were never meant to be found and probably were. I remembered his place being grander when I visited as a girl, though those memories come back in fragments rather than clarity, mostly warm afternoons and old men who called me Little Kane and ruffled my hair. When I arrive, there is only a bed, a small kitchen, a fireplace, and a table with two chairs. He clearly downsized over the years, which makes sense for a man who was generous to the people he loved and constitutionally incapable of spending money on himself. I suspect Grandma dying did not help the motivation to maintain things either.

It is his first diary entry I keep returning to while trying to figure out where to begin exploring.

Spring 7, 1975

The first week of trying to mow down this place has been utter hell. I haven't been able to get out of this damn place this entire time. I just have been getting up, grooming the farm, tilling the soil, watering it, fertilizing it, planting seeds, and then collapsing in bed.

The second week hasn't been so bad now, though. I've been getting friendly with a lot of the townspeople here. They're all very quirky people. In fact, I have yet to find a face that hasn't left me with more intrigue. Most of the townspeople are quite old though, like Ma and Pa's age, and I seem to be in the wrong age group. There are a few that are close to my age group, like Willy and that annoying Lewis.

There is one guy I've tried to bump into more that has more than tickled my interest and that would be the stoic George. He lives with his parents still, which isn't abnormal for someone my age (I'm just a strange 22 year old man I suppose), and spends most of his days going off to the coal mine with some of the other men in our town. I sometimes can catch him drinking at the saloon, usually alone, but sometimes talking to that pretty neighbor girl of his, Evelyn.

Even though I might feel a constant anxiety that the state of my farm puts me in, I've had a lot of time to pursue other hobbies and sales in the valley, namely fishing. That boy Willy is a bit younger than me, but boy, does he know how to cast a line. When I can't harass George into having small talk with me (even after plying him with a dozen beers), I'll walk down to Willy's little cabin and drink an ale while we look out at the ocean. It's been… nice.

All in all, I hope this all works out. I took a massive bet on this land when I decided to spend all of my savings on it. It'll pay off, I think.

I have read that entry enough times to have most of it memorized. There is something steadying about it, reading about someone else's first week in the same place, the same overwhelm, the same slightly desperate optimism at the end. He was twenty two when he wrote it. I am twenty six and allegedly have the advantage of his notes to guide me. I am beginning to suspect the notes are less a guide and more a comfort.

Robin's shop is not what I expect.

First, I do not expect it to be a mansion. Second, I do not expect her to have a husband who looks like he is about to defend his dissertation on my front porch. I had blushed when Robin first shook my hand, having filed her as someone just a few years my senior and then rapidly revised that estimate upon learning she has children who are roughly my age. What tips me off is the man I nearly walk into on the way up, leaning against the side of the house in a blue polo and jeans, scratching notes onto a clipboard with the focused efficiency of someone who has been at it for hours and has not noticed the morning is gone.

He does not look up.

"Um. Hi. My name's Lorelai Kane."

He looks up. Mid-forties, short black dreadlocks threaded with salt and pepper, his face carrying the expression of someone who has found a new variable and is already rearranging the experiment in his head.

"Greetings!" he exclaims, a wide smile spreading across his face as he thrusts his hand out. "I'm Demetrius, local scientist and father. Thanks for introducing yourself. I'm studying the local plants and animals from my home laboratory. Have you met my daughter Maru? She'd be very interested to meet you."

I take his hand and shake it the way my dad taught me. Firm. Brief.

"Oh, biology?" I say, automatically, before my brain catches up with my mouth. "That was my major."

Something in his expression sharpens immediately, the casual warmth replaced by something considerably more focused. "Biology?" he repeats, his grip on the clipboard tightening. "What area of focus?"

"General, mostly," I reply, already regretting the door I have opened. "I minored in botany. I wasn't on a medical track."

"Fascinating," he says quickly, gesturing toward the mountain air as though it contains the relevant data. "Then you'll appreciate this. The microclimates here are incredibly diverse for such a small region. Elevation shifts alone create at least three distinct ecological zones, and that's not accounting for soil variation. Have you noticed the mineral density differences between the valley floor and the forest?"

I open my mouth.

"I just got here," I admit.

"Of course, of course," he concedes, though his tone implies he has already moved several steps ahead. "You'll see it. The plant growth alone is highly irregular. Some species exhibit accelerated root release under minimal force—"

My stomach drops.

"The roots?" I say, before I can stop myself.

"Yes!" He lights up like I have said exactly the right thing. "You've noticed it too?"

I think about the weed from my first morning. The way it came loose too cleanly, too easily. Like the ground had already decided to let it go.

"I thought it was just loose soil," I say carefully.

"A reasonable assumption," he replies, in the tone of someone who does not entirely agree. "But I suspect there's more at play. The valley seems to operate on biological responses that don't align with standard models."

Standard models. Right.

I shift my weight and fold my arms without meaning to. There is a version of me, three or four years ago, who would have leaned into this conversation without hesitation. The terminology, the curiosity, the structure of it all still fits into something familiar. But it does not settle the way it used to. It feels like trying to step back into a coat I outgrew without noticing.

"Have you worked with plant signaling pathways?" Demetrius presses, gaining momentum. "Chemical communication, environmental responsiveness, there's a possibility that what we're observing here represents a heightened form of inter-organism interaction that current literature hasn't—"

"Demetrius."

Robin's voice comes through the door cleanly and without urgency, the voice of someone who has had this exact conversation many times and has developed an efficient technique for ending it.

He stops mid-sentence. Just pauses, like a switch has been found.

"You're going to scare her off before she buys anything," her muffled voice notes, not unkindly.

He exhales, the intensity receding by a degree, and straightens. "Right. Yes. Of course." He gives me an apologetic smile. "We can revisit another time."

"Sure," I say. "Maybe."

He nods, satisfied enough with that, and gestures toward the door.

As I step past him, I glance down at my hands, at the faint memory of roots giving way without resistance, at something in the ground that moved like it was responding rather than simply relenting.

I push the thought aside and walk into the house.

"Hey there, Lorelai!" Robin calls from behind the counter, her red hair in a braid, a flannel knotted around her overalls. Her smile is the kind that has been practiced enough to be entirely genuine.

"Who's the new kid?"

The voice comes from the hallway. I turn.

He is tall and lean, leaning against the doorframe with the practiced ease of someone who has decided that doorframes are an entirely reasonable place to conduct all social interactions. Black seems less like a preference and more like a philosophical commitment, baggy shirt with a skull print, cargo pants with chains at the hip, heavy boots. His hair is dark and long, falling across part of his face, which is decorated with piercings at his nose, eyebrow, and just below his mouth, each one placed with more intention than it appears.

"Lorelai, this is my son Sebastian," Robin announces, with a smile that has a very specific layer of maternal resignation underneath it.

I wave. He looks at me with a narrowed expression that is not unfriendly so much as evaluating, working out how much energy this situation warrants.

"She's the new farmer," Robin says, with the exasperated patience of someone who has said something several times already. "The one I told you about two weeks ago."

"Ohhh," Sebastian murmurs, in a low and entirely unbothered voice. "You just moved in. Cool."

He turns and pads back down the hallway, pulling the door to his room most of the way closed behind him, leaving approximately six inches of hallway visible and the distinct impression that this has gone exactly as well as it was ever going to.

Robin rolls her eyes. "I would apologize, but honestly, he always acts like that."

It would be out of character for the local emo to be enthusiastic about strangers. I find it reassuring, actually. At least he is consistent.

I am leaning against the counter and looking around the space when something slides across the wood surface and touches my hand. A map, hand-drawn, careful, the whole valley laid out in clean lines with Robin's handwriting labeling things I have no framework for yet.

"Made it for you a few days ago," she explains. "Kept forgetting to drop it off. The valley can be overwhelming when you're new to it. Demetrius would have been completely lost when we first moved here if he weren't so excited about every single thing growing out of the ground." She smiles. "That man would spend a week studying a single blade of grass."

I look at the map. It is good. Detailed in the way of someone who has thought about what a newcomer would actually need rather than what she finds interesting.

We make small talk while I look at what she offers in terms of upgrades, which I am considerably further from affording than she probably assumes. Grandpa did not leave money. He left land, which is worth more in some ways and much less useful in the immediate term.

I am squinting at the map when a building catches my attention and I point to it. "What's this?"

Robin glances down at where my thumb sits. She laughs. "The old community center. Out of commission for decades. I barely remember it from when I was little." She shakes her head. "The whole place is overgrown. Vines through the floorboards last anyone checked. Lewis is too sentimental to demolish it and too broke to restore it, so it just sits there." A pause. "We could fit at least three shops in that footprint."

She changes the subject after that, and I let her, filing the community center away in the part of my mind where I put things I intend to come back to.

I have been on my way back toward the farm when the town square pulls me in.

It is not large, but it is busy in the way of small towns on good weather days, people moving between storefronts with the ease of people who have done this route a hundred times. I am the only one moving slowly, taking things in, which apparently makes me visible.

"Hey. New girl."

The voice comes from the direction of the general store. I turn to find a boy about my age leaning against the wall outside Pierre's, a skateboard propped beside him, wearing a yellow and white jacket over a t-shirt that looks like it has been through considerable adventures. His blonde hair is messy in the specific way of someone who has not thought about it and has somehow ended up looking like they have. He is grinning at me with the open and immediate warmth of someone who introduces himself to everyone and means it every time.

"I'm Sam," he announces, pushing off the wall and extending his hand. "You're the new farmer, right? Jakob's granddaughter?"

"Lorelai," I confirm, shaking it.

"Cool name," he says, with the easy conviction of someone whose opinions arrive quickly and without complication. "You settling in okay? The farm's kind of a lot, right? My mom mentioned you'd moved in. She knows everything about everyone, it's actually a little alarming."

"The farm is a lot," I agree.

Before I can say anything else, a voice cuts across the square with the particular volume of someone who has not adjusted for proximity.

"Sam, who are you talking to?"

Sam's posture changes before I even turn around. It is subtle, the kind of shift that happens below the level of conscious decision, his weight redistributing slightly, his grin becoming something more careful and less spontaneous, like a person who has heard a specific sound and is now paying attention to where his hands are.

A girl appears from around the corner of the general store. She is put together in a way that seems less like effort and more like a baseline, her blonde hair a perfect wave, her outfit the kind of carefully considered that announces itself without appearing to try. She walks with the ease of someone who has never once second-guessed whether she belongs somewhere, her eyes moving across the square and landing on me with a swift and comprehensive attention that takes in every detail and reaches a verdict before I have finished being assessed.

"You're the new farmer," she states.

"Lorelai," I confirm.

She looks me over again, unhurried and specific, cataloguing the evidence that four days of clearing land have left across most of my clothing, a constellation of dirt and grass stains and whatever else the farm has volunteered to contribute to my general appearance.

"You'd actually be kind of cute," she observes dryly, "if you weren't covered in half your field."

"Thank you," I say. "I think."

"It wasn't really a compliment," she clarifies, without any particular heat in it, which is somehow worse than if there had been heat. She says it the way you might note that someone has a flat tire, a fact she is making me aware of, almost a courtesy. "I'm Haley. My sister Emily works at the saloon. She'll be nice to you." A pause. "She's better with people."

"And you?" I ask.

Her eyes settle on me with the calm assessment of someone who has been asked this before and has a consistent answer. "I'm honest," she says simply. "Most people find that less comfortable than nice."

She looks past me then, briefly, to where Sam is standing.

Sam says nothing. He has, in fact, been saying nothing since she appeared, his earlier ease entirely reorganized into something that is technically still casual and is working very hard to appear that way.

Haley's gaze holds on him for exactly one second, which seems to be sufficient, and then returns to me.

"Wash the mud off before you introduce yourself to anyone else," she advises. "First impressions in a small town are difficult to revise." She turns and walks back the way she came, her posture carrying the unconcerned ease of someone who has said exactly what she meant and has no particular interest in how it was received.

The silence she leaves behind lasts a moment.

"That's Haley," Sam says, finally, in the tone of someone providing a warning that has arrived slightly too late to be useful.

"I gathered."

"She's like that with everyone," he adds, which has the quality of something he says regularly and is never entirely sure is reassuring.

A third figure appears at the edge of the square before I can respond, taller than Sam by several inches, built like someone who has been an athlete long enough that it has simply become the shape of him, wearing a fitted shirt in weather that does not warrant it. He walks with the specific ease of someone accustomed to being noticed and entirely comfortable with that fact.

He stops when he reaches Haley, falling into step beside her with the naturalness of people who do not need to negotiate their proximity, their shoulders almost touching, their pace immediately matching. She says something to him in a low voice and he responds without looking at her, his eyes scanning the square with the idle attention of someone taking stock of their environment.

"That's Alex," Sam offers, from beside me.

"Are they together?" I ask.

"No," Sam says, at a volume that suggests he is very confident in this answer and has also thought about it more than once.

They look, from where I am standing, entirely like two people who are together. The comfort of them is the particular kind that comes from time and familiarity, the kind that does not perform itself because it does not need to.

"Everyone thinks that," Sam adds, reading my expression. "They don't. It's just—" he pauses, searching for the word. "Them."

Alex's eyes find me across the square in the way eyes do when they have already catalogued everything else in a space and arrived at the remaining variable. He looks at me with the frank and uncomplicated assessment of someone who has not yet decided what to do with new information.

"New farmer?" he calls out.

"That's the plan," I call back.

He seems to find this acceptable. He nods once, says something else to Haley that makes her exhale through her nose in what might have been a laugh if she had allowed it to finish, and they move on.

Sam watches them go with the expression of someone who has long since made peace with a situation he was not consulted about.

"Come find me if you need anything," he offers, turning back to me with the easy warmth he has apparently kept entirely in reserve for when Haley is not in his immediate vicinity. "I know most people here. Well. Emily knows more people. But I'm easier to talk to."

"Good to know," I say.

He nods, picks up his skateboard, and heads off in the opposite direction from Haley and Alex, which I suspect is not entirely a coincidence.

I decide to make my way over to the community center, the mysterious building that Robin had mentioned in passing.

Robin is right. The disuse is visible from a distance, the building wearing years of neglect in every soft edge and overgrown surface. As I close the gap between us, I find Lewis standing in front of it, looking at it with an expression I have not yet seen from him, something private and grief-adjacent, nothing like the rehearsed warmth of his official welcome.

"Look at this place," he murmurs, not quite to me, not quite to himself. "Me and your grandpa Jakob used to get up to all kinds of things in here." He exhales slowly. "It was the pride of this town. And then I let the day-to-day of running everything eat up every hour I had, and it just—" he gestures at the state of it, which completes the sentence adequately.

I put a hand on his shoulder without quite deciding to. He is old enough to be my grandfather, and something about him makes that feel appropriate rather than presumptuous.

He tells me about JojaCorporation, about the warehouse project, about the particular mathematics of a small town that needs room to grow and has no elegant way to get it. Then he steps forward and wrestles the old door open, the hinges complaining loudly about being asked to function.

The main room is large and dim and smells of earth and damp wood. Plants have pushed through the floorboards with the patient certainty of things operating on a schedule that has nothing to do with human timelines. A drained and cracked aquarium sits against one wall. A stone fireplace occupies the center, cold and dark, the hearth clean in a way that suggests even the moss has given up on it.

Something near the far corner catches my eye, a small structure that has grown into the space between a tree and the wall in a way that is less accidental and more like something has decided to build it there. It is impossible to describe precisely. You have to look at it and then decide what you think it is.

"Hm," Lewis murmurs, following my gaze. "I suppose Jas and Vincent have been playing in here."

The sound comes before I can respond.

Something between a squeak and a note, a tiny sound with a musical quality that has no source I can identify, and I turn fast enough to catch it.

Whatever I see lasts approximately one second. Small. Rounded. Colored in a way that my brain keeps trying to fit into existing categories and keeps failing, because the category it actually belongs to is one I do not have. It looks at me, which is the part that is most alarming, because it looks at me with something in it that is not accidental, not the blinking reflex of a startled animal but the specific and deliberate regard of something that is making an assessment. Then it is gone, the same musical chirp folding itself back into the silence.

"What's the matter? Are you ill?" Lewis asks, having turned around to find nothing but the empty corner.

"It was right there," I say, and hear the pitch of my own voice and cannot quite correct it. "Right by that structure. It disappeared the second you turned."

Lewis chuckles softly, the patient laugh of someone managing a situation. "You saw something? Probably just rats."

"I lived in Zuzu City," I reply, more sharply than I intend. "I know what a rat looks like."

The chirp comes again.

This time it appears directly behind Lewis, between him and the cold fireplace, positioned with the specific comedic timing of something that is either entirely coincidental or entirely not, and I flinch hard enough that Lewis startles and spins around to find nothing.

He turns back to me with the expression of someone revising their assessment of the new farmer.

"You're starting to worry me, Lorelai," he says, gently. He pats my shoulder once. "I'm going to head home. Lunch."

He leaves. The door creaks shut behind him.

I stand in the dim and plant-threaded quiet of the community center and give myself a moment to breathe.

The creature is not frightening. That is the strange part. It is small and strange and looks at me with the specific quality of something that is deciding something about me, and what I feel in the aftermath is not fear so much as the particular disorientation of encountering something I have no existing file for. I have spent four years building a fairly comprehensive taxonomy of the world. Whatever that is, it is not in it.

I square my shoulders, apply whatever quantity of courage I have inherited from my grandfather, and walk back inside.

The rest of the building gives itself up slowly. I take the hallway to the left, try the first door, and step into a room that is darker and closer than the main hall, the kind of space that has been sealed in on itself for a long time and has developed opinions about it.

The feeling starts at my feet and moves upward. Not pain, not exactly discomfort, something more like recognition, the particular sensation of something asking a question I did not know I could answer.

In the center of the floor, inlaid into the wood rather than resting on it, is a plaque.

I crouch to look at it. The emblem carved into it is unlike anything I have a category for. Not decorative, not random, not any alphabet or notation system that my biology degree, which included taxonomy and chemical notation and the organizational logic of a dozen scientific disciplines, has prepared me for. There is structure to it, I can feel that, the way you can feel grammar in a language you do not speak, but I cannot find the pattern from the outside.

The whooshing sound, which has been at the edge of my awareness since I entered, gets louder.

I leave with the energy of someone who has made a sensible and well-considered decision.

The letter from Marlon is waiting when I get back to the farm, tucked beside a notice from Morris at JojaMart about the mine landslide clearance. Morris has signed his letter with practiced warmth. Pressed against his signature, slightly crooked, is a sticky note.

come find me - marlon

Seven words. No punctuation besides the dash. The handwriting is the kind that belongs to someone who considers flourishes a waste of time.

I go that same afternoon.

The mine entrance is where Robin's map says it will be, a walk I have not yet made, the path climbing slightly before leveling onto a wide rock platform with the Guild building to the right and the mine entrance cut into the mountain face ahead. From the outside, the mine is unremarkable. Dark mouth, wooden supports, the smell of cold rock and something faintly metallic drifting outward. I stand in front of it and give myself a brief and honest internal conversation about whether I am doing this.

I am doing this.

The dark inside is the specific dark of underground spaces, where your eyes adjust and then discover the adjustment is not sufficient. One torch on the wall provides most of the light, casting uneven amber across a cleared area before the mine shaft, where a ladder descends into something deeper than the torchlight reaches.

The man standing near the edge of it is not what I had expected from a sticky note.

He is looking at me already when I notice him, which suggests he has been looking at me since I came in, which I file away. His face is half-lit, catching the torch in a way that makes it difficult to land on a precise age. Thirty or seventy, depending on the angle, something in the structure of it resisting easy categorization. His hair is white and shaggy, his beard matching it. A red cape is slung over one shoulder, half-concealing clothes that suggest a person who has dressed for function for so long that function has become its own kind of style. And an eyepatch, which I note and do not comment on.

"Greetings, Lorelai," he murmurs, his voice low and deliberate, the voice of someone accustomed to spaces where sound carries unpredictably.

"I was just looking at this old shaft," he remarks conversationally, his gaze dropping to the hole in the floor, to the ladder descending into the dark. "Abandoned for decades." He looks back up at me with the sly quality of someone about to say something obvious as though it is a revelation. "Still, there's probably good ore down there. But a dark place, undisturbed for so long—" a pause, "—I'm afraid ore isn't the only thing you'll find."

He steps forward.

The cape shifts, and I see the sword hilt at his side, and something in my nervous system makes a decision about this before my brain has caught up, and my feet, in their wisdom, misjudge the unfamiliar ground behind me and I go down hard, landing on the rock floor with a sound that is completely undignified and an impact that is going to make itself known tomorrow.

He laughs. Genuinely, not cruelly. The laugh of someone who has seen a version of this before and finds it familiar rather than funny at someone's expense.

"I'm not going to kill you, Lorelai," he says, with the patience of someone clarifying something that should not need clarifying. "I was hoping you'd have the same bravery as your grandfather." He tilts his head, studying me with that half-lit expression. "I suppose you're just chicken."

I sit up. "I am not."

He reaches for the sword, and I do not flinch this time. He throws it down in front of me with the easy strength of someone whose body does this without effort, and it hits the rock beside my feet with a sound that rings through the whole space, and the only thing that moves is my toes curling inside my boots.

He looks at that.

"Good," he says.

I stand up and put my hand on the hilt. It is heavier than I expect and more serious about being a sword than I had anticipated. I pull it free. It takes more effort than I want to show and less than I had feared.

He watches me hold it with the expression of someone conducting an assessment and keeping the results private.

"Name's Marlon," he notes. "I run the Guild outside." He tilts his head again with that same sly quality, something in it that is not quite warmth and is closer to it than most things he probably allows himself. "Prove yourself and I might think about making you a member."

He gives me one last look that I cannot fully read, dips his head once in acknowledgement, and leaves. Not elaborately. Just turns and walks out, his footsteps fading up the path.

I stand in the dark with a sword I do not know how to use, looking at a mine shaft that goes further down than the torchlight reaches.

A note is stuck to the top rung of the ladder. I unfold it.

10 slimes. Maybe bring some food first.

I have no framework for what slimes means and several theories, none of them comfortable. I refold the note, put it in my coat, and stand there for another moment in the cold dark with the sword heavy in my hand, the mine waiting below with the patient indifference of something that has been here long before me and will be here long after.

Then I climb back up into the daylight and go home to water my crops.

I am beginning to strongly suspect that grandpa left some things out of the diaries.

Chapter Text

Going to bed fairly early this time helped me feel a lot more rejuvenated. I got up and started to harvest the crops I had planted, some measly parsnips. I would need to go buy some more seeds and plant them before the end of the day if I wanted to maximize my profits, I decided.

As I was getting back up from the soil that stained my jeans, I noticed something on my porch that I had not seen before. An envelope. Sitting right to the side of my doorstep. What kind of weirdo would leave a letter outside of a clearly visible mailbox?

The envelope was such an interesting array of blue colors that it was enough to make my head twirl. The letter inside remained the same. Not only was the stationary a dark blue and had some strange fantastical imagery of some mountains and swirling symbols, but the ink that stained it was an electric blue and written in an anciently out of date cursive. It was more of a calligraphy than a cursive, really.

On it, it read:

“My sources tell me you’ve been poking around the old community center.
Why don’t you pay me a visit?
My chambers are west of the forest lake, in the stone tower. I may have information concerning your… ‘rat problem’.
- M. Rasmodius, Wizard”

Was this whole town just a breeding ground for freaks?

Well.

Going to Pierre’s wasn’t as exciting as I had hoped. A lot of the younger people in the town seemed to run on a schedule that avoided me as much as possible. I did happen to meet Abigail, Pierre’s alternatively-dressed and purple-haired daughter who just gave me a small smile before she slipped back in her room. Was every eligible bachelor and bachelorette alternative?

I also got to meet Pierre’s wife, who had allegedly natural green locks that were cropped just before her shoulders. She was nice but even quieter than her daughter, her eyes flickering with curiosity as if to ask me if I was going to be a good influence or bad one in this town.

As I am checking out my products at the counter, I ask Pierre, “Do you have any idea where I could find this ‘wizard tower’? I’m afraid I got prank mail.”

I hold my letter out in my hand so he could look at it, which he promptly tears from my fingers to scan.

“Hmm, the Wizard, you say?”

I nod.

“That’s very strange, but sure, I’ll draw the directions for you if you need it.”

“Oh, that’s okay, Robin made a map for me.” Frankly, I had seen Pierre’s handwriting on all of the signs and I wasn’t sure if I could read it on my paper.

Pierre’s eyes flash pridefully. “Well did you know that Pierre’s General Goods sells maps with all markings in Stardew Valley for only $99?”

I sigh. “I did know that, Pierre. Should I ask your wife instead?” Pierre could be an asshole, but it wasn’t easy to make him come back down to earth and to reason.

Caroline’s voice quickly cuts across the room, shouting, “I don’t know where that old kook lives. Pierre, just mark it on her map and be done with it!”

I giggled at that and Pierre’s small huff.

“Yeah, dad, just give it to her already,” I hear Abigail say. She slithers in from the connected house and is hitting a bright purple vape with a grin.

“Abigail, I told you no e-cigarettes in the house or you’re grounded again!” He bellows.

“They’re not e-cigarettes, it’s a vape!” She cries out, her feet breaking into a sprint.
She quickly runs out through the front door, turning around to give me a thumbs up while the two of us are giggling at each other.

Pierre quickly apologizes before he yells at Caroline to go find their daughter.

I had already visited Marnie’s ranch once before, simply to pop in and give her a hello. My directions took me to hers and Leah’s part of the forest, and I decided to pop in and give a hello.

“Hey, it’s the new farmer again!” She yells out at me.

I give a weak smile as she calls out for Jas and Shane to come say hi. Shane yells back no and Jas rushes into the room, quickly waddling in with chicken that looks gigantic in her small arms.

Jas quickly tugs on my flannel and I oblige by taking the chicken out of her arms. I think her name is Charlie.

“Bck bck,” the bird says to me. I can’t help but giggle.

Marnie quickly takes the chicken out of my arms and tells Jas to quit it before asking me, “What can I do for you, Lorelai?”

I hand her my map. “I got a request this morning in the mail from a man named M. Rasmodius? Said he lived in Cindersap Forest. Do you have any idea where that could be?”

Marnie’s face immediately crumples into some unreadable expression. She looks at the map, looks back up at me, and then puts her eyes back down again.

“What’s wrong?” I prod.

She shakes her head. “I would think that you got a prank letter, but I think that’d be a pretty weird prank to pull on a newcomer.”

I cock my head.

She chews on her lip as she scans my face, trying to decide what I want to know. Instead of replying, she takes out a pencil from behind her register and starts to draw on it with a light hand.

“Here. Go around the pond to the west of the Cindersap forest and then go north from there. His tower will be visible by the time you make it around the pond.”

Before I can take the paper from her hand, she lays a hand on mine with stern eyes. “Be careful. The Wizard has been in the valley for Yoba knows how long… but magic isn’t something to be trifled with.”

“What do you mean by that?” I question her.

She shrugs. “In my lifetime, the town has always been taught to stay as far away from the Wizard and that tower as possible. He’s not bad folk. In fact, I bet he probably does us a lot of good by staying here. But magic can be hard to undo, even by one who holds it.”

I felt a weird shiver down my spine. Why was Marnie being so cryptic?

But I gulp my fear down and thank her with a smile. “Thanks, Marn. I really do appreciate it. And thanks for the advice, too.”

The tower was exactly where Marnie had said it would be. It was a tall and crooked spire made of old cobbled stone and a conical crown made of dark blue shingles. It was completely covered with bright green vines that wrapped around its body. I walk up the rocky steps to its strong oak door. The entire building looked like it was from another millennium.

Before I can psych myself out, I enter.

The first thing I was meant with was a light haze that cast its filter on the entire room, making the dark place just a bit more difficult to see. The second thing to hit me was the aromatic scents of different kinds of herbs and other fragrances I could not pinpoint. The entrance room, which I realized was where I was, was filled with all sorts of plants, potted or hung or left on shelves. It was like walking into a rainforest.

My brain tries to catalog everything automatically—plants, compounds, reactions. But nothing settles into anything I recognize. It’s like looking at biology… if biology had rules I was never taught. It would be infuriating if I wasn’t so enchanted and curious.

As I step forward into the tower, I move into what seems like a library, but it’s not. To my left, there’s a large cauldron with smoke bubbling from it, likely the cause of the tower’s haziness. All on the wall next to it are bookcases stuffed with all kinds of tomes. I can’t quite make out the inscriptions, but I can already get a sense that they’re not written in English. In the center, there’s an interruption in the wooden floors and in that gap, was a square of cobbled stone in the ground, and in that cobbled stone there is an intricately drawn circle of chalk, where a whole bunch of candles are strategically placed around it. And standing inside of that circle, is a man.

His eyes are shut and in deep concentration, but as I make another step forward, I see his mouth begin to move.

“Ah.”

The single syllable seems to settle into the room rather than echo, like it has weight to it, like it belongs there more than I did.

His eyes open.

For a moment, I just… look.

He’s taller than I expected. But also, what was I expecting? Still, he’s tall enough that the space seemed to arrange itself around him differently. The dark fabric of his robe absorbs most of the candlelight, leaving only soft edges where it folds over his shoulders and down his arms. His hair falls loose past them, not carefully styled and more of a shag, just… there, like it had decided it didn’t need permission. His mustache is a bit different in comparison, something quite well groomed in comparison to someone who seemed to value neatness over vanity.

There’s something deliberate about him. Not stiff. Not rigid. Just controlled, in a way that makes everything else in the room, like the drifting smoke, the tangled shelves, and the creeping vines, feel looser by comparison.

And then there are his eyes. A color I can’t quite grasp standing from so far away, but they’re dark and commanding nonetheless.

Steady. Focused. Not searching, not assessing in the way people usually did, but placing. Like a researcher out in the field.

His mouth curves faintly

“Ah, yes,” he says, voice smooth and even. “I have predicted your arrival a long time ago, young Lorelai.”

I blink.

Because first of all, that is an insane thing to say to a woman you’ve never met.

And secondly and most annoyingly, Rasmodius is very good-looking.

I cross my arms. “Do you always open with cryptic prophecies, or am I just special?”

There is a pause, one that was small but intentional.

“That,” he says, “depends on whether you intend to be.”

I exhale. “Right. Good. Wonderful. That clears up absolutely nothing.”

His gaze shifts slightly, not away, but past me, like he is tracking something in the air I can’t see. Then he steps out of his chalked circle.

Even that is quiet. Not because of any caution, just an absence of sound. I take a few more steps forward, letting myself be fully enveloped in the madness.

Up close, the room sharpens.

The smell hits first: damp earth, crushed herbs, something faintly metallic under it all. The cauldron to my left gives off a low, steady simmer, thick green liquid rolling in slow circles like it had its own rhythm. I feel his gaze continue to settle on me as my eyes examine the room.

“You’ve seen them.”

Not a question.

I lean one shoulder against the doorframe. “If by them you mean the tiny apple thing that made me question my mental stability in an abandoned building, then yes.”

His mustache twitches.

“It is fortunate,” Rasmodius says, moving toward the shelves, “that you came to me before telling too many people.”

“Oh, I already told Lewis,” I say. “He thinks I’m sleep-deprived and insane.”

“A common enough condition in this valley.”

I let out a short laugh.

He reaches for a vial without looking, fingers finding it like he already knew where everything was. The glass catches the candlelight. Green, but not bright. Deep. Like moss under shade.

He turns back toward me.

“The beings you saw are Junimos,” he says. “Forest spirits. To most people, they remain invisible. To you, apparently, they did not.”

“I keep trying to tell everyone I know what a rat looks like.”

“Yes,” he says dryly. “The matter of your ‘rat problem.’”

I watch Rasmodius for a second before I let myself ask my question.

“So are you actually a wizard, or is that just a branding choice?”

He looks at me with an unreadable face.

“Both.”

I think I want to laugh, but it almost seems too eerie of an answer to do so. I press my lips together, glancing briefly around the room again. Books stacked in uneven towers, dried plants hanging upside down from beams, and the slight haze of incense smoke coming from more than a few different directions.

Yeah. That tracks.

He steps closer and holds out the vial. “Drink this.”

I eye it. “That feels like a poor decision on my part.”

“You distrust me.” A statement, not a question.

“I distrust everyone here. It’s been a very weird week.”

“A sensible habit.”

“And yet you’re still handing me mystery liquid.”

“It is not mystery liquid.” His voice sounds extremely offended by my nomenclature of his potion.

“Reassuring.”

A flicker of something, interest or maybe even humor, passes through his expression.

“Lorelai.” The wizard says my name evenly, but it lands more distinctly than anything else he’d said so far. “If I intended you harm,” he starts, “you would not have crossed the threshold of my tower.”

“That is somehow not comforting,” I say, but I take it.

Our fingers brush during this small interaction. It’s quick, barely contact, the room reacts before I could. The smoke above the cauldron curls sharply sideways. One of the hanging plants shivers, leaves turning slightly as if following a breeze that wasn’t there.

I frown, looking down at my hand. “Did I just imagine that?”

“No,” he says. His eyes have narrowed and are now in a state of deeper investigation. It’s like he’s trying to look beneath my skin without an x-ray machine.

A pause.

Rasmodius doesn’t move right away. Just watches while he’s more focused now, but less distant.

“Okay,” I mutter. “That’s new.” I lift the vial and continue to look at its color. There’s a shimmery glint to it that catches in the flickering light, but besides that, the contents are entirely unclear to me. “This valley is so weird.”

“It is,” he says quietly. “More than most realize.”

I hesitated. “Marnie told me people are taught to stay away from you.”

“Yes.” His voice is flat.

I shifted my weight. “Do you blame them?”

“I believe the townsfolk are afraid of me. It is unfortunate, but I suppose it is human to be afraid of the unknown.” A strange look comes upon the wizard’s face. When I note how he subtly shifts his weight onto his other foot, I swear it’s a look of almost nervousness. “Besides, I would rather them hold fear for me than bother me. It’s not exactly the safest for the townspeople here.”

I glance at him, then at the tower again. “I mean… fair.”

His gaze returns to me.

“You should be cautious,” he warns.

“That wasn’t my question.”

A beat.

“Drink the potion, Lorelai.”

I sigh, exacerbated. “Can’t I at least know what I’m getting myself into?” For some reason, I trust this strange man in this weird tower. But how am I supposed to know what this potion contains?

The wizard takes a moment to answer. He eventually gives in to my request. “You can see the Junimos, yes? But you can’t understand the language?”

I nod.

He points to the vial with a nod of his head. “This potion will help you tap into the knowledge of the valley and understand the language. If you weren’t able to see them, this potion wouldn’t do much besides disorient you. But since you seem to have some sort of connection, which has yet to be fully described to me, you will be able to ascertain abilities from this.”

“Why can’t you just read the inscriptions for me?” I ask him.

He gives a small look to that, as if to say there wouldn’t be any fun in that. “Well, I could. But the Junimos didn’t contact me. They wanted to talk to you. I would say that makes you rather important, don’t you think?”

I shrug. “I don’t even know what a Junimo is, let alone what they want from me.”

“Think of them as nature spirits. Not exactly spirits, since they own a corporeal body, but spirits in the sense that they can shift through planes of existence. The existence they usually reside in is one where non-magical humans and animals can’t see them. Does that make sense?”

I shake my head.

Rasmodius sighs. Loudly. “Just drink the potion.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, sir.”

I tip it back.

The taste hit first. Bitter. Sharp. Green in a way that feels like it shouldn’t exist in liquid form.

I cough immediately. “That is awful.”

“It is not designed to be pleasant.”

“Could’ve warned me—” The sentence doesn't finish. Not because I stop talking.

Because this feels like my nervous system is being rewired in real time. And also, the room… shifts.

Not visually at first. Internally. Like something has loosened. The air feels thicker, not that it was heavy but that it suddenly felt present. Like it has weight now, like it presses against my skin instead of sitting around it.

I blink.

The light bends. Not dramatically, just slightly, like it has layers I haven’t noticed before.

The cauldron’s glow stretches outward, threading into the walls in faint lines of green and gold. The vines along the windows weren’t still anymore. They were breathing. Slow, subtle expansions and contractions like lungs.

“Oh,” I say softly.

That doesn’t sound like my voice.

I reach out without thinking, fingers brushing one of the leaves. It leans into my hand. Not moved. Responded.

I jerk back.

“Okay—okay, that’s—” I laugh, a little unsteady. “That’s new.” My voice feels strange, like it’s sitting in my lungs still even after I spoke.

Something flickers in the corner of my vision.

I turn.

A Junimo sits on the windowsill, blinking at me. Another peeks out from behind a stack of books.

And then more. Small shapes, shifting, appearing where there had been nothing seconds before. They aren’t just there.

They’re aware. Of me. Of each other. Of the room. Of him.

I turn in a slow circle, the edges of everything softening, then sharpening, then softening again.

“This is—” I start, then stop.

The floor isn’t exactly moving, but it doesn’t feel fixed either. Like it has depth now, layers beneath the surface I can almost feel but not see.

I press my hand to my temple. “Okay. Okay. That’s—wow.”

My thoughts feel like they were arriving half a second late.

The room expands—not physically, but in perception. Every object seems to hum with something quiet and constant. The books. The soil. The air.

The space between things.

I turned back toward him. He hadn’t moved much, but he’s closer to me now. Maybe I hadn’t noticed him move, but I know he’s watching me. Not exactly with a concern for my wellbeing, unfortunately, but with the precision of a hawk.

“Interesting,” he says.

“That sounds like it’s going to become a problem,” I say, though my voice comes out lighter than I intent.

“It is not yet a problem.”

“Yet?”

No answer.

I take a step forward and the floor dips. Or I do.

I’m not sure which.

I reach out instinctively and catch the edge of a table to steady myself. The wood feels warm under my palm, like it has been sitting in sunlight. In fact, I swear I can feel a heartbeat, too.

“Okay,” I spoke weakly, laughing under my breath. “I think I’m—” My sentence slips agin.

The room tilts, not violently, just enough that my balance stopped making sense.

He responds quickly and moves immediately to my side.

One hand closes lightly around my wrist, steadying without pulling. The contact is firm, grounding.

“Sit,” he says.

Not sharply. Just certain.

I don’t argue.

Mostly because I’m sure I can stand anymore.

He guides me, carefully, deliberately, to a low chair near the wall. The cushions smells faintly like dried lavender.

“Okay,” I mutter, sinking into it. “I’m… definitely not walking anywhere for a minute.”

“You will not be leaving,” he commands.

I look up to a cold expression on his face. Maybe if I wasn’t tripping on mushrooms, I would feel freaked out at the thought of an old man telling me I can’t leave. But something in his voice, as stony as it was, reassures me.

“Cool. Great. Love that for me.”

The ceiling seemed farther away now. Or maybe deeper. My eyes tracked the beams, the hanging plants, the way the shadows moved even when nothing else did.

“Is this normal?” I laugh hoarsely. “I feel like I’m tripping on magic mushrooms.”

“For most,” he said, “the effects are mild.” He swallows, “And forest mushrooms are a part of the brew.”

I stare at him, mouth fully hung to my neck in surprise. “Fantastic.” I want to bury my head in the sand. “I haven’t tripped on ‘shrooms in years. I guess having a wizard as a trip sitter is a good time to try again.

A Junimo hopped closer, settling near my knee.

I laugh again, softer this time. “Hi.”

It chirps. The sound feels like it landed somewhere behind my ribs.

I lean back into the chair, letting my head fall against it.

“Okay,” I try, eyes drifting closed for a second. “I think I’m just… going to sit here.”

“That would be advisable.”

I crack one eye open. “Do people usually stay over when you do this?”

“They usually do not require it.”

“Cool,” I say. “Love being special.”

There was the faintest pause.

Then, quietly: “Yes.”

I don’t process that fully.

Not then.

The room pulses softly around me, alive in a way I didn’t have words for yet.

And somewhere in the background, steady and unmoving despite everything else shifting—

He stays.

Watching.

Eventually, after a few minutes of attempting to keep my eyes open, a whole array of new colors and movements and abstract objects take any semblance of consciousness away from me, and I succumb to dizziness and pass out.

Chapter Text

Even from so far away, Marnie’s roosters are the first thing that wakes me up every morning. The light tickling my eyes is the second to stir me. When I try to move to my other side to avoid waking up, the familiar chirps of the birds that frequent my farm force me to sit up.

Eyes slowly opening, I take in my surroundings and what feels so strange. Firstly, I’m sitting on top of my bed. Secondly, when I look down, I realize I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes. I start to piece together yesterday’s events.

And most of all, I just feel strange. Because while a part already knows that the birds that were singing outside my window are familiar, I actually can picture exactly what kind of birds are singing. Woodpeckers, starlings, bluebirds, and sparrows. I don’t just hear them. I know them. Species, patterns, migration habits. Things I haven’t thought about since college come rushing back like they were waiting. Only now it doesn’t feel like memorization. This knowledge feels innate, like how I know I’m supposed to drive on the right side of the road and yield at a four-way stop.

My head is spinning and I can’t stop thinking about all of life that awaits outside of these walls.

I step out of the bed, my head groggy and pained from dehydration. I grip the side of my bedpost. I feel my back naturally hunch as I pant for breath.

“Everything alright?”

My head immediately whips up and I feel my skeleton jump outside of my body for a second. I must have let some sort of noise out, for the Wizard also jumps up.

He’s here. In my grandfather’s house. In my bedroom. I look down instinctively to make sure again that I’m decent.

“Why are you here?” I groan. I’m not angry, but I sure as hell don’t enjoy seeing someone this early in the morning.

I then notice that he is also wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and this time, he’s holding some kind of tablet with parchment paper on top of it. Above it, there floats a quill. Actually, to say he is holding the objects would be incorrect. Both of them are entirely suspended in air, some sort of magic tethering them away from the laws of gravity.

After I roll my eyes at his stunned face, the quill takes to writing down on the parchment. I stumble towards it, trying to snatch it away, but it quickly flies out of my grasp.

“What even is that? Were you researching me while I slept?” I accuse him. Now I’m angry.

He grimaces, the first time I’ve seen something that actually looks like fear on his face. “You reacted quite poorly to my potion yesterday. A few hours after you made a mess in my tower and then a few more hours after you dozed off in my bed, I warped you home. But you were moving around so much in your sleep that I felt rather responsible for your predicament, so I elected to watch over you for the evening. Nothing more than that.”

I point to the parchment and quill with a raised eyebrow. “Then what the hell is that?”

He turns his head to look at it before turning back to me. “Oh, that?”

My eyes widen in annoyance.

“Well, first and foremost I am a researcher. If I had to spend twelve hours with you, I knew I should have some documentation regarding your experience.”

Groaning again, I push myself back on the bed, letting myself fall onto my back so I’m looking up at the ceiling and not at the strange man. “What do you mean I made a mess in your tower?”

“Well, after you sat down in my chair, you started to close your eyes for a second. And then you got up and started to move around, you kept pulling out all of the books off my shelves and asking me about them, then you tried to ask me if I had any ‘weeds’ and a pipe, which I still am not sure what you meant by that, but when I told you I had a tobacco pipe, you then tried to use it and got so dizzy off of it, you scampered upstairs and fell asleep in my bed.”

He walks up to the bed so I’m now looking up at him. His jaw still looks defined, even when looking at an unflattering perspective. From this angle, I could properly see the length of his nose, maybe a nose that was larger than most, but it seemed prouder. I don’t think I’ve ever properly appreciated a big nose until now.

“Also, you tried to give me a haircut.” He crosses his arms.

That’s the last straw for my ego. My face heats up so much I can’t bear to look at him anymore. I roll over and put my head in my bed and groan. “I’m so sorry, Rasmodius.”

A pause.

“It’s Magnus.”

I look up at him. He actually has the closest resemblance to a smile I’ve seen from him. “And it’s alright. I don’t think the tower has seen that much movement from a living body besides me in a few decades.”

My face is still burning with embarrassment, but I try to ease the tension anyways. I crack, “Well, thank you for the aftercare even though I tried to ruin your habitat.” I curse at myself immediately for using that word.

His head cocks. “Well of course I would try to administer care for a person after they had a bad response to a concoction I made for them.”

“That’s not what aftercare is– never mind, actually.”

“What does it refer to then?” He asks matter-of-factly.

I shake my head, my blush returning to my face. “No, no. It’s fine, let’s talk about something else.

He seems to note my embarrassment and backs off.

The silence that settles between us does not feel empty. It gathers instead, quiet but aware, stretching itself into the corners of the room like something listening. The faint scratch of the floating quill slows, then stills entirely, as if even it recognizes the shift.

Magnus turns slightly away from me, though not fully. His posture remains upright, composed, but there is a subtle repositioning in the way he distributes his weight. Less confrontational. More observational. His gaze drifts, not toward any one object, but across the room itself, as though he is reading something written into the space rather than the surfaces within it.

I sit there longer than I mean to, aware of my own breathing, of the lingering heaviness behind my eyes, of the strange quiet pressure that hums just beneath my skin. It does not hurt. It does not overwhelm. It simply exists, steady and persistent, like something newly introduced that has not yet decided how loudly it intends to make itself known.

The outside world presses faintly at the edges of my awareness. Not physically. Not audibly. But undeniably present.

Magnus looks back at me.

“You should return to the Community Center,” he states at last, his tone level, returning to that measured neutrality that seems to anchor everything he says. “The Junimos have made their intentions clear enough. If you can now understand their language, then you are the only one in this valley capable of responding to them.”

I push myself upright more fully, the movement slower than usual as I adjust to the way my body still feels slightly out of sync with itself. My fingers tighten briefly in the sheets before releasing.

“And you’re not coming with me,” I note, my voice carrying a quiet certainty rather than a question.

He does not hesitate.

“No.”

The answer lands cleanly. No elaboration. No softening.

He shifts his stance, one hand lifting slightly as the parchment and quill reposition themselves beside him, hovering at shoulder height as if awaiting instruction.

“I prefer not to be seen,” he adds after a moment, his voice quieter, more deliberate. “The townspeople are aware of my existence, but that awareness is most useful when it remains distant.”

I let out a soft breath, dragging a hand through my hair and pushing it back from my face.

“Right. Mysterious tower guy routine. Got it.”

Magnus offers no response, but his gaze lingers a fraction longer than before, as if he registers the comment and stores it somewhere rather than dismissing it.

“I will remain at the tower,” he continues, the cadence of his voice precise. “Return to me when you have read what they have written.”

There is something settled in the way he delivers it. Not an order. Not quite a request. Something closer to expectation shaped into words.

I nod once, grounding myself in the motion, and rise to my feet.

The floor feels solid beneath me. Stable. But beneath that stability there remains a subtle awareness, like depth just out of reach.

By the time I step toward the door and gather myself enough to leave, the space behind me has already shifted.

When I glance back, he is no longer there.

Not gone in any dramatic sense. No flash. No sound. No indication of departure.

Just absent.

As though the room has quietly reclaimed him.

The Community Center greets me differently this time.

The building itself has not changed. The same warped wood. The same creeping vines. The same fractured remnants of what it used to be.

But the moment I cross the threshold, something within me adjusts. The air does not sit still. It moves in ways I cannot track with my eyes, brushing against my awareness in soft, guiding currents. It feels intentional now, rather than neglected.

The small hut in the center of the room no longer looks out of place. It looks active.

The Junimos are already present. They do not startle me. They do not appear suddenly.

They are simply there, as though I have finally arrived where they have always been waiting.

One of them shifts toward me as I approach, its small body tilting slightly, acknowledging without urgency. The sound it makes is soft, but it resonates deeper than it should, settling somewhere in my chest.

I lower myself carefully, crouching near the plaque embedded in the floor. Yesterday, the markings were impossible. Now, they unfold. Not instantly. Not cleanly.

But gradually, like something being revealed rather than translated. The symbols rearrange themselves into meaning. The meaning settles into understanding. And the understanding carries a strange familiarity, like something I should have known already but had simply never been shown how to access.

My hand hovers just above the surface of the plaque. Close enough to feel the faint vibration beneath it. Not movement. Not heat. Something subtler. Alive, in its own way.

The request reveals itself in pieces. Bundles, from what I understand in my own language. Offerings, is what it means. Fragments of the valley returned to the valley.

Crops. Fish. Foraged materials. Objects shaped by labor and time and care.

It is not a demand. It is participation. Restoration.

A quiet rebuilding of something that has been left unattended for far too long. I sit back slowly, the weight of it settling in a way that feels less like pressure and more like alignment.

The room responds subtly. The broken aquarium no longer feels empty. The vines do not feel invasive. Even the dust carries a sense of purpose rather than decay.

I exhale, steadying myself as I rise.

“So that’s the deal,” I murmur under my breath.

The Junimo nearest to me chirps again.

Not agreement. Recognition.

I take one last look at the room, letting the details imprint themselves more sharply this time, and then I turn and leave.

The tower receives me with the same quiet presence as before. The shift from forest to stone happens instantly, like stepping between two different states of being. The haze wraps around me again, but it does not disorient me. Instead, it’s settling.

Magnus stands exactly where I expect him to be. Centered within that circle of soil, though his eyes are already open, fixed on the doorway as if he has tracked my return long before I arrive.

I move further inside, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear as I gather my thoughts.

“I read it,” I report.

He does not interrupt like I thought he might.

“They want… bundles, I guess. Offerings. Stuff from around the valley. Crops, fish, materials. It’s like they’re trying to rebuild something through me.”

The explanation feels insufficient, but it is the closest I can come to articulating it.

Magnus listens in stillness, though there is a faint narrowing of his gaze, a subtle adjustment as he weighs each word against something internal.

“That is consistent with their nature,” he replies coolly.

I fold my arms loosely, shifting my weight as my eyes drift across the room again. It feels less foreign now. Less distant.

“They didn’t ask you,” I add.

“No.”

The answer arrives immediately.

“They asked you.”

I meet his gaze. There is no emphasis in his tone, yet the statement carries weight.

He steps down from the circle, the movement smooth and nearly silent, closing the distance between us without haste. “What you are experiencing,” he continues, “is not a standard reaction to the potion I administered.”

“That’s reassuring,” I return flatly.

“It should be.”

A short breath escapes me, something between a laugh and disbelief.

He studies me again, more closely now, his attention moving across my face as though he is attempting to observe something beyond what is visible. “You possess an affinity,” he explains slowly. “One that is not commonly found in humans.”

I shift slightly, my fingers tapping once against my arm.

“Okay. That sounds vague and concerning.”

“It is precise,” he corrects calmly. “Your connection to the forest is not observational. It is participatory.”

I rub my chin with my fingers, attempting to look like some wise sage. “Those are words,” I remark. “I’m just not sure what they mean yet.”

His mouth tightens slightly, not in irritation, but in consideration.

“You are not merely perceiving the Junimos,” he elaborates. “You are interacting with the same underlying structure of magic that allows them to exist within this world.”

That settles differently. “And you can’t do that,” I observe.

A brief pause.

“No.” The answer is steady.

I tilt my head, studying him more closely now. “But you’ve been studying it.”

“For a very long time.” Something quieter moves beneath that admission.

“So what now,” I press.

Magnus does not answer immediately. Instead, he turns slightly, one hand lifting as the parchment drifts toward him, the quill resuming its steady motion.

“I will assist you with the Community Center,” he states. “To the extent that my involvement does not interfere with the balance of the valley or the perceptions of its inhabitants.”

“That sounds very official.”

“It is intentional.”

I nod slowly.

“And in return.”

That draws my full attention. To that, I raise an eyebrow.

“In return,” he continues, his gaze settling fully on me, “I will observe.”

I stare at him. “Observe what.”

“You.” There is no hesitation.

“Once per week,” he continues, “you will return to the tower. I will document your progression, your interactions with the Junimos, and any further developments in your abilities.”

I shift my weight, considering. “And you’re asking me,” I point out.

A small pause. “Yes.”

The word lands softer than the others.

I glance around the tower again. The books. The plants. The quiet hum that seems to run through everything here.

Then back at him.

“Alright,” I decide. I already drank the kool-aid. Or I should say, mushroom juice.

The agreement settles between us.

Magnus inclines his head slightly.

“Very well.”

And something, subtle but definite, begins.

Chapter Text

The days went by, but not quickly. I calculated everything I needed to get done in the spring, and tried to move as quickly as possible. I managed to get all the seeds I could for the spring farming offerings, and quickly planted them. Besides that, I had also planted more potatoes than the entire valley could ever need in order to maximize my profits. Grandpa’s small monetary inheritance plus my dad’s starter money helped more than I realized. I paid a visit to Willy down at the beach and got set up with a fishing rod, and started to hone my skills at every body of water I could find.

Two of the five days since I had last seen the wizard, it rained. Putting aside my chores which greatly decreased when I didn’t have to go around with a watering bucket, I went down to the mines and started to descend the levels. Pretty much as soon as I started out on the first floor, I was met with all sorts of monsters. And even though I wasn’t a professional by any means, I found it pretty easy to move through them and collect all kinds of loot and ore.

Slowly but surely, I was delving into the valley.

Magnus had not sent any word about when exactly the two of us were to meet. I figured Sunday would be the best time, as I was too busy at the Egg Festival on Saturday.

At this point, I felt fairly comfortable and known enough to the townspeople. There were still a lot of questions about me, most of them directed at me rather than to someone else, but I was starting to feel like this could be a new home.

I felt a bit difficult about the ages of the townspeople around me, like how my grandfather described in his journals.

During the week, I spend a long night in the saloon talking to Marnie and Lewis, a pair that seem to always be together and then again, never seen together at all. They talk my ear off about all the different singles in the town. Whether they are trying to set me up with friends or romances, I am not sure.

The saloon is fuller than I expected for a weeknight.

Not crowded, exactly, but comfortably occupied. The kind of place where every table is taken but no one is rushing to leave. Warm light spills from hanging fixtures overhead, soft and golden, catching on the edges of glass mugs and the polished surface of the bar. The air smells faintly of wood, fried food, and something sweet I cannot quite place. It clings to everything, even my clothes, in a way that feels less unpleasant than it should.

Gus moves steadily behind the bar, wiping down glasses with a practiced rhythm, pausing every so often to greet someone by name or slide a drink across the counter without needing to be asked twice. There is a quiet efficiency to him that anchors the entire room.

In the far corner, Sam leans back in his chair with one leg stretched out, tapping his fingers absentmindedly against the table while Abigail talks animatedly, her hands moving just as much as her words. Sebastian sits beside them, half-turned away, his hood pulled up even indoors, though every so often he glances back into the conversation like he cannot help but stay tethered to it.

A few stools down from the bar, Shane hunches over his drink, shoulders rounded inward, his attention fixed on something in front of him that does not seem to exist. Emily moves past him with easy familiarity, setting something down near his elbow without interrupting him, like she already knows better than to try.

The whole place hums. Not loudly. Just enough to remind me that I am not alone.

Everyone’s dressed in their usual attire. I made the small mistake of getting more dressed up than usual, although my “usual” consists of mud-smeared jeans and a sweat through work shirt. Tonight, I pushed my frizzy curls back into a thick braid and managed to swipe a bit of makeup on my face. Then, I picked out the only clothes I had that weren’t completely disgusting– a long white skirt and an off the shoulder green blouse that matched the same color as my platform sandals. When I looked in the mirror, which was old and in desperate need of replacement, I actually felt feminine for the first time in a long time since beginning my new job.

Lewis sits across from me, back straight even in a setting this relaxed, his hands folded neatly in front of him like he cannot quite stop being the mayor even after hours. His mustache is more distinct up close, carefully groomed, the kind of detail that suggests routine. Marnie sits beside him, angled more casually, one arm resting along the back of her chair. She looks far more at home here, her posture relaxed, her expression open in a way that makes conversation feel easy whether you want it to be or not.

Lewis, of course, approaches this like a census.

“Well, Abigail, Sam, and Sebastian are all around the same age,” he begins, folding his hands more tightly, as though organizing his thoughts into something presentable. “Lively group. Very spirited.”

Marnie snorts softly into her drink, the corner of her mouth lifting. “They spend half their time holed up together or running around town like they’ve got nowhere better to be.”

I glance over at them again.

Abigail’s dark hair catches the light as she leans forward, eyes bright, completely absorbed in whatever she is saying. There is something restless about her, like she is always looking for something just beyond where she is. Sam nods along easily, blond hair falling into his face, his whole posture loose and unbothered. Sebastian remains half-withdrawn, long dark hair shadowing his expression, but he does not leave. He never quite leaves.

That makes sense. From what I have seen, the three of them operate like a unit more than individuals. Abigail is the most engaging of the bunch, curious and a little unpredictable in a way I can appreciate. Sam is friendly, easygoing, the type of person who can talk to anyone without much effort. Sebastian is harder to reach, quieter, but not unfriendly. Just distant.

Still, all three of them live at home. It is not a judgment so much as an observation, but it makes the gap between us feel wider than it probably is.

“Haley and Alex are in that same age group,” Lewis continues.

Marnie sighs, though not unkindly. “They’re sweet, in their own way. Just… a little caught up in themselves.”

That is one way to put it. Across the room, Haley sits with her legs crossed neatly, her posture almost too perfect to be accidental. Her blonde hair is styled in a way that clearly takes effort, even if she would never admit it. She glances around the room occasionally, not searching for anyone in particular, but aware of being seen.

Alex leans against the wall nearby, arms crossed, broad shoulders filling out his jacket like he knows exactly how he looks and has decided that is enough. He laughs at something Haley says, easy and confident, but there is a simplicity to him that feels almost practiced.

I do not dislike them. I just do not feel particularly drawn to them either.

“Emily, now,” Marnie perks up slightly, her voice warming, “she’s a gem. Works hard, kind heart, always looking out for others.”

Lewis nods. “Very… unique.”

Emily passes by our table just then, her hair a bright contrast against the more subdued tones of the room, her movements fluid and unhurried. There is something distinctly unselfconscious about her, like she exists entirely outside of whatever expectations the rest of us are quietly trying to meet.

That feels like an understatement.

Emily moves through the world like she has decided on her own rules a long time ago and never bothers to explain them to anyone else. I cannot quite place her, but I do not think she needs to be placed. In a way, I think that the Junimos might have enjoyed someone like her a whole lot more than someone like me.

“And her sister Haley,” Lewis adds, as if they are a matched set.

Marnie gives him a look but lets it go.

“Leah lives down in the forest,” she continues instead. “Keeps to herself mostly. Good head on her shoulders.”

“Very independent,” Lewis agrees.

I picture Leah immediately. The way her auburn hair falls loosely around her face, the faint smudges of wood or clay that always seem to linger on her hands, the steady way she meets your gaze without trying to hold it too long. That one I understand. Leah feels like someone who has already figured out how she wants to live and has built her life accordingly. There is something steady about her that does not need explanation.

“And Elliot,” Lewis continues, “the writer on the beach.”

Marnie smiles faintly. “Oh, he’s charming. A little dramatic, but harmless.”

That also feels accurate.

Elliot’s long hair frames his face in a way that feels almost deliberate, like every part of him has been curated to fit a certain image. The way he speaks, the way he gestures, even the way he pauses all feel intentional, like he is always aware of the fact that he is being observed.

It is not off-putting. In fact, I find him rather charming. I imagine him to be the kind of man that would serenade his love every morning with a poem. I don’t know quite yet if that’s my shtick, but I can admire it from afar nonetheless.

“Harvey runs the clinic,” Lewis adds. “Reliable. Responsible. A good man.”

Marnie nods. “He worries too much, though.”

I can picture him immediately, standing behind the counter of the clinic, glasses slightly askew, hands fidgeting with something small when he thinks no one is looking. There is something about the way Harvey holds himself that suggests he carries more responsibility than anyone has asked him to.

“And Maru works with him,” Lewis says. “Bright girl. Very promising future.”

“She’s always building something,” Marnie adds. “Never sits still.”

Maru’s presence feels sharper in my mind. The quickness of her movements, the way her eyes seem to track everything at once, always thinking a step ahead. She does not feel like she belongs with people her own age. If anything, she seems already halfway out of the valley in her mind. I believe her to be the youngest out of anyone Marnie and Lewis have mentioned.

“Penny…” Marnie’s voice softens slightly. “She’s a sweetheart. Teaches the kids. Does her best.”

Lewis nods more quietly this time. “She’s had a difficult upbringing.”

That explains more than either of them says outright. I think of Penny standing beside the children, her hands folded neatly, her posture careful, like she is always aware of the space she takes up. There is something about her that feels heavier than it should be.

“And Shane,” I add before they can.

Marnie winces slightly, her fingers tightening briefly around her glass. “He’s… working through some things.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I mutter.

Lewis clears his throat. “He’s dependable at Joja.”

Marnie gives him a look that tells me everything I need to know.

The conversation shifts after that, though the rhythm of the saloon continues uninterrupted around us. Glasses clink. Chairs scrape quietly against the floor. Someone laughs too loudly from across the room before quickly quieting down.

“Sophia lives out by the vineyard,” Marnie says. “She’s been through a lot, but she’s doing better.”

Lewis nods. “Very kind. Just… sensitive.”

I think of the few times I have seen her, the way she seems to fold slightly into herself even when she is standing still, her short pink hair falling forward like a shield. She carries herself carefully. Like she is still learning how to exist without bracing for something.

“And the Jenkins family,” Lewis continues. “Olivia and her son, Victor.”

Marnie smiles. “Victor’s a good boy. Polite. Maybe a little sheltered.”

“Olivia is quite accomplished,” Lewis adds.

I picture Olivia immediately. Perfect posture. Controlled expression. The kind of presence that feels practiced. Still, when I first met her at the Saloon that night, I almost fell out of my chair just by looking at the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. When I managed to sputter that, she laughed and called me a charmer before introducing me to her son. Victor stands just beside that perfect image, softer around the edges, still figuring out how to exist within it. He’s rather handsome, too, but definitely not as self assured as his mother is.

“Claire works at Joja,” Lewis says.

Marnie’s expression dims slightly. “Poor thing works too hard.”

That is obvious even from a distance. Claire moves quickly, efficiently, but there is a tiredness in the way her shoulders sit, like she has forgotten what it feels like to fully relax. I barely got a hello in with her before she quickly excused herself the first time we met.

“And Lance,” Lewis finishes. “He works closely with the Adventurer’s Guild.”

Marnie nods. “He’s not around much.”

That feels accurate, considering I haven’t even met the fellow they’re talking about. I ask, “Who’s he? I don’t believe I’ve met a Lance around Pelican Town before. I haven’t been in the Adventurer’s Guild but the mines are right next to it.”

Marnie and Lewis exchange a knowing glance, one that I realize is more a sly smirk than a warning sign. One that says, are you thinking what I’m thinking?

But Marnie waves me off. “Oh you’ll meet him. You’ve been poking around in the mines and slaying all sorts of creatures. I’m sure you’ll catch his attention soon.”

Lewis takes a sip of his foaming stout, his mustache curling up. “He is a rather handsome lad, wouldn’t you say, Marnie?”

Marnie side eyes with him a small smile. “I would say so, Lewis.”

I groan, understanding very quickly that they’re planning a set-up for me. Marnie can’t help but giggle at me.

She takes another sip from her wine before she sets it down, a more serious expression settling across her face. In this lighting, both her and Lewis look decades younger. Marnie is probably in her mid fifties and carries it beautifully. Still, her full lips purse.

Marnie begins steadily. “So, I wanted to mention it to you the other day if you came by my shop or if I saw you in town, but it looks like you’ve just been working yourself to the bone on that farm of yours.” She raises an eyebrow at Lewis who gives her a small grimace before continuing in a small and quiet voice. “That day we talked about the town wizard? Jas saw him that night walking to your farm. I thought she was just going crazy and listening to too many of Sam’s scary stories, but I walked outside and I saw him, too. And when I looked even further, I saw him carrying you. I tried to shout and wave at him, not to try and wrestle you out from him, but because I was wondering what was going on. I thought you would wave back at least, and that’s when I sort of figured you were asleep. Was everything okay there?” She looks around the Saloon as if at any moment someone would interject into our conversation. “You seem alright now.”

Laughing half-heartedly, I take a long sip from my beer before wiping off my foamy beard. “No, no, everything was fine.”

Lewis's dubious expression challenged me.

I cough, trying to figure out what kind of words I can conjure up to explain. I then start to blabber nonsensically, the beer hitting me in a way I’ve never been hit before. Right in the nerves. “He, uh, he just wanted to talk to me about my grandad, that’s all. I sort of kind of maybe had a bit too much wine to drink there and made a fool of myself and begged him to take me home.”

Yoba. That sounded so much better in my head.

Marnie gasps, trying to contain the shock on her face. Lewis leans back, his entire head snapping up.

Lewis immediately exclaims, “I had no idea older men were a niche for you!”

Marnie shoots him a glare that has him withering to his knees.

“No, no, not like that! I didn’t mean me!” He attempts with a stutter, and I laugh it off.

“I mean, he’s just so old, Lorelai,” Marnie replies carefully, picking up the hem of her skirt and picking at it like a nervous teenager.

I’m beside myself in a puddle of laughter at Marnie and Lewis’ feigning concern for a damsel in distress. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant that I begged him to walk me home. It wasn’t anything like that. Yoba, do you think I’m that easy?”

The two of them just shrug after the look of worry melts off their faces. Two sighs of relief later, and their spines immediately loosen and they go back to idly swishing their drinks.

“Now that I have that cleared up, I hope you don’t go back to having dirty minds when I ask you two this, but how old is the wizard?”

Lewis leans his head on his palm, his eyes planted to the ceiling as he attempts to count the years. “I mean, Yoba, he looks the same age now as when I first met him when I was five.”

I spit out my beer back into the bottle.

Marnie smiles graciously. “I can’t remember what Welwick said last time I managed to get her to talk at the Fair. She always speaks so cryptically. I believe she said he was more than a few centuries old. Maybe six hundred? I’m not sure. You might get better answers just asking him or talking to Gunther at the library.”

Yoba. That was definitely a lot older than I had estimated him to be. I knew he had to be old, but his face couldn’t have been older than thirty. Being in Zuzu City, wizards are unsurprisingly not a commonplace occupation, but I had never heard of one so old before, either.

Lewis’s thoughts turn to speech. “You know, if you’ve been able to find any old journals kept by your grandad, I’m sure you’d be able to find it in there. Jakob was the only guy in town I’ve ever known, besides Marlon, who could talk to him without the wizard yelling at him to go away like some crotchedy old man. The two weren’t close, I don’t believe, but maybe they were a lot closer than I thought if you went over there last week because he wanted to talk about Jakob?”

We debate the wizard’s age for some time before Marnie and Lewis start to ask me more about how my farming is going, and I oblige.

By the time the conversation finally slows, the saloon feels warmer than it did when I first walked in.

Not physically. Just… familiar.

Lewis seems satisfied, like he has completed something official.

Marnie just smiles at me like she knows I will figure the rest out on my own. And I probably will. Eventually.

Before I can tell myself no, I make my way that night toward Cindersap Forest instead of turning in early like I should. The path feels longer than it did earlier that day, stretched out by the dark and the quiet, the familiar landmarks paling into something less certain under the dim wash of moonlight. The air is cooler now, settling into the valley in a way that makes every breath feel a little sharper, a little more present.

I fidget with the small gift in my pocket as I walk, my fingers brushing over the edges of it again and again like I might forget it’s there if I don’t. It had seemed like such a good idea an hour ago, sitting in the warm, loud comfort of the Saloon, buoyed by laughter and a confidence I didn’t question at the time. Now, with nothing but the sound of my own footsteps and the rustle of the trees around me, it feels… questionable. Maybe even a little ridiculous.

I press my lips together and keep walking. It’s too late to turn around now.

I am a lot drunker than I expected.

The world doesn’t spin, not exactly, but it sways in a way that makes everything feel just slightly off-center, like I’m walking through something that hasn’t quite settled into place. Lewis and Marnie had been entirely too enthusiastic about their little challenge, and Pam had only made it worse, her laugh booming every time I tried to keep up with them. I can still hear it, the clink of glasses, the way they cheered me on like I was doing something impressive instead of something deeply questionable.

Eight shots.

I shake my head slightly as I walk, half in disbelief, half in an attempt to steady myself.

I could’ve taken more. I know I could have. But I also know I wouldn’t have made it out of the Saloon if I had, let alone be this deep in the forest at night, either.

The ground shifts unevenly beneath my boots as I move deeper into the forest, roots pushing up through the soil just enough to catch my step if I’m not paying attention. I adjust without thinking, my body compensating for the imbalance even as my mind lags just a second behind. It takes more effort than it should, but I manage.

Barely.

I whistle a soft tune to myself as I go, something absent-minded and off-key, just enough noise to fill the space and keep the quiet from pressing in too hard. The forest at night is different. Not threatening, exactly, but… aware. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig somewhere just out of sight feels louder, more deliberate, like it’s reacting to me rather than the other way around.

The sound of my own whistling grounds me. Keeps me from thinking too much.

By the time the tower comes into view, I feel a little more steady on my feet.

Not sober. Definitely not sober. But more in control than I was ten minutes ago.

It rises out of the trees the same way it always does, sudden and out of place, its shape cutting into the sky in a way that feels almost unnatural even now. The windows glow faintly from within, warm against the cool darkness of the forest, a quiet sign of life that makes something in my chest loosen just slightly.

He’s there.

I don’t knock. I don’t even consider it. I just cruise right on in.

I push the door open and step inside with more confidence than I probably should have, a smile already spreading across my face before I fully register what I’m walking into. The familiar scent hits me first, something earthy and layered, herbs and something older, something that feels like it’s settled into the walls over time.

Magnus reacts immediately.

He rises from his seat so quickly it almost startles me, the sudden movement sharp against the otherwise still room, like I’ve broken through something he didn’t expect to be interrupted. I realize that this might be the first time I’ve completely caught him off his guard.

I laugh. Louder than I mean to. And then I notice the scene before me.

The tower feels different at night. The shadows are deeper, stretching further into the corners, pooling around the edges of shelves and tables where glass bottles and scattered notes catch what little light there is. The glow from the lamps is softer now, less functional, more atmospheric, casting everything in warm tones that blur the sharper lines of the space.

The cauldron sits low and steady, its contents barely moving, just a faint ripple at the surface that suggests heat rather than shows it. Books are spread across the nearby table in loose, uneven stacks, some open, some marked, all of them looking like they’ve been touched recently and left without being put away.

It doesn’t feel like a place of mystery. It feels lived in. And then there’s him.

He’s still standing where he rose, just a few steps away from where he had been sitting, his posture caught somewhere between alert and composed, like he hasn’t quite decided which one he’s supposed to be. The light catches on him differently here than it does outside, more subdued, warmer, outlining the shape of him rather than obscuring it.

His hair falls looser than I remember, not pulled back as tightly, the strands resting against his shoulders in a way that makes him look less severe, less untouchable. He looks handsome, I realize with a blush.

He isn’t dressed the way I’ve seen him before, which is no added comfort to me. The heavy, layered robes are gone, replaced with something closer to his body, softer, like a quieter version of himself. The fabric still carries that same deep, dark color, but it hangs differently, open at the collar in a way that reveals more of his chest than I’m prepared for, the line of it disappearing beneath the fold of the garment. The sleeves are pushed back slightly, exposing his forearms, and for the first time, he doesn’t look entirely composed or untouchable. He looks… at ease. Like I’ve walked in on a version of him no one else gets to see. And for a second, it completely throws me.

I catch myself looking at the small sliver of my chest when he finally clears his throat, prompting me to say something. Anything.

“Sorry, is this a bad time?” My dumb smile can’t seem to leave my face.

He looks exhausted, but he manages to make his face look less strict as he shakes his head, his beautiful hair falling in sweeping motion as he does it.

I lurch forward, suddenly all too aware of my drunkenness. I fully have the gift in my hands now instead of just my pockets, and I have my hands out like I’m about to present him with a trophy, and then I do the worst thing I could have done in that moment.

I trip. And fall. Presumably right on my face, until–

Hands around my waist. Why are there hands around my waist? It’s not clutching me too hard to the point of wincing, but they’re firm, like they know exactly how to place them.

I look up at his face. But instead of blushing, all the blood in my face leaks out and goes down to the rest of my body. I feel like I’ve been electrocuted looking up at him.

His eyes are wide with worry, eyebrows pulled together and lips that are just slightly parted. He quickly gains control over the situation and helps me recuperate.

“You are drunk,” He states as he pulls apart from me.

I find my footing again. “Yes, I am. How could you tell?’

He chuckles. It’s deep and vibrating, and I can feel it in my chest when it happens. It’s a strange noise to hear from him, but I find myself feeling more than just an emotional response to it. I feel a physical one as well.

“Besides the fact that you almost broke your face?” He asks point blank, then seems to rack his brain for another response. “You reek of vodka.”

Instinctively, I raise my arm and sniff my armpits.

He shakes his head, more laughter spilling out of him. It’s addicting to hear. Does he become more of a human being when I get drunk or when he’s just exhausted?

He responds with a small smile on his face, “It’s not your body, Lorelai, it’s your breath.”

He’s right. I don’t even have to check, I can smell it from here.

Ignoring my embarrassment, mostly because I feel like it’s already been forgotten, I stick out my hand again.

He cocks his head. “What is that?”

“It’s a gift!” I can’t help but squeal. I’m so excited to see his reaction I can barely wait.

He takes it from my hand. It’s an amethyst that I found in the mines. It isn’t large or grand, but it sparkled more than any of the other gems I had gathered. And when I looked at it, my first thought was of Magnus’ vibrant hair.

“Is this an amethyst?” He murmurs quietly, my body once again involuntarily responding like it has a heartbeat pumping in every corner.

I nod. “When I saw it, I thought it matched your hair. I know it’s dumb, but I wanted you to have it.”

Slowly but surely, a smile slowly spreads across his face. He clutches it more fiercely now, I notice, but he continues to look at it as he speaks. “This is wonderful. Many thanks. This item has very interesting properties.”

I give him another wild smile back. But then I continue to notice just how heavy his eyes seem to be, and worry takes over me.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“Yes. I tire, but I am alright.”

“You can just go to sleep if you’re tired,” I suggest teasingly.

He shakes his head, his smile not leaving but it’s become sadder. More frustrated. “No, I can’t. I’ve suffered from a lack of sleep for a long time. I fear it’s just a part of me now.”

“Do you want me to help you sleep?” I quip back, then realizing what it sounds like. The blood has returned to my face in full force now. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Like what?” He doesn’t seem to understand what kind of insinuation could have been made from my words, thank Yoba for that.

I shrug, but manage to figure out what I’m trying to say as I form my words. “I didn’t have any siblings growing up and it could be very lonely. A lot of times I would want to sleep in my parents’ bed or just sleep while they were there cause I could get so easily scared at night. The best sleep I ever got was when I had sleepovers with my friends cause I felt so safe. Maybe if you try to get some sleep while I stay here, it’ll make you feel better?”

It’s a dumb suggestion, I know, but I want to help him. From the dark circles under his eyes, it’s clear that it’s been more than a few days since he last found rest.

He shakes his head. “I couldn’t ask you to do that. Besides, I don’t know if it’ll help.”

“Don’t worry about imposing. I need to stay up for at least another hour before I walk home anyways. I need to keep drinking water to keep the hangover at bay.”

He thinks about it. For some time. He looks down at the small gem in his hands and then back at me.

“Okay,” He says slowly. “We can try it. But only for an hour. If I’m not asleep by then, consider it impossible.”

I nod in agreement to that.

He turns and walks, presumably towards his bedroom. I follow him quietly. At the end of the room, whether it’s a study room or a magical laboratory, I can’t classify it, there lies a short staircase. We walk up to it, and I realize then that I’m about to see his bedroom. It feels like this is much too private, too intimate of a place for me to intrude on.

And then I remember that he had me tripping on forest juice and watched me sleep in my bed. Then I feel less creepy for following him into his bedroom.

It’s a lot less Magnus than I imagined. Whereas all the other parts of the tower that I have seen are almost overwhelming with the amount of hanging shelves and plants and lanterns, there’s a quiet minimalism to this room that I enjoy.

In the middle of the room lies his bed, which is entirely made up of dark grey besides his black duvet. Beside his bed on the right side, there’s a small cushioned chair with more color, a cheerful greyish purple. I describe it as cheerful because the unadorned room holds no enjoyment in color, but rather, in function only. On the left side of his bed lies a simple brown wooden nightstand with a stack of books and a pair of glasses sitting on top of it.

“Glasses?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Magnus looks back at me, startled. As if that should be the last thing I should find concerning about the scene. “What’s your question?” He seems defensive already.

I laugh, “I thought you were a wizard? I didn’t think they needed glasses.”

He huffs, “Sometimes it’s easier to put on glasses than casting a spell every time I want to read its pages.”

“Oh, so they’re reading glasses, huh? I guess you really are old.”

That strikes something. Magnus stills a bit, but seems to iron out the awkwardness quickly when he clears his throat again. “Yes, well, there will come a day when even you succumb to the simple failures of owning a corporeal presence.”

“Either speak like a human or get in bed,” I command sharply. He obliges.

I sit down on the cushioned chair. It’s extremely stiff, clearly from disuse. I wonder if he ever sits down at all, besides at his desk when he’s working on research.

“Are you comfortable?” He asks. He’s completely underneath the sheets, but he has his head propped up against his pillows so he can look up at me.

“Yes.” That’s a lie. “Go to sleep.”

He groans to himself. “I don’t feel tired.”

“Well, you look like it.”

I watch him stare up at the ceiling. In a lot of ways, he looks so young like this. Not to say he looks young as in my age, but young like a child refusing their bedtime. I giggle at his frustrations.

He rolls his eyes. “Is this amusing to you?”

I nod, little hee-hee’s still coming out of me.

He grumbles something and tries to turn over so he’s now fully facing me. There’s only one light in the room, a small flickering lantern in the corner of it that emits a small light. It makes his pale skin look a lot warmer, a lot softer.

“Do you want to talk about why you can’t sleep?” I prod gently, not trying to have him close up on me again.

He shakes his head.

“Okay.”

I hear a small clink beside and below me. I look down. It’s a large glass cup of water.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Silence ensues. I take the cup of water and start to drink out of it, just blankly looking ahead at the wall. I try to make as minimal noise as possible, not wanting the environment to be distracting for Magnus.

“It was a very nice gift,” He says after a while. His voice sounds more tired now, like he will soon be dropping off into unconsciousness.

I smile at his gratitude. “You already said that.”

“No, I said it had many interesting properties.”

I roll my eyes at his silliness. “That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.” He exhales slowly, his words beginning to slow down. “No one’s ever given me a gift like that.”

I try not to react to that. I want to jump out of my chair and yell or be as disruptive as possible. Instead, I let it sit with me for a moment.

“Really?” I ask.

There’s no answer. He’s calculating a response.

The pause continues.

And continues.

And then, I hear it.

A small but gentle snore. In and out. I look over at him. He’s fast asleep, rolled onto his back and his arms splayed out. It’s a gentle but beautiful thing to watch. I look at him for a moment before I chug the rest of my glass.

“Goodnight, Magnus,” is the last thing I say to him before I leave his room and the tower.

Chapter Text

The letter arrives early.

Not in the sense that I wake up to it, but early enough that the day has not fully settled into itself yet. The sun is barely above the horizon when I step outside to check on the crops, and there it is, placed neatly at the edge of my porch as if it has always belonged there.

There is no sound of delivery. No footsteps. No indication that anyone has approached the house at all. Just the envelope. I knew who it was from just because who else in the modern century would leave an envelope anywhere else besides a mailbox?

My name is written across the front in the same careful, deliberate handwriting I recognize from before. Precise, controlled, slightly sharper than necessary, and anciently out of date. A lot like the demeanor I’ve seen from him.

Inside, the message is brief. He instructs me to meet him at the tower as early as possible. There is no greeting, no closing, just a statement of expectation and the quiet assumption that I will follow it.

I do.

The forest feels different in the morning. Quieter, but not empty. The air is cooler, still holding onto the last traces of night, and the light filters through the trees in thin, scattered lines that never quite reach the ground in one place for long. It makes the path feel less fixed, like it shifts depending on how you look at it.

Magnus is already waiting when I arrive.

Of course he is. I’m panting and already working up a sweat because the rocky and hilly terrain is not so easy for me to navigate.

He stands just outside the tower this time, not within it, his posture as composed as ever, hands loosely folded behind his back as though he has been standing there long enough for stillness to become intentional.

“You received my letter,” he observes. His hair is pulled back in a very short ponytail, allowing his face to be more easily read by me, not that it helps by much.

“I figured that was implied by me being here,” I reply, stepping out of the tree line and into the small clearing.

His gaze lingers on me for a moment, assessing in a way that feels less clinical than it did before, though not by much.

“Thank you for the other night. I admit it was embarrassing, having to rely on someone for such a weak moment.” His words convey a true sense of humiliation, but I don’t mind it. I don’t relish it because I like seeing him feel weak, I feel sorry that he can’t expect such a small kindness from another person.

I wave my hands. “It’s alright. I didn’t mind it at all. Besides, you seemed completely exhausted.”

He breathes out, looking away from me for a second and onto his table. That’s where I see it. The little amethyst I gave him. Sitting on top of his parchment. I keep my glee to myself.

“I also own more embarrassment in the way that I haven’t slept so well in years,” he confesses in a low voice.

I smile warmly at that. Then, he switches the conversation.

“The Egg Festival occurred yesterday,” he continues, as if checking a variable rather than making conversation. “Did you observe anything of note?”

I let out a small breath, thinking back on it.

“Besides the entire town losing its mind over eggs for an afternoon, not really,” I say. “It was… normal. Social. A lot of people were trying very hard to win.”

His expression does not change, but there is the faintest shift in his posture, like he is filing the information away.

“And your other activities,” he prompts.

I shrug slightly. “Farming’s steady. I’ve been clearing more land. I did some foraging along the forest edge, and I’ve been trying to get better at fishing. The mines are… a work in progress.”

That, at least, earns a more focused look. “You have entered the mines.”

“Yeah,” I breathe out, still trying to find a rhythm in it. My head points to the amethyst on the table. “That’s where I got that, remember?”

He shakes his head incredulously, more at himself than at me for his lack of noticing it before. “And you have continued to return.”

“That feels like an important distinction.”

“It is.”

There is a brief pause. He lays a hand to his chin and rubs it softly. I notice then how he seems to have a permanent stubble on his face besides his well groomed mustache.

Then, more deliberately, “I will observe you today.”

I blink. “All day?”

“Yes.” The way he says it makes it clear this is not a suggestion.

I cross my arms, studying him for a moment. “And what does that actually look like?”

“I will accompany you,” he explains, “and document any irregularities in your interaction with the environment, particularly in relation to your… affinity.”

“Right,” I mutter. “No pressure, then.”

He does not respond to that.

“Begin your routine,” he instructs.

So I do.

The morning passes more quickly than I expected.

Having Magnus present does not disrupt my work so much as it changes the way I am aware of it. He does not interfere, does not offer unnecessary commentary, but he is constantly there, watching in a way that is not intrusive, just persistent.

When I water the crops, his gaze tracks the motion of my hands rather than the plants themselves. When I clear debris, he pays more attention to how the ground responds than to the act of clearing it. At one point, when I pull a cluster of weeds from the soil and the roots come free more easily than they should, I catch him narrowing his eyes slightly, the faintest indication that something has aligned with whatever he has been expecting.

He writes constantly.
The quill moves on its own, but not without direction. It pauses when he pauses. It resumes when he resumes. There is nothing random about it. Even the way the ink settles onto the page feels deliberate, as though the act of recording is just as controlled as the magic that holds it in place.

By the time I finish watering the last row of crops, my arms ache in that dull, familiar way that comes from repetition rather than strain. The soil clings faintly to my boots, damp and dark, and when I straighten, I feel the pull of it in my lower back before I even register the heat pressing down on my shoulders.

It is only spring, but the sun does not feel gentle.

I wipe the back of my wrist across my forehead, smearing a thin line of dirt along my temple without realizing it, and turn back toward him.

Magnus has not moved much.

He stands just at the edge of the tilled rows, far enough away to avoid interfering, close enough that nothing escapes his attention. The light hits him differently than it does everything else, catching on the edges of his robes but never quite settling there. The fabric is dark, almost absorbing the brightness around him instead of reflecting it.

I do not understand how he is not overheating.

I have nearly sweat through my shirt, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to my back, while he looks exactly as he did when we started. Composed. Untouched. Entirely unaffected by the fact that we have been standing under direct sunlight for hours.

He is wearing a hat now.

I had not noticed when he put it on.

It is wide-brimmed, black like the rest of his clothes, with a deep purple band wrapped cleanly around the base. It casts a shadow across his face that sharpens his features rather than softening them, the line of his jaw more defined, the bridge of his nose more pronounced in the contrast.

It should look out of place.

It does not.

If anything, it ties him together in a way that feels almost intentional, grounding the more unkempt parts of him. The length of his hair, the slight unevenness in its waves, the way it falls forward just enough to catch the light before disappearing back into shadow.

It makes him look less like something out of a story and more like someone who exists here.

Which is almost more distracting.

He raises an eyebrow.

Just slightly.

It is not exaggerated, not meant to draw attention, but it is enough to tell me he has noticed that I have been looking at him longer than necessary.

I straighten immediately, shaking myself out of it.

“I’m sure your clothes are UV-resistant or something, but I for one need a break, is that okay?” I call out to him.

My voice sounds rougher than I expect, the dryness of it catching slightly at the back of my throat.

He tilts his head to the side, not quickly, not casually, but with a kind of measured consideration that makes it seem like he is genuinely evaluating the request.

“Yes,” he replies after a moment, his voice even, unhurried. “I think that would be alright.”

I let out a quiet breath of relief before turning toward the farmhouse.

The wood of the steps is warm under my hands as I lower myself down, but not uncomfortably so. The shade hits me immediately, cooler air moving across my skin in a way that makes me realize just how overheated I had been. A breeze slips through the open space around the porch, light and inconsistent, but enough to lift the damp strands of hair from the back of my neck.

I lean back slightly, bracing one hand behind me as I let myself settle into it.

Magnus joins me a second later.

Not beside me, exactly.

He sits at the far end of the steps, leaving a noticeable amount of space between us, his posture still upright even at rest. One leg is slightly extended, the other bent just enough to ground him, his hands resting loosely against his knees.

The distance feels intentional.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… maintained.

“Can I ask you a question about yourself?” I ask, glancing toward him.

My face still feels warm, though not entirely from the heat anymore.

He turns his head slightly, just enough that I can see the shift in his expression. It is the same one he made earlier, composed and neutral, but there is something beneath it now. Not curiosity exactly, but openness.

“Yes,” he answers. “I suppose you may. We will most likely spend a lot of time together in the near future.”

That pulls a laugh out of me before I can stop it.

I shift, turning so that I am leaning more fully against the railing, one leg tucked slightly beneath me as I angle my body toward him. The wood presses lightly into my shoulder, grounding the movement.

He does not adjust. Still facing forward, though his eyes flick toward me every so often, brief and precise, like he is checking something rather than looking.

“You really aren’t one for conversation, are you?” I say.

“No I am not,” he replies immediately. No hesitation. No apology. Just fact.

I tilt my head, studying him more openly now. “Well, why is that?”

This time, he exhales. It is subtle, but noticeable.

The parchment and quill, which have been hovering quietly beside him, lower themselves onto the wooden planks with a soft, controlled descent, as though even they understand the need to pause.

“When you’ve lived as long as I have,” he begins, his voice quieter now, less performative, “you find that many people are the exact same. Fear is the same. Hatred is the same. Even love.”

He does not look at me as he speaks.

His gaze settles somewhere out across the farm instead, not focused on anything specific, just somewhere out in the distance.

“The only things that make a long life feel less long are the new things I can learn,” he continues. “That’s why I spend all my time on research. It’s the only thing I feel like makes me feel young. And if I felt as old as I should, I don’t know if I would want to keep doing that.”

The words sit heavier than I expect. Honest in a way that feels unguarded. I shift slightly, my fingers pressing into the edge of the step as I try to figure out how to respond to something like that.

“So you think all mortals are the same?” I ask carefully. “You think everyone in the valley is the same?”

“They’re all afraid of magic, nosy, and annoying,” he replies. “So yes.”

I roll my eyes, letting my head fall back briefly against the railing before looking at him again.

“That’s not very fair of you,” I tell him. “I just don’t think you’ve let yourself out of that tower in a long time.”

“I leave the tower,” he says, a little quicker this time. There is a slight tension in the way his shoulders shift. Then, quieter, almost reluctant, “Sometimes.”

I grin before I can stop myself.

I lean over, closing some of the space between us, and nudge him lightly with my elbow.

“Yeah, right,” I say. “Where do you go? To see the bookseller?”

“Well, yeah,” he mutters.

And for the first time since I have met him, I catch it. Not a full reaction and a not a total loss of composure, but it’s a flicker at least. A flicker of something small and unsteady happening just beneath his stoic surface.

He does not move away from me, but I can feel the awareness of the distance I just closed settle between us, sharper now than before.

I sit there for a second longer than necessary, letting the moment stretch just slightly.

It is not uncomfortable.

Just new.

And for once, I am not the only one adjusting to it.

“Well, that’s not the question I was going to ask, but I guess I’m glad I know more about your grumpy attitude,” I laugh.

I actually manage to see him quickly roll his eyes before he states simply, “I am not grumpy.” He crosses his arms and looks away. “I just do not feel the need to speak when it’s unnecessary."

The way he says it is controlled, but there is a faint tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before, like he is aware that he is being observed in a way he cannot quite redirect.

I let out a small mhm before I ask, “Anyways, how old are you?”

He stiffens.

It is subtle, but unmistakable. His shoulders draw in just slightly, his posture tightening as though the question has landed somewhere he was not prepared to guard. His gaze shifts further away from me, fixing on a point out in the field like it might offer him an escape from answering.

For a moment, he does not speak.

The silence stretches just long enough to feel deliberate.

“I-uh…”

Oh, Yoba. He is actually nervous.

The realization hits so suddenly that I cannot stop myself.

“Are you actually blushing?” I accuse him.

This makes him even more flustered, where I can tell he’s trying to say something and then immediately trying to gulp it back down again. His composure does not shatter, but it fractures just enough to let something human slip through the edges. A huge smile begins to spread on my face before I can stop it.

He looks at me and then quickly looks away. I am sure my stupid grin is not helping his chagrin, either.

“N-no. I’m not blushing. I’m simply just trying to think.” He lets out a sigh, one hand lifting briefly to push back a section of his hair, the motion slightly sharper than usual. “You are so vexing, Lorelai.”

The way he says my name lands differently this time. I try to push away the tingle that runs down my spine but I can’t help but let myself feel it. It’s addicting.

I realize then just how much I like hearing him say it. It sounds different when it comes from him, like it carries more weight than it should. More intention. Less casual than anything I have heard it attached to before.

After a pause, he finally answers.

“I’m seven hundred and two years old.”

The number settles into the space between us in a way that feels almost physical.

I exhale slowly. “Yoba.”

That is all I can really say. There is no reaction that feels proportionate to that kind of time. No expression that makes sense when faced with a number that large. It stretches too far beyond anything I can contextualize, too far beyond anything I have lived.

I glance at him again, really looking this time.

At the steadiness of him. The control. The quiet way he occupies space without asking for it. And suddenly, the difference between us feels… real in a way it hadn’t before.

He winces. Actually winces at the noise I make.

Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else might notice. But I do. The slight tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible shift of his shoulders inward, like he is bracing against something he has heard many times before and never quite gotten used to.

“That is an unnecessarily dramatic response,” he mutters.

I blink at him. “Unnecessarily? Magnus, that is seven centuries.”

“I am aware.”

“You lived through… everything.”

“That is how time functions.”

I stare at him for a second, then let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “You are unbelievable.”

He does not respond to that. In all fairness, I don’t know how he could respond to that. Instead, his gaze shifts slightly, returning to something more neutral, more controlled, like he is reassembling himself piece by piece.

“You asked,” he says after a moment, quieter now.

I soften a little at that.

“I did,” I admit. “I just… wasn’t expecting you to actually answer.”

“I generally do not answer questions of that nature,” he replies.

“Then why did you this time?”

That catches him. Not in the same way as before, but enough that there is a pause. His eyes flick toward me briefly, then away again, like he is considering how much of the truth he intends to offer.

“You are… relevant to my current research,” he says finally.

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s your answer?”

“It is an accurate one.”

I lean back slightly, folding my arms as I study him.

“You could have just said you trust me.”

“I did not say that.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

There is a brief flicker at the corner of his mouth.

Not quite a smile. But something close enough to count.

The breeze shifts again, moving through the porch and lifting the edge of his sleeve just slightly. The moment settles, quieter now, less sharp than before.

I glance out over the farm, letting my gaze drift across the rows I had just finished, the uneven edges of land I still need to clear, the quiet persistence of everything that still needs doing.

“Well,” I say after a moment, pushing myself up from the step and brushing the dust from my hands, “as fascinating as your seven hundred years of emotional repression are, we still have a full day ahead of us.”

He looks up at me. There is a brief pause, like he is recalibrating again, returning to something more familiar.

“Yes,” he says.

I step down from the porch, stretching my arms slightly as I move back toward the field.

Behind me, I hear him stand.

The soft shift of fabric. The faint movement of wood under his boots.

By the time I glance back, the distance he had so carefully maintained earlier has shortened, just slightly, without either of us acknowledging it.

“Where to next,” I ask.

His gaze moves across the farm, then past it, toward the tree line beyond.

“Foraging,” he decides.

I nod once.

And just like that, the moment folds back into the day, the weight of it settling somewhere quieter as we move forward into whatever comes next.

Foraging is quieter than farming.

We move along the forest edge, and I am more aware of the space than I was before. Not consciously. Not in a way I can fully explain. Just… present. The bushes feel easier to spot. The wild onions near the path seem almost placed rather than found. Once, when I reach toward a cluster of berries, the branch dips slightly toward my hand before I even touch it.

I freeze.

Magnus does not.

“Continue,” he says, though his voice is quieter now, more focused.

So I do.

Not heavier, not tense, but quieter in a way that makes the space between us more noticeable. The path curves gently beneath our feet, packed dirt softened by layers of fallen leaves, and the trees rise tall enough overhead that the sunlight filters through in scattered pieces rather than anything direct.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

I kick lightly at a loose stone in the path, watching it bounce ahead of me before settling into the undergrowth. Magnus walks just behind and slightly to the side, not close enough to crowd me, but not distant either. His presence feels steadier now, less like something observing from afar and more like something that has chosen to remain.

Still, the silence stretches.

And then—

“You reacted strongly to my age.”

His voice breaks through the quiet without warning, calm as ever, but quieter than before. Less performative. More… deliberate.

I glance back at him. “I mean, yeah. That feels like a reasonable reaction.”

“It is not uncommon,” he replies, though there is a slight hesitation in the way he continues walking, like he is choosing each step more carefully than before. “Most people find the concept… uncomfortable.”

I shrug, pushing a low branch aside as we move further into the trees. “It’s not uncomfortable. It’s just… a lot. You’ve been alive longer than this entire town has probably existed.”

“Several iterations of it,” he corrects.

That stops me. I turn slightly, studying him more closely. “Wait. What?”

He slows, just enough that we fall into step beside each other instead of staggered.

“Pelican Town, as it currently exists, is not its first form,” he explains, his tone shifting subtly into something more familiar to him. More structured. “The valley has undergone periods of expansion and decline, influenced by both human activity and… other factors.”

“Other factors,” I repeat. “You’re being vague on purpose.”

“I am being precise,” he counters. “The valley is a point of convergence. Natural magic is more concentrated here than in most regions. That influences growth, decay, migration patterns… and the behavior of entities such as the Junimos.”

That makes more sense, but I still am not sure what it all is supposed to mean to me.

“The Junimos built the Community Center, right?” I ask. “Or at least… maintained it?”

“They did not build it,” he confirms, shaking his head slightly. “They maintained their balance. The structure itself is human in origin, but its persistence was not.”

I crouch near a patch of spring onions, brushing aside the leaves to pull one free from the soil. The roots come up clean again, almost too easily.

“That’s why it fell apart?” I ask. “Because people stopped… participating?”

Magnus watches the motion of my hands rather than the onion itself.

“Yes,” he says. “The Junimos are not builders in the traditional sense. They are caretakers. When a place is neglected, they withdraw. When it is restored, they return.”

I turn the onion over in my fingers, brushing the dirt from it slowly.

“And you couldn’t… do anything about that?” I ask. “You’ve been here the whole time.”

That earns a pause.

“My influence is not of the same nature,” he replies. “I study magic and I practice it, but I do not… embody it.”

I glance at him.

“And I do?”

His gaze shifts to me fully now.

“Yes.”

I look away first, standing and brushing my hands against my jeans. “That feels like something you should have led with,” I mutter.

“I am leading with it now,” He replies matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, after I accidentally start fixing the valley by existing.”

“That is an oversimplification.”

“It’s a correct simplification,” I point out, looking back up at him. His face looks different in the day rather than in his tower’s lanterns. It makes him look more normal rather than his usual stuffy and stoic look. His And the way he moves throughout the land, it makes me realize that he really is accustomed to the valley.

There is a brief silence.

Then, quieter, almost reluctant, “Yes.”

I grin to myself and move a little further off the path, spotting a cluster of dandelions near the base of a tree.

The forest shifts subtly as we move.

Not visibly, not in a way that would catch attention if I weren’t already aware of it, but there is a sense of responsiveness now. Branches do not obstruct as much as they did before. The ground feels more stable underfoot, even where it should not be.

Magnus notices.

Of course he does.

“You are more aligned here than you were this morning,” he observes, his tone returning to that focused, analytical cadence. “Your interaction with the environment is becoming more… reciprocal.”

“That’s a fancy way of saying the forest likes me.”

“It is a more accurate way of saying you are not disrupting its existing patterns.”

“Wow,” I say dryly. “I feel very special.”

“You should.”

I look at him. A dumb smile begins to grow on my face. “That sounded like a compliment.”

“It was not intended as one.” He keeps his mouth straight, even though I can tell behind those dark purple eyes that he’s trying to hide some other kind of thought.

“Sure.”

We continue walking.

For a moment, it almost feels normal.

“You should understand,” he says, more carefully now, “that your presence here is… unusual. Not simply because of your abilities, but because of how those abilities are manifesting.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The ominous wording.” Well, everything he said carried an ominous tone. Like he was the hermit painting on a tarot card about to dispel some foreboding words.

He exhales quietly.

“You are not the first individual to possess an affinity for natural magic,” he clarifies, “but you are the first I have encountered whose connection is… untrained and yet functional.”

“Is that bad?”

“It is unpredictable.”

“That sounds like a yes.”

“It is not inherently negative,” he corrects. “But it does require observation.”

I glance at him sideways. “Right. Your favorite activity.”

There is a brief pause. Even his quill takes a rest mid-air, too.

Then, more quietly than before, “You are not merely an observation.”

That catches me off guard.

I slow slightly, turning my head toward him. “Oh? That’s new.”

He does not meet my gaze immediately.

Instead, he adjusts the brim of his hat slightly, a small, unnecessary movement that feels more like something to do with his hands than anything practical.

“You are… a colleague,” he says.

I stop walking.

“Magnus.”

He does not like that tone. I can tell immediately. His eyes seem to dart away from mine as his lips pull into a grimace. He thinks he’s about to get reprimanded.

“That is not what I meant,” I say, crossing my arms and looking at him fully now. “You just told me you’ve lived for seven hundred years and I’m apparently some magical anomaly you’ve never seen before, and the best you can come up with is colleague?”

“It is an accurate term,” he replies, though there is a faint tightness in his voice now.

“It’s a terrible term!” I laugh, unable to stop myself. He’s ridiculous, but for some reason, I find it endearing. He can be as robotic as he wants, he can say it’s for observations, but I know that he’s having just as much fun as I am.

“It is a professional one.”

“We are not in an office.” Like he would even know what a real corporate office would look like. I laugh through my nose at the thought of Magus seeing my cubicle at Joja.

“We are conducting structured observation—”

“We are picking onions in the woods,” I point out.

That stops him. Fully. He looks at me. Really looks this time. And for a second, I think he might argue.

“…yes,” Magnus says.

I hold his gaze for another moment, then shake my head, a smile breaking through despite myself. “You’re unbelievable,” I repeat.

“I have been told that before.”

“I’m sure you have.”

The tension breaks.

I turn back toward the path, stepping over a fallen branch and glancing ahead toward the edge of the forest where the land begins to open up again.

“Well,” I say, brushing my hands together, “as enlightening as your centuries of magical isolation have been, I think I’ve gathered enough plants for one day.”

He nods once.

“Then we proceed.”

I glance back at him, already starting toward the exit.

“Yeah,” I say, letting a grin slip back into place. “Okay, wizard. Let’s go fishing next.”

For once, he does not correct me. It seems like we’re making more progress than just in his observations of me.

Fishing is less successful.

Or maybe I am just more aware of how inconsistent I still am. Magnus watches the water more than he watches me, his attention fixed on the subtle shifts in the surface, like he is tracking something I cannot see.

We’re fishing at the pond in Cindersap Forest. I don’t even ask him if he would come with me to any other area, I figure that he would not enjoy the eyes of the townspeople. Besides, the fish bit back better in a quieter area.

We’re both at the edge of the old rickety dock. I’m sitting down, allowing my legs to swing almost to the point where my feet are hitting the water. He prefers to stand up, just a bit behind me while still remaining at my side.

“You are anticipating the movement,” he notes at one point. “But not the pattern.”

“I didn’t realize there was a pattern.” I say it with a bit of an edge without meaning to.

He replies without even noticing it. “There is always a pattern.”

That is not particularly helpful, but I try anyway.

By the time we reach the mines, the day has settled into something heavier. Not exhausting, exactly, but full.

The entrance feels the same as it did before. Dark. Quiet. Waiting. Magnus pauses just outside, his gaze shifting slightly as though he is measuring something in the air itself.

“You have encountered resistance here,” he states.

“That’s one way to put it.”

He inclines his head once. “Proceed.”

The difference is immediate.

Not in the environment, but in how I move through it. The first few levels feel familiar now, the layout less disorienting, the presence of monsters less surprising. When the first slime appears, I react without hesitation, stepping back, adjusting my grip on the sword, striking before it can close the distance.

Magnus does not intervene. But he watches closely.

“Your timing has improved,” he remarks as the slime dissolves into nothing.

“I would hope so.”

“Do not rely on repetition,” he continues. “Observe the interval between movement and response. There is always a delay.”

I frown slightly, glancing at the next cluster of rocks.

“That’s… actually helpful.”

“I am aware.”

I roll my eyes but adjust anyway.

As we move deeper, the air shifts. Cooler. Heavier.

The sound of dripping water echoes faintly somewhere in the distance, blending with the low hum of something I cannot quite identify. My movements become more deliberate, each step measured in a way that feels instinctive rather than forced.

Another slime lunges.

This time, I see it.

Not the attack itself, but the fraction of a second before it happens. The way its body compresses slightly, the shift in its movement that signals what comes next.

I step aside before it reaches me.

Strike.

End.

Magnus’s attention sharpens. “You are beginning to perceive the structure,” he says.

“That sounds ominous again.”

“It is not.”

That is not convincing.

We continue.

At one point, I hesitate near a cluster of stones, my hand hovering just above them. Something feels… off. Not dangerous. Just different.

Magnus notices immediately.

“Explain.”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “It just feels like there’s something under there.”

He studies the rocks, then nods once. “Then remove them.”

I do.

The ladder reveals itself beneath. I stare at it for a second longer than necessary.

“That’s new.”

“Yes.” He sounds quieter but more certain.

We descend.

It is a few levels later that we are not alone.

The shift is subtle at first. Not a sound, not a movement, just the sense that the space is no longer limited to the two of us. I imagine that Magnus feels the same way. I look to my side, where he always is, but I can’t truly read his expression. The way the shadows and small torches that light the different levels play on his face is truly beautiful, if not a bit cold and detached. He looks up at me with a confused look, and I have to tear myself away from it when I realize I’ve heard something that doesn’t come from either one of us.

The air shifts before I see him.

It is not a sound at first, not even movement, just a subtle tightening in the space itself, like the mine has become aware of something entering it that does not quite belong to its usual rhythm. The damp chill presses closer, the low hum of the stone settling into something sharper, more alert.

Magnus notices it immediately. He stills beside me, not dramatically, not in a way that would alarm anyone who is not paying attention, but I feel it. The slight recalibration in his posture, the way his attention narrows, no longer spread across the environment but fixed.

“We are not alone on this level,” he says quietly.

I glance around, tightening my grip on the sword. “That’s reassuring.”

“It is not meant to be,” He replies tightly, not understanding my sarcasm as always.

And then there is movement. Not from the shadows, but through them.

A figure steps into the low light, emerging with a kind of ease that makes it clear he is not navigating the mines so much as moving through them like he has done it a hundred times before. He runs a quick hand through his wild hair before he strikes a proud pose; a sword resting behind his head and on his shoulders. Like a videogame character come to life. Man, I think Abigail would have a field day with him if I was able to pin down whether she liked boys, girls, or both.

“Lance,” Magnus acknowledges.

So that is him.

Marnie was right. He is handsome, but not in the same way Magnus is. Where Magnus looks like he belongs in dim rooms and candlelight, Lance looks like he has spent most of his life under open sky. His features are sharper in a different way, less refined and more worn in, like they have been shaped by movement rather than stillness. His red-pink hair falls just short of unruly, catching the low light in uneven strands, and there is a looseness to the way he carries himself that makes him seem immediately approachable, even when he is standing perfectly still. The way his dark magenta hair blesses his warm dark skin and highlights his bright blue eyes feels like a painter that took their time picking their color palette, whereas Magnus’ colors fit perfectly despite their chaos. His clothes are fitted and practical, worn just enough to suggest use rather than neglect, and the way he stands feels grounded, balanced, entirely present in the physical world.

Magnus, standing beside me, feels like the opposite of that. Not weaker by any stretch of the imagination. If anything, the difference makes the contrast sharper.

Lance looks like he belongs to the world, a world of magic and monsters. Magnus looks like the world has had to adjust to him. Where one had to fight to be in it, the other had to let the world fight to be let in.

Lance’s gaze moves to me almost immediately, actively and not passively. He does not acknowledge Magnus back nor even greet him. Not the way most people in town look, polite and curious and then done. He swaggers forward to me, but Magnus does not step from my side.

He pauses on me, just long enough for it to feel intentional, something shifting slightly behind his expression as though he has noticed something he had not expected to find.

“Well,” he says, voice lighter than the space seems to allow, “you must be the beautiful new farmer I’ve been hearing about.”

I glance briefly at Magnus before answering. His face does not move, but I can tell by his eyes, not too wide but not too narrowed, are thoroughly enraged by this interaction. I look back at Lance, his bright blue eyes bearing into me. “That depends on what you’ve heard,” I respond back coolly, although my heart is racing. It’s not necessarily because his presence is unsettling, but because I’m not sure how Magnus will continue to react.

“Enough to know you’re not just planting parsnips,” Lance teases, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

Magnus does not move in his feet, but I can see him twitch in the corner of my eye.

“This is not a social call,” Magnus states. There is no edge to it. No raised voice. But something in the air sharpens anyway, like the words carry more weight than their tone suggests.

Lance does not seem particularly concerned.

“Everything’s a social call if you stay in one place long enough,” he offers easily, though his attention has not left me. In fact, his eyes don’t seem to leave mine at all, even when I occasionally steal a glance at my so-called colleague. “You’ve been going deeper than most people manage on their first few runs.”

I blink, not realizing how long it had been since I had last closed my eyes. Water almost springs from them as I manage, “You’ve been watching me?”

“Not intentionally,” he reveals, though the slight tilt of his head suggests otherwise. “But you’re hard to miss.”

Magnus shifts then.

Not forward, not aggressively, but enough that the space between the three of us adjusts. It is subtle, the kind of movement that would not register if I were not already paying attention, but it places him just slightly closer to me than before.

“She is under my observation,” Magnus warns. I feel a kind of chill run through my body, and its reason is one I’m not sure I can understand.

Lance’s gaze flicks to him briefly, the first time he breaks from my face, something amusing passing through his expression before settling again.

“Observation,” he repeats slowly and carefully. “That's what we’re calling it. Of course.” He says those words as a statement, even if in a bit of a mocking tone, though it rings like a question to me.

“It is what it is,” Magnus replies. This time it feels less like defense and more with certainty. More of a statement to tell Lance to back off with his questions about me.

Lance hums quietly, then looks back at me, more directly this time.

“You feel that?” Lance asks. His face has gotten a lot closer to mine now.

I frown slightly. “Feel what?”

He takes another step closer. Not enough to crowd me. Just enough that I can see his expression more clearly, the focus in it sharper now, less casual than before. I take an uneasy step back, and I feel it.

Magnus has wrapped my wrist in his hand. Firmly, but not in a commanding way. My wrist feels small in his cold touch, but I feel like my feet have roots in the ground now.

Lance’s eyes quickly dart down to this motion, his mouth moving slightly, before he continues to look into my face.

“The way the air shifts around you,” he says. “The way the stone responds when you move through it. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

I hesitate. Because yes. I do. Magnus can, too. The two of us have already established that the forest seems to move with me, but the mines, too? That was something we had yet to discuss, even if the two of us had already witnessed it in the short amount of time we spent down here. Even if it was obvious to this Lance character, I didn’t feel safe sharing it. At least, I didn’t want to confirm it with him.

“I thought that was just… the mines,” I say.

“It isn’t,” Lance remarks, his tone dripping with a bigger edge than it had before. Not exactly in a sinister way, but more protectively.

Magnus speaks before I can respond. “That is not information you need to concern yourself with.”

His voice is still even. But this time, there is no mistaking the intent behind it. He wants Lance to get out and mind his own business. But why? Marnie and Lance seem to enjoy this Lance character. Magnus didn’t like townspeople, sure, but Marlon of the Adventurer’s Guild wasn’t exactly a townie and there was definitely a relationship between Marlon and Lance.

Lance glances at him again, slower this time. An arrogant smirk slowly develops on his face.

“Right,” he says, his words encased in sarcasm. “Because you’ve got it handled.”

“I do.” The answer comes without pause. And for the first time since I have known him, it does not sound like an observation. It sounds like a claim.

Lance studies him for a second longer, then lets out a small breath, something between a laugh and an acknowledgment.

“I’m not arguing that,” he says. “You’ve been at this longer than anyone.” He looks at me again with a wicked smile. “A lot longer if you didn’t know.” Clearly it’s a joke about how old Magnus is. But then again, how old could Lance be, then?

There is a beat. Then, Lance adds, more lightly, “Doesn’t mean you’re the only one paying attention.”

That lands somewhere between them. Not confrontational. But not neutral either.

I shift my weight slightly, glancing between the two of them.

“So,” I say, “am I in danger, or are we just having a very intense conversation about me like I’m not standing right here.”

That breaks it. Not completely. But enough.

Lance’s face melts into a softer smile at me. I felt like the grins and sarcasm was more of an attempt to get a reaction out of Magnus than to bother me, but I’m still not sure with a character like this.

“No danger,” he says. “At least not from me.”

Magnus does not comment on that.

Lance steps back then, easing the tension just slightly. “Just be careful,” he adds, his tone fainter now, more direct to me than before. “The deeper you go, the less predictable things get. And if something feels off… trust that.”

I nod once. “Yeah. I’m starting to notice that.”

His gaze lingers for a second longer, like he is considering saying something else. Then he straightens.

“I’ll see you around,” he announces, before adding with a wink, “and try not to get your face mauled off. It’d be a shame to lose something as pretty as that.” And then, just like that, he moves past us, his presence fading into the deeper levels of the mine as quickly as it appeared.

I watch him go for a second before glancing back at Magnus. He seems to be glowering now, his eyebrows twisted into a furrow and his lips pressed together. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him look so… inflamed.

Still, I have to poke the bear. “You have interesting coworkers,” I jab.

He returns quickly and flatly with, “He is not my coworker.”

“Sure.”

Magnus says nothing. By now, I have gotten used to these little pauses by him. Though we’ve only become “colleagues” in a short amount of time, I am less uncomfortable with the silence. Sometimes, it’s nice to let it grow and see who is willing to break it first.

This silence is not broken in the way I had hoped.

Then, quieter, more controlled again, “You should not rely on the assessments of others regarding your condition.”

I blink. “My condition.”

“Your abilities,” he corrects himself.

I study him for a second. It feels like I’m getting blamed for something I didn’t bring upon myself. But I try to push back what could be a silly reaction to something small.

“You didn’t like that he noticed something,” I note.

“That is not relevant,” he snaps at me. He sounds angry now. Angry in the way he was when Lance was peppering us with questions.

I look at him, my lips pressed together and curled downwards. I set my pickaxe and sword down so that they’re sinking into the earth. The earth easily obliges my request as I lean against it.

“That sounded relevant,” I rebuke.

“It is not.” He takes down his angry tone this time. Good. I don’t respond well to anger.

I let out a small breath, shaking my head.

“Okay,” I say, not entirely convinced. “Whatever you say.”

He does not respond.

But when we continue deeper into the mine, he stays just slightly closer than before. And I cannot quite tell if that is because of me. Or because of Lance.

“So… how did the happy couple meet?” I laugh.

He rolls his eyes. Maybe it’s a lot easier to get under his skin than I thought. I would have to keep that in mind in the future. “He’s a combat mage. Believe it or not, there’s not a lot of magic-holders in the valley. We’ve crossed paths more than a few times, especially regarding the Adventurers Guild. I can tell you about it another day when we’re not… here.”

Ah, right. I didn’t think about how Lance might be right around the corner at any point.

The rest of our descent as we continue is quieter .

Not because anything has changed, but because something has.

Magnus speaks more now, though still sparingly. He corrects my stance once, adjusts my grip on the sword with a brief, precise motion, his hand steady and impersonal in a way that still somehow lingers after he steps back.

“Do not overextend,” he instructs. “Efficiency is more sustainable than force.”

“I feel like that applies to more than just combat.”

“It does.”

By the time we finally emerge from the mines, the sky has already begun to darken. The air feels different again. Lighter. I exhale, rolling my shoulders slightly as I look out over the valley.

Magnus remains still beside me, his gaze not on the horizon, but on me.

“Your progression is… notable,” he says after a moment.

“That sounds like you’re surprised.”

“I am.”

That earns a small laugh from me.

He studies me for a second longer, something quieter settling into his expression. It seems almost… warmer. Like my laughter was enough to touch that stone he wears on his face.

“We will continue,” he adds.

Not a question. Not a request. Just a fact. Just like most of his words.

I nod anyway.

And for once, I do not feel like I am trying to catch up to something I do not understand. It feels like something has started to meet me halfway.

And although he might just call us colleagues, I’m starting to suspect what he really meant to call us is friends.

Chapter Text

It was late at night and I’ve finally collapsed on my small couch in my living room in front of the TV. I’m lazily watching a Queen of Sauce rerun in a desperate hope that I might learn something. I had just gotten into my pajamas, a pair of worn-through sweat shorts, an old rock t-shirt, and my most coziest socks. I’m thoroughly enjoying my bag of popcorn, the cheapest and easiest snack I have recently become addicted to. That, and my new furry friend.

Marnie had just come by this morning and asked me if I had wanted to take in a stray. All I needed to hear was her sweet and sad mewl before I automatically said yes to the little kitten.

Now, after spending way too much money on supplies, a trip to Harvey’s despite him adamantly telling me I could not get any veterinary help from a human doctor, and a whole day of getting her used to my farmlife, I was enjoying some downtime with her.

“Hmm, what should your name be?” I ask her as I slowly drag the fake mouse by its long tail. I giggle as she continues to swat her paw.

She’s a sweet little thing, only four weeks old. She’s a small but fluffy black puffball, with only two big green eyeballs to distinguish her as a living thing to most onlookers. I could tell before I swept her out of Marnie’s arms that she’s a Maine Coon, probably a result of my newfound connection to the valley, but still. I know she’ll grow up to be a good companion.

“Maybe a witchy name?” I wonder aloud. “You are a black cat, afterall.”

I hear a knock at the door. I give the nameless kitten an eyebrow. “I wonder who that could be?”

It’s strange how I can name what kind of bird is pecking at my window, but I can’t seem to name the steps of the person outside my door. Either way, I groan to myself and push myself off from my comfortable seat.

When I open the door, I smile brightly at him.

Magnus is standing there with a concerned look on his face. He looks down at me and then looks away. “I apologize. I fear I have witnessed you in a state of undress.”

I roll my eyes with a laugh. “It’s not undress, you dimwit, it’s pajamas.”

He looks confused despite my clarification. “Is that not the same thing?”

“Does it look like I’m in my undergarments?” I use a word that he would probably use, for my own comedic sake and because he seems to have a lack of understanding of modern day words.

He nods at this even though he still carries a furrowed brow. I still have yet to fix the light outside, so his face is only lit by the flickering light of my television. “Is everything alright?” He asks softly, his eyes wider now and pulling inside the room.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s a few hours till midnight and I’m about to go to bed.”

Magnus breathes out, more of a sigh of relief than anything else. “I thought I felt a disturbance. There seems to be a new addition of life to your farm.”

“Well, there is,” I confirm brightly, excited to show him this new addition of life.

Before he can ask another question, I grab his wrist and pull him inside, despite his body stiffening and almost rejecting my nonverbal command to enter my house.

I release his wrist to go find the kitten, who's hiding beneath the couch. I scoop her up despite her protesting mewls and shove her into Magnus’ unexpecting arms.

“Oh, Yoba,” He breathes, his face widening in admiration as he looks down at the annoyed little furball.

I smile. I wish I had a camera, then, if only to take a picture of the towering dark wizard utterly enthralled by an adorable kitten. He reaches a hand out to the baby cat, who promptly swipes a paw at his hand.

“The little one has good reflexes,” he comments, almost a coo. He looks back up at me and asks, “Does she have a name yet?”

I shake my head, leaning my body against the back of the couch. “I’m spending the rest of the evening trying to decide that very thing. Care to join me?”

He leans his head as if to think of a response. He pauses, looking back down at the kitten. “I’m sure you don’t need my help.”

I shake my head. “No, I really do. I’m split between so many different names.”

“What are the options?”

“I’m split between Concrete, Taco, or Pebble.”

“Those are terrible names!” He cries out, louder than I’ve ever heard him before.

“No they aren’t!” I squabble back, feeling very defensive over my lineup of names.

“Yes, Lorelai, they are.” He scratches the little kitten’s head. The kitten now seems to take a liking to him and starts to purr, rubbing her cheek against his robes. “This little thing will grow up to be a mighty companion and you want to name him Concrete or Pebble?” He shakes his head, although it’s clear he is amused by the situation. “I will not allow it.”

I sigh loudly, then a mischievous idea forms in my head on how I can convince Magnus to spend more time with me this evening. I scratch my head as if I’m trying to come up with an answer but just can’t think of one. “Well, I guess you’re going to have to spend the rest of the evening trying to help me come up with another one, then.”

Magnus tries to get out of it. “No, I am certain that won’t be necessary.”

“Well, I’m not,” I retort.

He sighs. “I cannot get out of this situation, can I?”

I shake my head as if it truly is the last resort.

“Do with me what you will, then.”

I smile wickedly as he sighs very loudly again. “I’ll go get you the pajamas and you just sit on the couch and give Concrete company.”

“No, not Concrete!” He objects sharply before adding, “And why would I have need for your pajamas? I already am clad in my own attire.”

“Because this is a proper name deciding ceremony, one that requires the two participants to be clad in pajamas while we eat popcorn and watch reality TV as we play with the nameless one,” I say solemnly before walking to my bedroom’s chest of drawers.

He sighs for the third time.

“I heard that!” I snap from the other room.

Digging through my chest of drawers is no challenge. I know exactly what I am looking for. I search for my most bizarre pajamas, and when I find it, I have to control myself from giggling.

I step into the living room, where Magnus is playing with the kitten with the little fake mouse. Again, it’s so lovable that I yearn for any kind of way to document the moment. He releases it as soon as he sees what I’m holding.

“You jest,” is all he can manage.

But, indeed, I am not. What I am holding is a long footed onesie pajama set of the squirrel variety. It’s brown with a long fluffy tail, complete with a hood that has a cartoonish face of a rodent with ears. It was a terrible gift from a Winter Star gift exchange I got at a Joja office party years ago and kept for some strange reason. I slept in it only once, when it was so cold outside that long johns were not enough to save me.

I shake my head with a devilish grin on my face.

“Are you wearing a matching one, at least?” He suggests weakly.

“Nope.”

He closes his eyes. I think it’s because he’s regretting all of his life decisions that have brought him here at this moment. But then, I feel something between my fingers and have to look back at what I’m seeing.

Now there’s two identical footed onesies.

Well played.

“Fine, I won’t make you wear it. But you need to put on comfy clothes or else I’ll feel like a slob.” Magnus’ face is clearly one marked with victory.

I return with a better pair of clothes; my baggiest pair of flannel pants and my old university t-shirt. He looks at it hesitantly.

“This marks a small improvement from the last suggestion.”

I raise an eyebrow. He sighs.

“Go change in my room.”

“Fine.”

He disappears down the hallway without another word, his footsteps quieter than I expect for someone wearing boots that look like they belong in another century. I don’t follow him right away. Instead, I stay where I am, watching the kitten bat uselessly at the string of the toy I’d abandoned, her tiny body tumbling over itself with each failed attempt to catch it.

I crouch down beside her, letting my hand rest on the floor so she can climb over it like it’s some kind of obstacle. “You are about to witness something historic,” I murmur to her. “A very powerful wizard in flannel pants.”

She blinks at me, unimpressed.

I hear the faint rustle of fabric down the hall, followed by a pause, like he’s reconsidering every decision that led him to this moment. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

When he steps back into the living room, I win that battle immediately. Mostly because I’m too in shock to say or do anything except stare at him.

It’s not that the clothes don’t fit him. It’s that they fit him too well.

The flannel pants hang low on his hips, looser than anything I’ve ever seen him wear, the dark fabric of his usual robes replaced with something soft and worn and completely out of place on him. The shirt is even worse, or better, depending on how you look at it. It’s far too small on him, despite it being several sizes too big for me. It looks like a cropped baby tee on him, revealing just how broad his shoulders are, just how big his biceps are, and just how defined his revealed stomach is.

Since when were wizards jacked? I think to myself. The thought hits me so suddenly I don’t even have time to be embarrassed by it.

“Are you alright?” He asks me, eyes actually wide in concern.

I shake my head automatically, still staring for half a second too long before I catch myself. I nod quickly, dropping my gaze down to the kitten in my lap like she’s about to save me from myself. I focus on the soft rise and fall of her tiny body, the way her ears twitch at nothing, anything to keep my thoughts from spiraling somewhere they absolutely should not be going.

He rolls his eyes. “What did you expect from me? That I am constructed of thin air?”

No, but I wasn’t expecting you to have the build of a Greek god, either, I think before I can silence my stream of consciousness.

“This is unacceptable,” he continues, completely serious as he looks down at himself.

I press a hand over my mouth, trying and failing to compose myself. “No, no, this is perfect.”

“It is highly impractical attire,” he continues, tugging slightly at the hem of the shirt like it has personally offended him. “There is no structure, no layering, no—”

“You look fine,” I interrupt, a little too quickly.

He pauses and looks at me. Really looks. And for a second, I forget how to breathe. Right now, for the first time since I’ve laid eyes on him, he looks like a normal mundane person, if not a beautiful and muscled one. Not the mysterious wizard that everyone in the town fears.

I clear my throat, pushing myself back up to standing, brushing imaginary dust off my shorts like I need something to do with my hands. “You’ll survive. Now sit.”

He hesitates, glancing at the couch like it might reject him, before finally lowering himself onto it with careful precision, like he’s still half expecting it to behave unpredictably. The kitten immediately takes this as an invitation, climbing onto his lap without hesitation and curling into the fabric of the borrowed clothes like she belongs there.

He stills. “Oh,” he murmurs, more subdued now.

I watch as his hand hovers for a moment before settling gently against her back, his fingers moving carefully, experimentally, like he’s afraid she might disappear if he presses too hard.

She doesn’t. She leans into it.

“See?” I say, dropping back onto the couch beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost brush. “Even she thinks you look good.”

“That is not what she is responding to,” he replies, though there’s no real bite to it.

I grab the remote, flipping the volume up just slightly as the show continues to play in the background, the bright, overly cheerful voice of the host filling the room in a way that feels completely at odds with the quiet we’ve created.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. It’s… nice.

I reach for the popcorn, holding the bag out toward him without looking. “You’re participating in the ceremony, remember.”

He glances at it like it might be dangerous. “What is this?”

“Popcorn.”

He narrows his eyes slightly. “It does not resemble corn.”

“It did at one point,” I say, already laughing. “Just take some.”

He does, cautiously, like he expects it to react. It doesn’t. He chews slowly. Pauses. Then takes another piece.

I grin. “Told you.”

The kitten shifts again, stretching across his lap like she’s already claimed him as her own, her small body rising and falling with each soft breath. He watches her for a moment, his expression kinder than I’ve ever seen it, before glancing back at me.

“What are the names again?” he asks.

I lean back into the couch, settling into the cushions with a satisfied sigh.

“Concrete,” I say. “Taco. Pebble.”

He closes his eyes and breathes heavily through his nose. “This will be a long evening.”

“Good,” I reply.

“You are ridiculous,” He groans, still tugging at his shirt. I can’t help but look down before my panic pulls my gaze back up to him.

I shrug. “I’ve been told that more than a few times.”

A silence lapses between us. I’m trying to think of something to do or say that will keep him entertained and keep him from leaving.

But I instead continue to watch him intently pet the little kitten. I watch his muscles flex at the small motion. And then’s when I notice it.

I don’t mean to notice it. I really don’t. But once I do, I can’t stop.

It’s subtle at first. Just a shift of fabric when he moves, the small shirt pulling slightly across his shoulder as he adjusts where he’s sitting. The neckline dips again, just enough to catch the light differently, and for a second, I think I imagined it.

Then he reaches down to steady the kitten as she climbs further into his lap, and the sleeve of the shirt slides back.

And there it is. A thin line at first. Pale. Clean. Old. But not alone.

I shift in my seat. Because now that I’m looking at one, I can see all of them.

They aren’t obvious the way you’d expect them to be. Not jagged or gruesome or fresh. They’re… deliberate. Faded into his skin like something that has been there long enough to become part of him, crossing over one another in places, disappearing beneath the fabric and reappearing again when he shifts.

There’s one that runs along his forearm, longer than the rest, curving slightly like it followed the path of something that didn’t stop when it should have. Another, higher up, just visible where the collar of the shirt falls open, disappearing beneath the fabric in a way that makes my chest tighten before I can stop it.

I don’t realize I’ve gone quiet until he looks up.

“You are staring,” he says.

There’s no accusation in it.

I shake my head, startled out of whatever I was doing, my eyes flicking up to his face and then immediately away again.

“I’m not staring,” I say automatically. A pause. “I was observing.”

He exhales softly through his nose. “That is my phrasing.”

I huff out a small laugh, but it doesn’t last. “Can I ask you something?” I say instead, quieter now.

He stills. “You may,” he says.

I hesitate.

My fingers trace absent circles into the kitten’s fur, grounding myself in something soft and warm before I look back at him again.

“…What happened to you?” I ask.

The question sits between us. He knows what I mean. Of course he does.

His gaze drops, not avoiding, just… shifting inward. His hand stills where it rests against the kitten’s back, his fingers no longer moving.

“Is it that bad?” He asks in a small voice.

I shake my head. I hate that that’s what he gathers from my question. “No, not all. I just… haven’t noticed it before.”

For a moment, I think he won’t answer my question. That he’ll shut down, retreat into that careful, impenetrable version of himself that I’m starting to recognize.

But then he leans back slightly into the couch. Not relaxed. Just… settled.

“It was a long time ago,” he says.

His voice is different now. Lower and heavier. Like it hurts to speak out loud.

“When I was young,” he continues, and there’s the faintest shift in his tone, something almost ironic in the way he says it, “which, for me, is a relative term. I was not… as measured as I am now.”

I don’t interrupt. I don’t think I could if I tried.

“There was a man,” Magnus says, his gaze unfocused now, fixed somewhere beyond the walls of my house, beyond the valley entirely. “A scholar, initially. Brilliant, by all accounts. He studied the boundary between realms. Not the way most of us do, not in fragments or controlled rituals, but completely. Obsessively.”

The kitten shifts in his lap, but he doesn’t look down.

“He believed the separation between the spirit realm and our own was a flaw,” Magnus continues. “An artificial division imposed by fear rather than necessity. He argued that magic, in its truest form, was meant to be… uncontained. That the world, as it exists now, is diminished by that separation.”

I frown slightly. “That doesn’t sound entirely wrong,” I admit carefully.

Magnus’s mouth tightens. “It is not entirely wrong,” he says. “That is what made him so dangerous.”

A chill runs down my spine.

“He did not want to study the boundary,” Magnus continues. “He wanted to remove it.”

The room feels quieter now.

“He called it convergence,” he says. “The idea that if the spirit realm were allowed to bleed fully into ours, magic would no longer be restricted to those born with it or trained to use it. It would become… ambient. Everywhere. In everything.”

“That sounds…” I trail off.

“Powerful,” Magnus finishes for me.

I nod.

“And catastrophic,” he adds.

I swallow.

“The spirit realm is not a passive place,” he says, finally looking at me again. “It is not a mirror of this world. It is… older. Less structured. It does not distinguish between creation and destruction in the same way we do.”

My grip tightens slightly in the kitten’s fur.

“If the boundary had been removed,” he continues, “entities that currently exist only in contained environments, places like the mines, would not remain contained. They would not remain small. They would become unmanageable.”

My stomach drops. “They would be everywhere,” I say quietly.

“Yes.” He takes a steady breath. “And not just them,” Magnus continues. “Magic itself would behave differently. Unpredictably. Spontaneously. It would not require intention. It would not require control. It would simply… occur.”

I think of my crops. Of the way things had grown when I didn’t understand what I was doing. How the valley felt alive around me.

“And you fought him?” I ask.

Magnus lets out a slow breath.

“I was one of many,” he says. “But yes.”

His gaze drops briefly to his arm, to one of the scars I’d been staring at earlier.

“He succeeded,” Magnus says.

My head snaps up.

“What?”

“Not fully,” he clarifies. “But enough.”

A pause.

“He opened it,” Magnus says. “Not completely. Not permanently. But long enough for something to come through.”

The room feels colder.

“What came through?” I ask.

Magnus is quiet for a moment.

“Something that did not belong here,” he says finally. “Something that did not understand limitation.”

The way he says it tells me that it’s not fear. It’s memory.

“We sealed it,” he continues. “Eventually. At significant cost.”

His hand flexes slightly against the kitten.

“And him?” I ask.

Magnus’s expression hardens, just slightly. “He believed he was right until the end.”

We sit in silence for a moment after that. The weight of it lingers.

The kitten lets out a small, indignant mewl, startling the two of us and breaking the scene apart.

We both look down at the same time. The room has become dimmer now.

“She is very patient,” Magnus says, his voice returning to something lighter, though not entirely unchanged.

“She has to be,” I reply. “She’s stuck with me.”

A small pause. “And possibly with you,” I add.

He glances at me. “I will reserve judgment.”

I grin.

“Okay, fine. New names. Something less offensive to your sensibilities.”

He considers this.

“Onyx,” he says after a moment.

I stare blankly at him.

“That’s actually really good.”

He nods once. “It suits her.”

I look down at the little black puffball, who blinks up at me like she knows exactly what’s being decided.

“Onyx,” I repeat softly.

She purrs.

“Well,” I say, leaning back into the couch, “I think that settles it.”

Magnus nods again, though slower this time.

And then I notice it. The way his shoulders have lowered. The way his posture has softened, just slightly. The way his eyes blink a fraction slower than they had before.

“You look exhausted,” I say. I’m twisting my hair in my hands now.

He doesn’t deny it. “I have not rested,” he admits.

“Since when?”

A pause.

“Recently.”

I roll my eyes.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is sufficient.”

“It’s not,” I counter. “And you know it.”

He doesn’t argue this time.

Instead, he just sits there.

And for the first time since he walked into my house, he looks tired. Really tired.

I hesitate for a second before finding my footing.

“You know, you can stay,” I say.

He looks at me.

“What?”

“You can stay,” I repeat, shrugging slightly like it’s not a big deal. “You’ve already done it once. And you look like you’re about to pass out.”

A pause.

“I will not pass out,” he says.

“You’re going to,” I counter easily.

He studies me. Longer this time.

“You are certain?” he asks.

I nod.

“Yeah,” I say. “I am. You can sleep in my bed, I’ll take this. You’re too tall for this little couch, anyways.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s just quiet. It settles around us easily, like something that had already been there, waiting for us to notice it.

I don’t give him the chance to argue.

I push myself up from the couch, the cushions shifting softly beneath me as I stand, and scoop Onyx up with one arm. She lets out a small, sleepy protest, her paws stretching lazily against my shirt before she settles again, her body warm and impossibly light in my hold.

“Okay, come on then,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.

The night is catching up to me now. I can feel it in the heaviness behind my eyes, in the way my movements are just a little slower than they were an hour ago, like my body has finally decided it’s done pretending to be awake.

He follows.

I hear him behind me, quieter than anyone his size should be, his steps careful, deliberate, like he’s still unsure of how much space he’s allowed to take up here.

My bedroom is dim, lit only by the faint spill of light from the living room and the soft glow of the small lamp on my nightstand. It feels different with him in it this time. Less like a place I retreat to and more like something I’m… sharing.

That thought sits strangely with me.

I set Onyx down first.

She immediately circles once on the edge of the bed before curling into herself, as if she’s decided this arrangement long before either of us did.

“Traitor,” I mumble under my breath.

Then I turn back to him.

I point to the bed, simple and direct, like if I overthink it, I’ll lose whatever nerve I’ve managed to hold onto this long.

He obeys, though there’s a hesitation to it, a pause just before he sits, like he’s crossing some invisible boundary he doesn’t fully understand. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, the familiar creak of the frame grounding the moment in something real, something ordinary.

By the time he’s settled, he looks different.

The tension that usually holds him together has softened, not completely gone, but loosened in a way I’ve never seen before. His shoulders aren’t as rigid, his posture not as precise. Even the way his hands rest, one against the blanket, the other loose at his side, feels less controlled, less intentional.

Tired. That’s what it is. Not just physically. Something deeper than that.

“You can—” I start, then stop, realizing I don’t actually know how to finish that sentence.

Sleep. Rest. Stay.

I settle for, “You’ll be fine.”

He nods once. It’s slower than usual.

As I turn and begin to walk out of the room, I hear him say his words so quietly I don’t even think anything was said at all.

“Can you stay?”

I look back at him. He looks gentler than I’ve ever seen him. More than even seeing him hold Onyx. He looks so touchable, I have to resist the urge to push the hair that slightly dangles between his eyes.

He clears his throat and his eyes shift, now looking at my body. Probably realizing how ridiculous I look in my pajamas. “I, uh, I like when you’re talking and I can fall asleep. It's, uh.” He takes a frustrating breath in. “It’s peaceful for me.”

I just nod at him.

I move around the other side of the bed, slipping beneath the blankets without much ceremony, pulling them up around me as I sink into the mattress. The warmth is immediate, familiar, grounding in a way everything else tonight hasn’t quite been.

For a moment, neither of us says anything.

The room is quiet again. Not empty. Just… still.

I turn my head slightly, just enough to look at him. He hasn’t laid down yet. He’s still sitting there, like he’s waiting for something. Or maybe making sure this is actually happening.

“You’re allowed to lie down,” I mumble, already halfway to sleep.

That seems to be enough.

He shifts slowly, carefully lowering himself back against the pillows like he’s trying not to disturb anything, even though there’s nothing left to disturb. The bed creaks softly again, adjusting to the added weight, the space between us noticeable but not uncomfortable.

Onyx stretches between us, completely unbothered.

For the first time that night, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for something to happen.

“How did you grow up?” Magnus asks, his voice small but not completely sleepy.

I smile. I look over at him, even though he’s completely faced the other way. It makes it easier as I begin to speak.

“I grew up in the suburbs outside of Zuzu City. It’s a big town. I’m guessing you’ve probably never been there. It’s pretty ordinary but it can be so overwhelming at the same time. The little town I grew up in was the opposite. I got bored pretty easily, and my parents never seemed to have enough time to catch up with me. I don’t mind it, even now looking back. I got used to being by myself at a very young age. You might not believe it looking at my fridge, but I got used to taking care of myself and having to do a lot of the cooking and cleaning.

“Making friends was a bit difficult, just because I could be so shy. Eventually, when I got to Zuzu University, a lot of my friends either chose the town community college, or moved out somewhere else. But I had a lot of fun studying at Zuzu City. I chose biology because of my grandpa, you know, and I mostly focused on botany. I think that’s why I’m still…”

I trail off for a moment, my voice softening as sleep starts to pull at the edges of my thoughts. I shift slightly under the blankets, the fabric warm and familiar against my skin, and let out a quiet breath.

“…why I’m still trying to understand everything here in a way that makes sense,” I finish, quieter now. “Even when it doesn’t.”

The words linger in the space between us, but not heavily. They settle the way everything else has tonight. Gently, without asking too much of either of us.

He doesn’t respond right away.

I don’t expect him to.

I can hear the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing beside me, not quite asleep, but close enough that his thoughts have probably started to drift. For a second, I wonder if he’s already gone under, if I’ve just been talking into the quiet for no reason at all.

“I have been there,” he says quietly.

I blink, surprised, my eyes opening just a little as I turn my head more fully toward him.

“To Zuzu?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

A pause.

Then, “Long ago.”

Of course.

I almost laugh.

I don’t press further.

Not tonight.

Instead, I let my gaze rest on the back of him, the faint outline of his shoulders beneath the borrowed shirt, the rise and fall of his breath slower now, more even. He looks less guarded like this, turned away, like whatever he usually holds so tightly has loosened just enough to let him rest.

I hadn’t expected him to ask about me. I definitely hadn’t expected him to listen.

“Your world sounds…” he starts, then stops.

I wait, even though I can feel myself slipping further toward sleep.

“…lonely,” he finishes.

The word doesn’t sting the way it might have before. I think about it for a moment, about quiet kitchens and empty afternoons, about learning how to fill space on my own without realizing that’s what I was doing.

“Maybe,” I say. “But I got used to it.”

Another pause. Then, softer, almost too quiet to catch—

“You should not have had to.”

I don’t know what to do with those words. So I don’t. I just let it exist.

Onyx shifts between us, stretching her small body before settling again, her warmth a small barrier that somehow makes the space feel easier, less charged, more… safe.

My eyes close fully this time.

I continue to murmur about my studies in college. I’m not exactly sure where I continue to lead and where I eventually stop, but sleep finds me eventually. The last thing I’m aware of is the quiet in the room, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the strange, unexpected comfort of knowing he’s still there.

By the time I wake up in the morning and turn over on my side, he’s gone.

Chapter Text

I continued to work on my farm. Everyday I was beginning to feel more and more energized just by working on the land. Not only that, but farming was becoming natural to me. I managed to save up money from the gems I had found in the mines and buy twelve seeds for fruit trees, two for each kind that Pierre offered. He warned me that it would take all season to grow them, but I made the purchase anyway. I was planning to attempt a miniature orchard before I even thought about raising animals. Especially because I was growing more and more nervous about attempting to finish the Community Center in one year. 

I planted them at the far end of my farm. Apricots, cherries, oranges, peaches, apples, and pomegranates would soon be a part of my sales. And when no one was looking, I would put my hands on the soil and concentrate. 

The land out there feels different than the rest of the farm. It is farther from the house, closer to the tree line where the forest begins to fold back into itself, and the air carries a quieter weight. Not heavier, not darker, just… older. The soil is more supple beneath my boots, less compacted, like it has not been disturbed in years. When I press my foot into it, it gives just slightly before settling again, as if it is adjusting to me rather than resisting. It feels like the right place for something that has not happened yet.

I trusted in Pierre’s word that it would take all season for it to grow. But I wanted to see if my “abilities” could be imparted on some stubborn seeds. Every morning and night, I would spend a few minutes or more at a time sitting by each buried seed. I didn’t know what else to do besides put my hands into the dirt and think. 

At first, it feels like nothing. Just dirt under my fingernails and the faint coolness of the soil pressing into my palms. But if I stay there long enough, if I let myself stop trying to force something to happen, there is a shift.

Not in the ground, but in me. It is the same feeling I had in the forest. In the mines. That quiet awareness just beneath everything, like something is waiting to be noticed rather than summoned. I do not know how to reach for it yet.

So I sit there anyway. Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn’t. 

On Spring 19, after I had finished my chores and headed over to the Saloon to give Pam a celebratory drink (apologies to Penny), I came back down to my farm and noticed another envelope sitting on my front porch. It was obviously from him. 

I ripped the letter open and read:

“Thank you for accompanying me last Sunday. Or I suppose I should say, thank you for letting me accompany you. Also, Tuesday night was a memorable evening that I have you to thank for. As a thanks, I have attached some magical fertilizer that might aid you in growing fruit trees. I think I recall that it’s apart of one of the offerings the Junimos require? I believe you will be able to produce some spring fruit before the season’s over.”

I read it twice.

Not because I need to, but because there is something about the way he writes that makes it feel like there is more being said than what is actually on the page. Even his thanks feels measured, like he is choosing how much acknowledgment to give rather than simply giving it.

“Tuesday night was a memorable evening that I have you to thank for.”

That part lingers longer than it should. I fold the letter more carefully than I need to and tuck it into my pocket before turning my attention to the sack.

Indeed, next to the envelope was a large burlap sack. When I untied the leather string from it, I breathed in a concoction of different herby smells. It had a consistency that was similar to Pierre’s stock at his store, but its color was otherworldly. It was a bright teal with some dark purple laced in its contents. The color does not sit still. Not visibly, not in a way I can point to, but when I look at it too long, it feels like it shifts beneath the surface. Like the purple is not mixed in so much as moving through it, threading in slow, uneven patterns that do not quite repeat.

It does not smell like anything from Pierre’s shop. It smells like the tower, like crushed herbs and something older than that, something I cannot place but immediately recognize.

Before I could question it, I took the fertilizer down to my trees. I sprinkle a generous amount on each section of soil, being careful that I’ve mixed in it well enough before I douse my watering can on it.

I dip down and begin my ritual again. But this time, I feel an urge to sing. 

My therapist once told me about a study where they found that plants faired better when you talked to them positively. As a biology major at Zuzu University, I rolled my eyes. The reason why they grew better was because of sound frequency and added carbon dioxide, not because of a “good vibes”. This disappointed her, but we continued on talking about better self care practices despite my thorniness. 

Even though I knew it wasn’t that much different, and biology doesn’t change, maybe I could still change it with song. 

An old folk song was on my lips as I walked around my infant saplings. I raised my hands, not for any expected effect, but because it felt right. I kept my eyes closed, staying true to the tune. I felt a small breeze lick against my skin, and I couldn’t help but let myself shiver into it. 

The breeze does not pass. It lingers. It circles, light and inconsistent, brushing against my arms, my neck, the loose strands of hair that have fallen from their tie. It does not feel like wind moving through the valley. It feels contained, localized, like it belongs to this small stretch of land and nowhere else.

The leaves at the edge of the orchard shift in response. Not all at once. One, then another.

Then a slow ripple outward, as though something unseen has moved through them and they are reacting after the fact.

I don’t know how long I am there, just swaying and singing into the wind. But I let myself end when I feel the swell of the valley finally reach its peak. The “swell” is something I don’t know how to explain to anyone else, but it’s as if I can hear all of the voices reach their largest volume in some strange chorus, and then finally release. 

When it breaks, it does not disappear. It settles. The air stills, the movement fades, and the quiet that follows feels fuller than the silence before it. Like something has been acknowledged, even if I do not yet understand what.

I open my eyes slowly. Nothing looks different.

And yet—

It does not feel the same.

I stay there for a moment longer, kneeling in the dirt, my hands resting loosely against the soil where the feeling had been strongest.

Then, slowly, I pull away. As I stand up, I see something that I hadn’t registered before. Or maybe it truly wasn’t there until it was. 

And it wasn’t an it. 

It was a woman. 

I could hardly believe my eyes. And for a moment, I did not. She stood in front of me, if a bit off to the side. She watched me with wide eyes, like a deer caught in headlights. I couldn’t help but raise my hand in some kind of acknowledgement, hoping she would wave back.

She did not. She just stood there, in all of her ancient-seeming beauty. 

She had bright silver hair that hung past her hips, almost kissing the tops of her covered knees. She wore a long and unstructured dark green dress. If I didn’t know better, it looked like it was made of the earth itself. 

And she wasn’t young either. In fact, even in the distance, I could see her age. She was old. Gravity weighed on her flesh, but there were only fine lines as a suggestion rather than the full weight of age.

But I don’t have much time to think, because as soon as I start to think more about her presence, she turns heel and runs.

She’s gone. 

I don’t even try to think about if I can catch up with her. Something in my bones tells me that she’s not a human, and she knows exactly where to run so no one will catch her. 

The farm stretches out in front of me again, familiar in a way it had not been when I first arrived. The rows of crops, the scattered debris I have yet to clear, the small house waiting just beyond it all. It is still work. Still something unfinished.

But it no longer feels uncertain.

I brush the dirt from my hands as I stand, glancing once more at the orchard before turning back toward the house.

The sun has dipped lower now, the light hazier, pulling long shadows across the land as I make my way up the steps. The wood creaks faintly beneath my weight, the sound grounding in a way I did not expect.

Inside, the air is cooler.

Still.

The quiet settles around me immediately, uninterrupted by wind or movement or anything that might shift without my permission.

For a moment, I just stand there.

Then I move. The chest at the foot of my bed is exactly where I left it, untouched since the day I arrived. I kneel in front of it, lifting the lid slowly, the hinges giving a small protest as they open.

The diary rests where I remember it.

Worn. Familiar. Waiting. I hesitate only briefly before picking it up, brushing my thumb along the edge of the cover as though that alone might prepare me for whatever is inside.

If anyone understood this place—

It would have been him.

I sit back against the side of the bed, the weight of the book settling into my hands as I open it again. 

I flip to where I feel I need to read. 

Spring 25, 1975

I think I need a moment to catch my breath after that encounter. I just saw the most beautiful woman in the entire world. Although, I wasn’t entirely sure if she was a woman in some weird costume, or an entirely different kind of creature. No matter what though, I know I need to find some way to talk to her. 

What I’m going to write down is going to sound like I spent too much time with Willy’s funky smelling pipe. Shit, it might sound like I’ve been eating too many mushrooms without looking up if they were safe or not in my almanac.

I was foraging for some trinkets down in Cindersap Forest. The entire place is completely uncombed. Helen, who runs the ranch, has no care in the world for actually making sure the forest is just a bit more groomed. Andy, who owns and runs Fairhaven Farm by himself, could give even less of a shit. 

Well I managed to go all the east of the Cindersap Forest into a whole other clearing. I think I’m going to call it the Secret Woods on account of the wood being of such high quality there. Anyways, I was collecting a bunch of the mushrooms that seemed to be native there when I saw her sitting on a large boulder.

I think I literally tripped over a rock when I did. She absolutely took my breath away.

She had these antlers sticking out of her head and these white marks on her face. She looked beautifully savage. If she weren’t wearing a long white dress and her hair in the longest braid I’ve ever seen, I might have thought she was completely uncivilized. Besides that though, she actually seemed to smile at me. 

Well, she actually laughed at me when I tripped over myself. When I looked up, she had the prettiest expression. She covered her mouth with a small and dainty hand, even though all I wanted in that moment was to tear her hand off her face and let me see just how beautiful her smile must be. I might have even gotten angry about it too if she weren’t just so… spellcasting. 

All my dumbass could manage was just a “hello!” 

She waved at me, her laughter still tickling me. But then something seemed to hit her, some sort of realization. It was like her ma and pa had just called her to come home. She suddenly stood up and then just jumped off the boulder, taking off into the woods that are impossible to walk through.

I tried yelling after her, but I didn’t hear anything after that.

Then when I felt like it was futile, I tried to walk over to Andy’s and tell him what happened. He’s been someone I’ve been getting along with better and better everyday. He’s not challenged by having another farmer in the area, in fact, we’ve had a friendly competition happening. When he popped out of his front door to ask what was going on, he laughed in my face and called me crazy when I tried to explain what happened. 

I then tried to talk to George, which was even less of a help. He called me worse. Even Willy just blinked at me and told me I needed to stop smoking with him so much. 

Well, there you have it. I think if this mystery keeps plaguing me (how could a beautiful face like hers not?), then I might have to go to more dire measures. I might have to consult the wizard. Even though everyone’s warned me against it, I know he will have the answers. 

The entry ends. 

I reread it a million times, trying to make sure I read everything correctly. I’m not even quite sure I know what to make of it. I had met my grandmother loads of times, and I never once remember her having antlers. Maybe the mystery nature woman isn’t my grandmother. The figure I had seen on my farm certainly didn’t match my grandpa’s description either. 

Instead of providing me any sense of comfort or answers, I went to bed that night with a million more. It was infuriating.

Chapter Text

I notice the change before I fully understand its source. The valley is not static, and fluctuations in its ambient magic are not unusual, particularly as the season shifts further into spring. Variations in growth patterns, subtle changes in atmospheric density, even irregularities in how energy settles across the land are all within the range of what I would consider normal. I have observed them often enough that they rarely require further investigation.

This is not one of those instances.

The alteration is not diffuse, nor is it gradual. It is localized, deliberate in a way that suggests interaction rather than natural variation, and it settles into my awareness with a clarity that makes it difficult to ignore.

I remain where I am for a moment longer, allowing my attention to extend beyond the immediate confines of the tower. There is no need to move prematurely. Observation, when done correctly, does not require interruption.

The forest responds first, as it always does, its presence steady and familiar, its patterns unchanged in any way that would account for what I am sensing. Beneath that, however, there is something else. Not separate from the valley, but not entirely indistinguishable from it either.

It is aligned. That is the most precise way to describe it. Not imposed, as structured magic would be. Not disruptive, as foreign energy tends to be. It exists within the same system, but it does not originate from it.

A moment later, I hear her.

The sound does not travel in the conventional sense. It does not reach me through distance or direction, but rather through the same current I had already begun to trace. It is faint at first, not because it lacks volume, but because it is not intended to be heard in the way ordinary sound is.

It is her voice. Lorelai’s.

I do not hesitate.

At that point, remaining in place no longer serves a purpose.

The transition between the tower and the forest requires little effort, the distance folding without resistance as I step forward. I do not position myself within direct view of the farm. There is no advantage in making my presence known prematurely, particularly when the phenomenon I am attempting to observe appears to be occurring without conscious intent. Instead, I remain just beyond it. Unseen.

The orchard is new.

I note the placement immediately, the deliberate distance from the main structure of the farm, the proximity to the forest line. It is not random. Whether she understands the significance of that decision or not is unclear, but the effect remains the same.

The land there is more receptive.

More permeable.

She stands at its center.

Her posture is not consistent with any formal magical practice. There is no tension in her stance, no deliberate channeling of energy through controlled movement or incantation. Her hands are raised, but not in any gesture I recognize as purposeful. They are simply open, her fingers slightly spread, as though she is allowing something to pass through rather than attempting to direct it.

Her hair catches the light first.

Dark brown, though not flat in color, but layered in a way that allows the sun to settle unevenly across it. It curls freely, not confined to any particular shape, expanding outward and downward in thick, natural volume that moves with her rather than against her. When I first saw her, out on the farthest edges of her property, I thought it was the most magical thing about her. I was wrong. When the breeze gathers around her, it lifts at the edges of those curls, catching briefly before falling again, never quite settling into stillness.

Her eyes remain closed.

That, more than anything, holds my attention.

Not because of what they are, that beautiful dark brown, but because of what that implies.

It indicates a reliance on perception that does not depend on sight, which, under ordinary circumstances, would be considered inefficient at best.

In this instance, it appears to be appropriate.

The air gathers around her in a pattern that does not correspond with natural wind movement. It does not pass through the space. It remains within it, circling in slow, inconsistent currents that adjust in relation to her position rather than external conditions.

The leaves at the edge of the orchard shift in delayed response, not reacting to the air itself, but to whatever is influencing it. The ground beneath her feet compresses and releases in subtle intervals, not unstable, but reactive, as though it is accommodating her presence rather than resisting it.

This is not structured magic. There is no evidence of imposed will, no indication that she is initiating these changes through learned technique or conscious effort.

It is responsive.

Her clothing clings slightly to her form, damp from the earlier heat of the day’s labor, the fabric tracing the lines of her movement without restriction. There is nothing ornamental about it, nothing designed to draw attention, and yet it does. Not in a way that demands focus, but in a way that refuses to be ignored once noticed. Yes, she has the soft curves of a woman, but she also has muscle that pads it.

She is not fragile.

That is the first conclusion that forms clearly. There is strength in the way she stands, in the way she holds her balance without appearing to think about it, in the quiet steadiness of her breathing as the environment shifts around her. She is not controlling this. She is being met by it. Her expression, though partially obscured by the fact that her eyes remain closed, is not strained. There is no visible effort, no tension in her brow or her jaw. If anything, she appears… receptive.

That is not a state I have seen replicated successfully in structured practice.

The sound reaches its peak. Not louder, but fuller, like multiple tones have aligned into something singular. The sensation follows immediately after, a pressure that builds without weight, spreading outward from her position and settling across the orchard in a way that feels… complete.

And then. It releases.

Silence returns. But it is not the same silence as before. She stills. So it’s true. She can hear what I’m hearing. She can hear the movements of the valley.

Her hands lower slightly, her shoulders relaxing as though something has passed through her rather than from her. When she opens her eyes, there is a brief moment where her expression does not match her surroundings, like she has not yet fully returned to herself.

I remain where I am. Unmoving. Because there is something else.

I do not look toward it immediately. There is no need. I have felt that presence before.

Long ago.

It lingers at the edge of the orchard, just beyond the boundary where cultivated land ends and the forest resumes its claim. It does not step forward. It does not retreat.

It simply exists.

I exhale slowly. It has been a long time. I do not speak. There would be no response if I did.

And if there were— I am not certain I would welcome it.

Instead, I shift my attention back to Lorelai. Because that is where the anomaly lies. Not in what remains at the edge of the forest. But in what stands at the center of it.

I did not believe it could persist. Not in this form. Not in this way.

And yet… I turn away before she can sense me.

Before the moment extends beyond what it already has.

The space folds once more, and I return to the tower without resistance, the transition leaving no trace behind.

For a long moment, I stand where I arrive.

The quiet of the tower feels smaller than it did before. Less complete. I move to the desk. The quill lifts in anticipation, hovering just above the parchment as it always does, awaiting instruction. I do not give it immediately.

Instead, I rest my hand lightly against the surface of the desk, grounding myself in something structured. Something known.

“I did not believe it could persist,” I say aloud.

The words do not echo. They do not require acknowledgement. After a moment, I sit.

The quill lowers. And finally, I begin to write. Not conclusions. Not yet.

Only observations.

But I am closer to a hypothesis. Because all I know is this; Lorelai somehow has managed to gain a trace of her grandmother’s magic, and now that the magic, Lorelai, has returned to her source, this is only the beginning of her powers.

Chapter Text

The morning of Spring 20 settles into the valley with a kind of quiet certainty, as though the land has already made its decision about what it will allow to happen before I step outside to meet it. The air carries that early softness that comes after rainless nights, cool but not sharp, brushing lightly against my skin as I move through the farm.

Everything feels… easier.

I still haven’t heard from Magnus since we slept in the same bed. No matter. I didn’t expect him to, nor did I really want to deal with the awkward conversation that would follow. I was certain that it would eventually get lightly brought up the next time we met.

Not in the sense that the work is lighter, but in the way my body moves through it. The watering can no longer feels like something I have to lift with intention. My arms follow the motion without resistance, my feet finding stable ground even where the soil should be uneven. When I bend to pull weeds, they come free without that stubborn tug I remember from my first days here, the roots loosening as if they have already decided they no longer belong.

It is not something I question anymore. That, more than anything, feels new.

By the time I finish my chores, the sun has risen high enough to warm the back of my neck, the light settling across the land in wide, even strokes that make everything feel more defined. I stand at the edge of my farm for a moment longer than necessary, letting my gaze drift across the rows, the scattered wood and stone, the newly planted orchard just beyond.

And then that feeling again. Not a thought. It was more like a pull if anything

The walk to the Community Center feels shorter than it should. Or maybe I am simply more aware of where I am going.

The building rises out of the clearing with the same worn stillness it always has, its wood faded, its structure heavy with disuse, but today there is something else beneath it. Something quieter. Something waiting.

When I push the door open, it does not creak as loudly as it did the first time. I notice that immediately.

The Crafts Room greets me with its usual dimness, but the air inside feels different, less stagnant, more… present. The bundles sit where I left them, incomplete but not forgotten, the small plaques dull against the aged wood of the wall.

I step toward the Spring Foraging Bundle first.
Each item rests in my hands for a moment before I place it down, my fingers brushing lightly over their surfaces as though acknowledging them before letting them go. The wild horseradish is rough, uneven. The daffodil still carries the faintest trace of its scent. The leek is heavier than it looks. The dandelion small, fragile, but persistent.

The final item settles into place. For a second, nothing happens. Then the room inhales. The glow does not burst, it spreads.

Fuzzy at first, like light filtering through water, then stronger, tracing outward from the bundle in thin, deliberate lines that sink into the wood itself. The walls do not move, but they feel less distant, like the space has drawn inward rather than expanded.

The sound comes next. Not exactly a voice, but more like something just on the edge of becoming one.

When I turn, they are already there.

The Junimos emerge slowly, not all at once, but in small, shifting movements that feel more like they are stepping into existence than entering the room. Their forms flicker slightly at the edges, colors pale but distinct, their movements quick but not frantic.

And they are closer than before. Much closer.

One pauses near my hand, its small body tilting as though it is trying to understand me from a different angle. It does not retreat when I remain still. It lingers, the space between us thinning in a way that feels… intentional.

I do not reach for it. I do not want to break whatever this is.

After a moment, it shifts back, not in fear, but in completion, rejoining the others as the glow settles into something quieter.

The room does not return to what it was. The Construction Bundle feels different. Heavier, in a way that grounds me again. I place the wood first, each piece landing with a soft, solid weight that echoes faintly against the walls. The stone follows, rough edges pressing against my palm before I release it, the texture familiar and steady.

When the final piece settles, the response is not light. It is structure.

The building adjusts. Not visibly, not in any dramatic shift, but in the way the floor beneath my feet feels more stable, the walls less hollow, the air less empty. A quiet creak moves through the wood, not from strain, but from something settling back into place.

I shift my weight slightly. The ground holds. When I step back outside, the change is immediate.

The air feels clearer and sharper. As if just a few changes was already lifting the haze of whatever the last few decades laid upon this land. I take a breath without meaning to, and the “swell” rises again, stronger this time, layered in a way that makes my chest tighten slightly before it releases.

The valley feels… awake.

I do not go home. The decision forms without effort. Instead, I turn toward the mountains.

The path into the mountains narrows the further I climb, the valley slowly unfolding behind me in quieter and quieter layers until it feels less like something I have left and more like something that has chosen to remain where it is. The ground is firmer here, packed into uneven stretches of dirt and stone that do not shift easily beneath my weight. The trees thin gradually, their branches reaching less for each other and more for light, until they give way to exposed rock and open air that carries a cooler edge.

By the time the building comes into view, I understand why it was placed here. It does not belong to the valley in the same way everything else does.

It stands apart from it.

The Adventurer’s Guild is built into the mountain rather than placed upon it, its structure carved into the rock with a kind of permanence that suggests it was never meant to be temporary. The wood that frames the entrance is dark and worn, reinforced with iron that has dulled over time without losing its strength. The roof slopes low and heavy, angled to withstand weather rather than impress anyone who might pass by, and the doorway itself is set slightly back into the stone, creating a natural overhang that casts it in shadow.

It does not invite you in. It assumes you have already decided.

When I push the door open, the shift is immediate. The air inside is thicker, not stale, but layered with the kind of scents that come from repeated use rather than neglect. Metal. Oil. Leather. Something faintly burned that lingers beneath it all, subtle but persistent. It settles into my lungs differently than the open air outside, grounding in a way that feels deliberate.

The lighting is bright, but carefully placed. Lanterns hang along the walls, their glow steady and warm, casting light that stretches across racks of weapons and tools arranged with precise intention. Nothing is decorative. Every blade, every shield, every piece of equipment has a place, and every place has a purpose.

The room is larger than I expected.

The ceiling rises higher than the exterior suggests, the space opening up in a way that feels practical rather than impressive. The floor beneath my feet is worn smooth in places, the wood darkened by years of movement, but it holds steady, solid beneath my weight.

Someone is already watching me.

Marlon stands near the far end of the room, positioned in a way that gives him a clear view of the entrance without requiring him to move. He is older, though not diminished by it. His posture remains straight, grounded, his presence steady in a way that suggests experience rather than effort. His hair is pulled back loosely, streaked with gray, and his beard is trimmed without precision, more concerned with function than appearance.

His eye settles on me immediately. Sharp. Focused. Assessing. A lot like Magnus in a way. Although, it seems like many in this valley has that look of me, too.

“So,” he says, his voice low and even, carrying easily through the room, “you’re the new farmer.”

I nod once, stepping further inside, letting the door close behind me with a quiet, final sound. “That’s me.”

He studies me for a moment longer, his gaze moving over me in a way that feels practiced, efficient, as though he has done this many times before and knows exactly what he is looking for.

“You’ve been in the mines,” he continues.

It is not a question.

“Yes.”

“How many slimes.”

I hesitate for half a second, not because I do not know, but because I had not expected the question to be asked so plainly. I crack a smile. “Definitely more than ten.”

That earns the smallest shift in his expression. Not approval. Not quite. Something closer to acknowledgement.

“That’s enough to know you won’t panic,” he says.

I feel it then. Not the valley. Something else.

I turn slightly, my attention pulling toward the edge of the room before I fully register why.

He is leaning against the wall near one of the lanterns, positioned just outside the strongest light so that the shadows catch along the edges of his figure rather than obscuring it entirely.

Lance.

He looks more at home here than anywhere else I have seen him.

The bright lighting sharpens the lines of his face, catching along the angles of his jaw and cheekbones in a way that makes his expression easier to read. His hair falls loosely, not controlled but not entirely unkempt either, sitting in that space between intention and indifference that feels natural rather than careless.

He wears the same clothes as he did before, no doubt some kind of protective armor. With it, he carries himself easily, one shoulder resting against the wall, his arms crossed loosely as though he has been there long enough to settle into the space without thinking about it.

And he is watching me. Not casually. Not in passing. Always much too attentively.

“Well,” he says, pushing himself off the wall with an unhurried shift of weight, his voice carrying just enough to reach me without disrupting the room, “you made it further than I expected.”

I raise an eyebrow, turning more fully toward him, the movement measured. “You say that like you didn’t think I would.”

“I wasn’t sure,” he replies, stepping closer, his movements smooth, controlled without feeling forced. “Most people don’t stick with it.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he agrees, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, “you’re not.”

Marlon clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him without raising his voice.

“If you want membership,” he says, his tone steady, direct, “you’ve done enough to earn it.”

The words settle more heavily than I expect.

I glance back at him. “That’s it.”

“That’s it,” he confirms.

There is no ceremony or embellishment in his tone.

He gestures slightly toward the space in front of him, his posture straightening just enough to suggest that what comes next matters, even if he does not dress it up as something grand.

“Step forward,” he says.

The room feels quieter as I obey his instruction.

“You understand what this is,” Marlon continues, his gaze steady on mine. “Membership means you’re responsible for yourself. You take on risk, you deal with it. You see something in those mines that shouldn’t be there, you handle it or you leave. No one’s coming to pull you out if you get in over your head. Not only that, but you now not only serve yourself and this guild, but the safety of the valley.”

I nod once, the weight of his words settling into something solid, something real.

“I understand.”

He studies me for another moment, then nods once in return.

“Then say it,” he says.

I hesitate for only a second, not because I doubt it, but because the moment feels more significant than the words themselves.

“I’ll take responsibility for myself,” I say, my voice steady, more certain than I feel. “Whatever’s in those mines, I’ll deal with it. I don’t just serve myself or this guild, but the safety of the valley.”

Marlon watches me for a moment longer, then reaches behind him, retrieving a small insignia from the table. It is simple. Metal, worn slightly at the edges, but solid.

He hands it to me.

“You’re in,” he says.

The weight of it in my hand is lighter than I expected. But it feels… real.

“Well,” Lance says from just behind me, his voice carrying a hint of something warmer now, something less observational and more direct, “congratulations.”

I turn, the motion slower this time, more aware of the space between us than I had been before.

“Thanks,” I say.

He steps closer, just enough so that the distance between us shifts from comfortable to noticeable.

“Seriously. I thought you really were just another pretty girl to grace the valley. I guess you really know what you’re getting yourself into.”

I laugh, suddenly feeling my face get hot. I never knew how to receive compliments, especially from someone that could be so… attractive.

“You handled that well,” he continues, his gaze moving briefly to the insignia in my hand before returning to my face. “Most people hesitate more.”

“I didn’t feel like hesitating,” I reply.

“That’s one way to survive,” he says.

His attention shifts slightly, not away from me, but deeper, like he is looking for something beyond what is immediately visible.

“The other way,” he adds, quieter now, “is understanding what you’re walking into.”

I tilt my head slightly. “And you think I don’t.”

“I think,” he says slowly, choosing his words with more care this time, “that you understand more than you realize.” His gaze drops briefly, not to my hands, but to the ground near my feet, then lifts again, returning to my face with a focus that feels sharper than before.

“The air changes around you,” he says. “Not enough for most people to notice. But it’s there.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say, though the words feel less certain this time.

“It means something,” he replies, his tone steady, not pressing, not challenging, just… certain. “You just haven’t figured out what yet.”

I cross my arms, grounding myself in something physical, something familiar. “You seem pretty confident about that.”

“I am,” he says.

“Why.”

He pauses. Not because he does not know, but because he is deciding how much to say.

“Because I’ve seen a lot of people come through here,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, more deliberate. “And none of them move the way you do.” He looks down at me before looking up, his eyes flashing. “And I don’t just mean that sexy little walk of yours either.”

The room feels smaller for a moment.

I let out a small breath, shaking my head slightly as I step back, creating just enough space to break whatever tension had formed without fully stepping away.

“Well,” I say, brushing my hands together lightly, the motion grounding, “I guess I’ll add that to the list of things I don’t understand yet.”

The corner of his mouth lifts again.

“Yeah,” he says. “You should.”

I turn toward the door, the weight of the insignia still resting in my hand, the metal cool against my skin as I push the door open and step back out into the mountain air.

Before I can close the door behind me, I hear Lance call out my name. I turn to face him.

His face holds a heavier weight than I’ve seen from him. I didn’t even know someone like him could attempt to look serious, but his handsome face bends to it anyways.

“Be careful around Magnus. He takes his research more seriously than the people who actually get affected by it.”

I roll my eyes. “We’re colleagues. He wouldn’t ever let something bad happen to me.”

“Maybe not let, but he might put you in harm’s way.” His eyes darken. “He takes his research much more seriously than you realize, Kane.”

I shut the door before I can let his words get to me anymore than they already have. I’ll try to brush it off as some strange beef happening between these two strange men, but I don’t know how well it will pacify me.

The valley stretches below, quieter now, the light fading as the day begins to settle. Something has shifted. Again. And this time, I know it is not just the valley. It is me.

I spent the evening at the Saloon. I was trying to spend at least one night a week with the townspeople. I was getting to a place where I was starting to hang out with the people that were my age. This was a relief for me, as spending so much time with Magnus and the rest of it devoted to mining, fishing, foraging and whatever other work orders the Junimos had for me, well, it was beginning to make me feel a bit stir crazy.

Three beers down and it was 10 pm. The Saloon was as rowdy as ever. All of the usuals were there, but this time, I let Marnie and Lewis have fun in their own little world. I was settled in the arcade room with Abigail, Victor, Sophia, Sam, and Sebastian. It was a big group, but I felt comforted by their longstanding dynamic, allowing me to just blend into the background more.

Then, Abigail decides to disturb my peace by asking, “So, Lorelai, have you gotten a dress for the Flower Dance, yet?”

All of my new friends’ faces snap up and quiet down. I grimace and put my head in my hands.

Sophia rubs my back gently, not saying anything. That’s what I like about her most, her preference for being quiet over being an asshole and putting me on the spot. Not that I was actually mad at Abigail, I just want to avoid the conversation about the Flower Dance.

Victor, who is leaning on his cue stick, says, “Why would she? Those dresses are awful.”

Abigail cuts back, “Shut the fuck up, Victor. Like you’d even know anything! You dress up in a button down and slacks every day like you’re a walking LinkedIn advertisement.”

She has a knack for getting people to shut up, I’ll give her that.

Finally I speak. “No, I haven’t gotten one. I wasn’t even going to go to the dance at all.”

Everyone then clambers in and starts talking all at once.

“I swear, other than the horrible music and outfits, it’s really fun!” Sam tries.

“You can just go and not wear the outfit,” Sebastian offers.

“Come on, don’t make me suffer alone!” Abigail attempts.

Sophia, still rubbing my back, says in a comforting voice, “You can do whatever you want to do, Lorelai, it’s none of their business.”

Sam rolls his eyes, which thankfully, the sensitive Sophia does not catch.

“There’s just no point in going, okay? It’s not like I even have a dance partner. Each of you guys have been paired up for like a decade. What am I supposed to do? Show up in a dumb dress and then proceed to watch everyone else dance except me? I don’t even know how to do the dance anyways!”

The others roar in laughter, assuring me that it's really not that difficult.

“You know, most of us ‘young folk’, don’t like the dance, either,” Sebastian mentions in his lazy voice. “If you feel like you’re missing out and ask one of our partners, I don’t think there’s a single person here who would actually care.”

Abigail puts her hands out as if to say see what I mean! I laugh at this.

“Yeah, I guess. I still have so much work I need to get done.”

Other than Sophia, I don’t think any of these people know what the word ‘work’ actually means. That’s part of the reason why I don’t hang out with them as often as I should. I just feel way too out of place. Still, it’s nice to have friends that care. And it’s nice to have friends that would miss your presence at a dance that sounds like hell.

Abigail plays with my hair lovingly, twirling it around her finger as she begins to lay out her plan for me. “Look, how about this. I can come over to yours really early since I know you got crops to farm, and I can show you all the dress options! And then maybe I can give you a makeover! If you absolutely hate it, then I will still try to convince you to go.”

Sophia chimes in, “Oh I want to join! That sounds like fun. Plus I got a sewing kit from Emily during the Winter Star secret gift exchange. I can probably help do any small alterations, too.”

I groan, but say relentingly, “Fine. If it will get you off my back just a little bit more.”

The rest cheer, and I end the night by having a few more beers and groggily walking back home to the farm.

Chapter Text

Abigail wasn’t kidding when she said she would be there early. At 6 am, I managed to roll over and chug a bottle of water and take some aspirin. The hangover was unexpected. At 6:30 am, after a failed attempt at sleeping in, I hear a knock at my door.

I open it to Sophia and Abigail, both who are bright eyed and bushy tailed. Maybe I underestimated just how determined Abigail was to make me go to the Flower Dance.

“Hey!” Abigail greets with a big smile, rushing me into a big hug even though I just saw her yesterday. But I appreciate it anyway.

Sophia just offers a warm smile, but the sentiment is there.

“Sorry I look like a wreck,” I mumble, idly touching my hair that’s probably sticking out at all ends. “You guys wanna come on in and I can make some coffee before we get into this?”

They nod, but as Abigail barges in, Sophia hands me something, saying, “I saw it beside the door.”

It’s an envelope. With his lettering all over it. Shit. I forgot it’s a Sunday. To be fair, his last letter said to meet him at my earliest convenience. Maybe my earliest convenience would be a later convenience for him. After all, I deserve to take a break from his requests.

“What is that?” Abigail asks, already making herself at home at my breakfast table.

I shrug and set it on the counter. “Probably just mail from my old job still. They’ve been trying to hire me back with different offers.”

It’s a half-lie, since those letters did exist, it just wasn’t this one.

I quickly set up the coffee machine as Abigail unpacks her bags. Three dresses and all of them look like monstrosities of big puffy lace and tulle. The girls see my reaction and immediately try to help my swelling anxiety.

“I promise you, once I’m done, it’ll be a lot better looking,” Sophia reassures me, and then adds, “I do need you to try them on, though.”

“Aren’t all of the dresses supposed to look the same?” I ask them, not convinced and unable to tear my eyes away from what I think will be the death of me.

Abigail and Sophia share a knowing smile, before Abigail explains, “Well, that’s true. But we were kind of hoping that if you show up in a dress that’s not like ours, Lewis will let you dance anyways, and then we can try and forgo the rule at the next Flower Dance.”

I put a hand on my hip as I check the slow and steady drip of the coffee machine. “Are you guys serious? Is this all a setup?”

The two shake their heads violently. Sophia tries with me, “No, no! Honestly, we didn’t even talk about it until this morning when we were walking up here.”

Just by looking at the expressions on their faces, I have to believe them. They seem too nice and innocent to lie to me. And anyways, I wouldn’t mind aiding my two friends in abolishing the ugly dress rule in Pelican Town.

After we all have a cup to drink, I try on each of the dresses. Sophia actually managed to convince Emily to take her entire sewing machine last night, so I was getting the tailor treatment.

I do not realize how long I have been standing there, half-dressed in something that is not quite mine, until Sophia gently presses her hands to my shoulders and turns me back toward the mirror.

“Okay,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me, her fingers already moving, already thinking. “This one is close. It just needs to be… simplified.”

I glance at my reflection again. The dress itself is smooth and expensive-looking in a way that feels unfamiliar against my skin, the fabric catching the light in subtle ways that suggest it was never meant to exist anywhere near dirt or sweat or early mornings. The color suits me more than I expect, something warm enough to soften the sharpness I usually carry in my features, but there is too much of it. Too many layers. Too much intention.

It feels like I am wearing someone else’s idea of me.

“I don’t hate it,” I admit carefully.

Sophia hums in response, already stepping back to assess, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tilts her head. “You don’t hate it,” she repeats. “But you don’t look comfortable.”

Before I can respond, Abigail’s voice cuts in from behind me, bright and entirely unconcerned with subtlety. “That’s because it looks like something Caroline would try to convince her to wear.”

I snort before I can stop myself.

Sophia exhales a small, amused breath, though her focus does not waver. “Okay. That’s helpful, actually.”

“It is,” Abigail confirms, stepping closer, her reflection appearing over my shoulder in the mirror. Her purple hair is slightly messier than usual, like she has already run her hands through it too many times today, and there is a faint smudge of something dark along her wrist that I suspect is either makeup or something she would insist is not makeup.

She studies me for a moment, her expression thoughtful in a way that feels surprisingly serious. “You don’t need all that,” she adds, gesturing vaguely at the dress. “You already have enough going on.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not sure how to take that.”

“It’s a compliment,” she says easily. “You just don’t look like someone who should be… overly done. You have a killer body and you have the kind of hair people would kill for in the 80s.”

“Not really a compliment,” I mumble, now self consciously touching my frizzy curls. “And I only have a good body from working all day on the farm.”

Abigail shakes her head violently, like she’s trying to get a grain of water out of her ears after a day on the beach. “No way! You don’t get a rack like that by working out!” She even points to my chest, which I quickly cover up.

I roll my eyes but a small giggle escapes me anyways. Abigail’s being a bit too nice. I have a larger body than I would want, and being out on the farm has helped a bit, but not as much as I was letting on to Abigail. Most days, I don’t really think about it, and most days, I feel pretty content with my looks. But when I think about it for too long, or when I have to go to wear something I’m not used to wearing, my self love for my body can quickly deteriorate.

Sophia nods, her hands already moving again as she reaches for a handful of pins. “Exactly.”

The process of altering the dress happens faster than I expect, though not because it is rushed.

Sophia moves with a kind of quiet certainty, her fingers working with practiced precision as she lifts sections of fabric, tucks them, reshapes them in ways that feel almost instinctive. She does not explain what she is doing as she goes, but she does not need to. Every adjustment feels intentional, each small change building toward something clearer, something more aligned with what the dress is supposed to be.

Or maybe what I am supposed to be in it.

The excess fabric disappears first, the layers pulled back and secured in a way that gives the dress shape without overwhelming it. The neckline loosens slightly, losing some of its stiffness, and the waist is drawn in just enough to create structure without feeling restrictive.

By the time she steps back again, the difference is subtle.

But it matters.

“Okay,” she says, a quiet note of satisfaction in her voice. “Try that.”

I carefully put the dress back on, allowing my two friends to zip it up in the back for me, before I turned to face the mirror again.

“Your tits look fantastic,” Abigail said, almost in shock.

I turn around to look at Sophia, who just shrugs, which causes me to laugh harder.

The dress is much simpler now, though it feels more complete rather than reduced. With the excess tulle removed, the silk falls cleanly from my waist, ending just below my knees. The hem dips and lifts in soft, uneven layers, the remaining ruffles stitched along the edge so the fabric moves almost like it’s alive when I shift.

The neckline has been reshaped into a gentle sweetheart curve, sitting lower than I would have chosen, revealing more of my chest. The tulle has been repurposed there into soft, airy ruffles that frame it instead of overwhelming it, drawing attention without demanding it.

The sleeves have changed the most. What was once heavy now rests lightly at my shoulders, the tulle forming loose ruffles against my skin. The fabric narrows into a halter at the back of my neck, leaving most of my back exposed. The silk follows my shape more closely now, not tight, but intentional, moving with me instead of hanging from me.

It is… beautiful.

I do not think I have ever worn something that fits me like this, something that feels like it belongs to me rather than something I am trying to live up to. For a moment, I simply stand there, looking at myself, trying to reconcile the girl in the mirror with the one who had walked in here earlier. And then the feeling settles all at once. A quiet, unexpected guilt. They made this for me. Not for themselves. I knew now that I would have to go to the Flower Dance, simply because I could not let a beautiful dress like this go unworn, and a favor done in vain.

This time, I do not feel like I am looking at a stranger. But I do feel like a different person. Like I’ve been allowed to be softer.

But before I can sit with that realization for too long, Abigail is already moving, her energy shifting the entire atmosphere of the room as she grabs my wrist and pulls me gently toward a chair.

“Sit,” she instructs, her tone leaving very little room for argument.

“I feel like I should be more concerned about how easily I’m listening to you,” I say as I lower myself down anyway.

“You should be,” she replies, entirely unfazed. “But it’s too late now.”

The makeover begins without ceremony.

Abigail works differently than Sophia. Where Sophia is precise and methodical, Abigail is intuitive, her movements guided less by structure and more by instinct. She tilts my chin slightly with one hand, studying my face with a focus that feels almost clinical, though her expression remains relaxed.

Sophia’s work is now focused on my hair. She plugs in a flat iron and gets to work on taming my hair. She asks before if I have a tender head, and when I say no, I realize soon after that I should have said yes. Combining my hair until my scalp bleeds and then putting my head right next to a scorching metal is not my idea of a fun Sunday. And then, she undos part of her work by using another iron, a curling wand, and making my hair look more uniform and wavy than unruly and frizzy.

“You don’t need much,” Abigail mutters, already reaching for something on the table. “Your skin’s already good.”

“That’s the farm,” I say.

“That’s annoying,” she replies.

I giggle. “To be fair, I had horrible skin when I worked at Joja.”

“I can take that for an answer,” Abigail jokes.

Her hands are steady as she works, brushing something light across my skin, blending it in a way that feels more like smoothing than covering. She does not try to change the shape of my face, only to emphasize what is already there, darkening my lashes slightly, adding just enough color to my lips that they look intentional rather than bare.

It is subtle. Everything about it is subtle.

“Close your eyes,” she says.

I do.

Her fingers move through my hair next, slower this time, more deliberate as she separates sections of it, working through my curled hair with careful attention rather than trying to tame them entirely. She does not flatten them or pull them into something overly structured. Instead, she shapes them, lifting some pieces, letting others fall naturally, creating something that looks less styled and more… refined.

Like I woke up like this, but better.

When she finally steps back, there is a brief pause. Not for dramatic effect.

Just… a moment.

“Okay,” she says.

Sophia leans in slightly beside her, her expression quieting as she takes in the finished result.

“Yeah,” she agrees quietly. “That’s it.”

I open my eyes.

For a second, I do not recognize myself. Not because I look different, but because I look like a version of myself I have not seen before.

Or maybe one I have not allowed.

“You look like you actually belong here,” Abigail adds, her tone lighter now, though there is something sincere beneath it.

“That feels loaded,” I reply.

“It is,” she says. “But in a good way.”

Sophia clasps her hands together lightly, her smile small but hopeful. “You should go to the Flower Dance.”

The suggestion hangs in the air for a moment, settling into something heavier than it should be.

I hesitate.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “That feels like… a lot.”

“It’s just dancing,” Abigail says.

“It’s not just dancing,” I counter. “It’s like… public dancing.”

She shrugs. “Then don’t be weird about it.”

I laugh, the sound softer than I expect, my shoulders loosening slightly as the tension begins to fade.

“Okay,” I say after a moment. “Maybe.”

“That’s not a no,” Sophia says immediately, her eyes lighting up just enough to make it clear she has already decided what that means.

I stand, smoothing my hands down the sides of the dress, feeling the way the fabric settles differently now, lighter, easier to move in. For a brief moment, I let myself imagine it. The music. The space. The feeling of being… seen.

And then—

I freeze.

The memory hits me all at once, sharp and immediate in a way that cuts cleanly through everything else.

The letter.

“I need to go,” I say suddenly, the words coming faster than I intend.

Both of them look at me.

“Right now,” I add, already moving toward where I had left my things. I quickly begin to peel off my dress and change back into my clothes, which is just a loose pair of shorts and a tank top.

“What? Why?” Abigail asks, her tone shifting just slightly, curiosity replacing the ease from before.

I reach into my bag, pulling the folded paper free with hands that feel steadier than they should.

“I forgot about this,” I say, unfolding it quickly.

The handwriting is unmistakable. Deliberate. Controlled.

And this time, urgent.

“Return to the tower immediately. Do not delay.

There are developments that require your attention.

M. Rasmodius”

The words sit heavier than anything he has written before. No curiosity, just expectation.

“That doesn’t sound optional,” Abigail mutters. She doesn’t even question my lie from before, which I appreciate.

“It’s not,” I reply.

I fold the letter again, more carefully this time, as if that might somehow lessen the weight of it.

Sophia steps closer, her expression faint but concerned. “Will you be back for the dance?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s not till a couple of days. I’m sure this won’t take very long.”

They give me a comforting smile, although I can tell the two of them have a lot of questions they’ll try to answer between each other.

The walk to the tower feels different than it has before.

Not longer.

Not shorter.

Just… sharper.

The forest seems more aware now, the same quiet presence that has been following me since I arrived settling more heavily into the space around me. The air feels thicker, the sounds more defined, each step grounding me in a way that makes it impossible to ignore where I am going.

Or why.

By the time the tower comes into view, the light has shifted slightly, the sun lowering just enough to cast longer shadows across the stone structure.

I climb the steps without stopping.

The door opens easily beneath my hand.

The moment I cross the threshold, the air changes. I step further inside, the door closing behind me with a quiet, final sound. The tower does not echo. It absorbs.

“Lorelai.”

He’s angry. Very angry.

I wince to myself, but I keep walking forward into the tower. There, besides his many books, I found him. He’s sitting at his desk and chair, parchment is everywhere, books are open and tossed around. For the careful M. Rasmodius, this tower looks like a hurricane came through it.

“Where were you?” He demands, looking up from his place.

His hair is unbound and wild, like he’s ran his fingers through it a million times in just the last few hours. His five o’clock shadow looks almost like a beard, and his eyes run wild with questions. More than just that, he’s not even wearing his usual attire. He’s wearing some sort of dark colored blouse that he has pushed up to his elbows, exposing his surprisingly thick forearms that are peppered with veins and angry red scars of some kind. My eyes linger at his collarbone, where his garments just barely show a sliver of his chest hair. I can’t help it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in a state like this. And for some reason, despite all of the urgency, all I can think about is how attractive he looks to me.

What is going on with me?

He throws his hands up at me and my gawking in his frustration, breaking my spell.

I brush the thought aside as quickly as possible, and I try to look for an explanation for him instead. “I, uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was urgent. I got up pretty late.”

“You think?” He snaps. I twitch. He notices. He takes a small steadying inhale. A look of shame furls across his face as he scans mine. “I apologize. You’re not at my beck and call.” His eyebrows then furrow as he looks at me. I return the same look to him. “What is that on your face?” He questions.

My face turns red again. Did I really look that awful? I touch my face instinctively, thinking I might just try to wipe it off. “I, uh, I put on makeup. Is it that bad?”

Magnus blinks slowly. “Makeup?”

I laugh, although there’s no heart in it. Instead, my heart is currently thrashing against my ribcage just looking at him. “Y-yeah, it’s, uh, it’s what girls put on their face sometimes.”

“Yes, I know what makeup is. The art of cosmetics is one that is old.”

“Oh, okay. Then your question is?”

He looks away from me, his hand running through his hair. I’m so invested in his movement I even take note of the way his hands flex as he does it. I’m so mesmerised, I almost don’t catch the flush that appears over him when he looks back at me, avoiding eye contact.

“It looks nice. That’s all.”

I try to keep myself contained. “Thank you.”

“Your hair, though,” He comments, then stops himself with a cough. I give him a raised eyebrow, expecting him to continue. “Your hair is nice, but I uh, I like the curls more.”

I tug at it without realizing it. “Thanks, Magnus.”

Before I have an opportunity to return him any compliments, he gets up out of his seat, holding his hands behind himself as he’s turned around from me. “I noticed some activity the other day. Do you recall when you were singing to your trees?”

A cold chill runs down me. Was he there for that? No, it can’t be possible. I don’t remember seeing him anywhere. I can’t help but feel embarrassed that someone actually heard me, someone besides… her.

“Uh, no?” I try weakly.

Magnus shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I heard it. No matter, because there’s one of larger importance. It seems you are being watched.”

I cock my head. I would feel concerned, but I’m not exactly sure what he means. Instead, I tease him, “By you?”

“There is a being, one with great magic, that observed you the day you sang.”

“Oh, her. Yeah, I saw her.” My tone comes off casually because as far as I know, she seems to be harmless. More of an innocent magical spectator than one that held any real threat to me.

Magnus turns back around, his ever-present furrowed brow still remaining. “What do you mean you saw her?”

“I mean exactly that. I saw her out in the clearing after I finished singing. I guess you’re not as good at stalking as I thought you were.”

Magnus shakes his head. “No, Lorelai. You need to take this seriously.”

The way his voice cuts through me forces me to wipe the smile off my face. He looks nervous, not his usual self. Whereas he’s usually unmoving and intentional with every movement as if it costs him a great energy, now he’s breaking into a pace around the room.

“Whoah, what’s wrong? Is she actually dangerous?” I ask him, trying not to let a sense of dread in. But if Magnus was worried, shouldn’t I be feeling it even more? I push a sense of confidence in my stomach so I don’t choke on my words.

Magnus turns to me, his eyes still wide and wild, a piece of his hair delicately thrown between them. He runs another hand through his hair, sweeping it back. “I don’t know. I’ve been researching her for days and I still can’t understand what this is.”

“Who is she?”

“I don’t want to say anything until I know for certain yet, Lorelai.” He continues to pace.

“I want you to be honest with me, Magnus,” I demand gently, although my words find no stutter. He stops in his steps and looks up at me. His eyes are flickering in a way I can’t seem to understand, shifting from a light grey to that dark purple in a matter of a second, a repeating pattern that I don’t know if I can forget easily. But I continue, “Is she my grandmother?”

The words that he says next scare me the most. “I don't know, Lorelai.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

He stills. He stretches his neck as if he can hear something nearby. I think I might be able to hear it, too. Something in the valley feels a bit louder.

“Lorelai, it’s important to me that you stop interacting with the valley as much as you can. I need to figure this out and I can’t have you in danger while I’m trying.”

My head starts spinning into a million questions. “How do I just stop interacting with it?” I ask him, my eyes wide as I watch him begin to tear through his bookshelf, opening a book, and then tossing it on the ground. Over and over again. I think he might tear through his entire collection before he finally passes out.

“I must cast a shield. I don’t know exactly what kind since your magic is so… unknown to me. But I need one in order for your magic to be shielded from the valley. Then, maybe she won’t bother you until I can get to the bottom of this.”

“A shield?” I ask, watching as he finally stills over the book, his finger tracing a line with an intensity that makes it seem like the words might rearrange themselves if he looks at them hard enough.

“Yes,” he replies quickly, though his voice is tighter now, more controlled than before, like he is forcing it back into place. “A barrier of sorts. Not physical, but… energetic. Something that separates your magic from the valley’s natural current. If I can isolate it, then whatever is responding to you will—” He pauses, his jaw tightening slightly. “—lose interest. Or at the very least, it will not be able to locate you as easily.”

“That sounds…” I hesitate, trying to find the right word that does not sound like I am accusing him of something. “Restrictive.”

His hand stills on the page. For a moment, he does not respond.

Then, more quietly, “It is meant to be.”

The words settle heavier than everything else he has said so far.

I take a small step forward without thinking, closing some of the distance between us. “Magnus,” I start, softer this time, “you’re talking about shutting me off from… everything.”

“I am talking about keeping you alive,” he says immediately, though the sharpness from earlier does not return. If anything, his voice lowers, like he is trying not to let it rise again.

“I don’t feel like I’m in danger,” I push back, even though part of me knows that is not entirely true. “She didn’t seem—”

“That is precisely the problem,” he interrupts, finally looking up at me fully. “You do not feel threatened.”

I blink at him.

He exhales, slower this time, forcing the tension out of his shoulders as he straightens slightly. “Entities with that level of magic do not behave in ways that are easily understood. A lack of hostility does not equate to safety.”

I shift my weight, crossing my arms loosely, more for grounding than defense. “So what, I just stop… being myself until you figure it out?”

His expression falters. It is subtle. But I see it.

“That is not what I am asking,” he says after a moment, though the certainty is not as immediate this time. “I am asking you to be cautious.”

“You just said you want to isolate my magic from the valley.”

“Yes.”

“That sounds like not being myself.”

The silence that follows is not empty. It feels… careful. Like the two of us have begun a dance, tiptoeing around one another, making sure the other won’t snap and the other won’t break.

Magnus looks away first, his hand returning to the page, though he is no longer reading it. His fingers rest there instead, unmoving, like he has lost track of what he was searching for.

“I have spent centuries studying magic,” he says slowly, his voice quieter now, more measured. “Understanding it. Categorizing it. Predicting it. And yet, what you are doing—” He stops, his brow furrowing slightly as he searches for the words. “—does not follow any system I am familiar with.”

I unravel slightly at that, the tension in my shoulders easing just a bit. “So I’m confusing you.”

“Yes,” he says immediately, glancing back at me. “You are.”

There is no insult in it. If anything, there is something almost reluctant in the way he admits it.

I smile a little, despite everything. “Good.”

That catches him off guard. I can see it in the way his expression shifts, just slightly, the tightness in his features easing for a fraction of a second.

“That is not typically a desirable outcome,” he mumbles with uncertainty.

“Maybe not for you,” I reply, stepping closer again, my tone lighter now, though my chest still feels tight from everything that came before. “But for me, it’s kind of nice knowing I can keep you on your toes.”

He lets out a small breath that might almost be a laugh, though it does not quite make it that far.

“You are very good at that,” he says.

The moment lingers. Longer than it should.

I glance down at the book he had been reading, then back up at him. “So what happens now?”

He straightens slightly, the shift back into himself more controlled this time. “Now, I determine whether a shielding spell can be adapted to your… particular circumstances.”

“That sounds vague.”

“It is,” he admits.

I nod slowly. “Okay. So… you figure that out. And I just… try not to accidentally awaken any ancient forest entities in the meantime?”

“That would be ideal,” he says.

I hesitate. Not because I have something to say, but because I am deciding whether I should say it. It isn’t something I planned to bring up, but seeing him like this… maybe it changed my mind. Or maybe the thought was always there and I’m growing bolder.

My eyes flicker briefly to the side, toward the window, where the light has shifted slightly, warmer as the day begins to lean toward evening.

The Flower Dance.

I look back at him.

Magnus has already returned to the book, his focus narrowing again, though not as completely as before. There is still something unsettled in the way he holds himself, a tension that has not fully left.

I open my mouth. Then close it.

Then open it again.

“So,” I say, quieter this time, though I do not entirely understand why my voice has lowered.

Magnus hums faintly in response, his attention still angled toward the open book in front of him, though I can tell by the stillness of his hand that he is no longer reading it.

“The Flower Dance is in a few days,” I continue. “On the twenty-fourth.”

That gets his attention.

His head lifts, not abruptly, but with a kind of measured slowness, as though he is choosing to shift his focus rather than being pulled into it. His eyes slightly narrow in that way where he’s trying to study my face, as if he could glean the thoughts from my head just by looking at me. Yoba, I hope that’s not magic he can practice.

“I am aware of the event,” he says.

“Right,” I reply, nodding once. “Of course you are.”

There is a small pause, not uncomfortable, but uncertain, like I have stepped slightly off the path of the conversation and am waiting to see if he will follow. Even still, his eyes continue to watch me blunder the rest of my point.

“They do it every year,” I add, filling the space. “It’s kind of a… thing. The whole town shows up.”

“That would be consistent with what I have observed,” he replies curtly.

I let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh, though it lacks the ease I was aiming for. It feels more like desperation. I wish I could just bury my head in the sand now, but I’m too far gone now to quit.

“Yeah,” I say. “You’ve probably observed it from a distance.”

“I do not typically attend,” he says, his tone returning to something more familiar, more structured. “Large gatherings introduce unnecessary variables. They are inefficient environments for focused work.”

That lands exactly the way I expect it to. Which is somehow worse.

I nod, looking down briefly at the edge of the table before lifting my gaze back to him. “Makes sense.”

It does. That is the problem. I hesitate because of that, but I only let myself for a second.

“You could go,” I say, more lightly than I feel. I feel like my voice comes off as squeaky rather than womanly. “This time.”

The words sit between us. Not heavy. But not nothing.

Magnus does not respond immediately, but I feel him and his body move just a bit.

Instead, his gaze shifts slightly, not away from me, but inward, like he is considering the statement in a way that requires more attention than the question itself might suggest.

“There may be merit in that,” he says finally.

I blink.

That is not what I expected. “Merit” isn’t the word I would use for a festival like this.

“If your interaction with the valley is becoming more pronounced,” he continues, his tone shifting into something more analytical, more controlled, “then placing you in a densely populated environment may provide useful data.”

There is something almost disorienting about the way he says it. So clean. So detached. Like everything between us can be reduced to variables and outcomes if he just speaks about it that way long enough.

And still, he doesn’t mention it.

Not the night that happened just a few days before. Not the way he stayed. Not the way his voice had loosened when he was half-asleep, like the world had finally loosened its grip on him just enough to let him rest.

He doesn’t mention that I had offered him my bed. That I had wanted him there. That he had taken it. That it had felt… easy. Like it mattered.

“It could allow me to determine whether your magic behaves differently when surrounded by others,” he adds. “Whether the response you are experiencing is tied to isolation, or if it persists regardless of external variables.”

I nod slowly, forcing my expression to remain neutral even as something small and quiet settles in my chest.

“Right,” I affirm. “Data.” My voice is just as controlled as he is, not at all dejected or disappointed. I nod like that’s all it was.

“It would be… beneficial to observe,” he finishes.

Of course it would be.

I let out a small breath, smoothing my hands down the sides of my clothes without realizing I am doing it.

“Well,” I say, adjusting my tone, reshaping it into something easier to hold, “then you should come.”

That sounds more direct than I intended. I glance at him quickly, then away again, pretending sudden interest in one of the books stacked nearby.

“I mean,” I add, a little too quickly, “if you’re already thinking about observing things, it might be easier if you’re actually there.”

He watches me. I can feel it, even without looking. There’s something about those eyes, whether it’s the raw magic in them, or just because he holds that much power with just a glance, I’m not sure. But I always know when I feel him watching me.

“And,” I continue, because stopping now feels worse than continuing, “it might be… good for you.”

That earns the faintest shift in his expression. Something in between confusion and amusement. A shift that makes me feel utterly lost between the two feelings myself.

“Good for me,” he repeats, again in that way of his that sounds like he’s trying to articulate a new phrase he’s never heard of before.

“Yes,” I say, finally looking back at him, forcing a small smile. “You know. Leaving the tower. Being around people who don’t immediately assume you’re about to turn them into a frog.”

“I have never done that,” he specifies with an annoyed look on his face. What, did he think I was one of them?

“I didn’t say you had.”

The corner of his mouth shifts. Just slightly. I kind of want to stand there longer to see how long it might take before it would eventually unfold into a real smile.

“I will consider it,” he says.

It is not a commitment. But it is not a refusal.

I nod, more easily this time. “Okay.”

The tension from earlier has not disappeared, but it has changed, softened into something quieter, something that lingers rather than presses.

Magnus clears his throat quietly, his attention drifting back toward the book, though not fully settling there.

“In the meantime,” he advises, “I would advise you to limit your interaction with the valley as much as possible.”

I sigh lightly. “Right. No more singing to my trees.”

“That would be preferable,” he confirms.

I take a step back, then another, the distance between us returning gradually, naturally.

“I’ll try,” I say in a more jovial tone, but I mean it when I say it.

My hand finds the door.

“Lorelai.”

I pause at the door for a moment before I eventually turn back to look at him.

His posture has shifted slightly, less rigid than before, though his hands remain clasped loosely behind his back, as though he is still holding himself in place.

“If I do attend,” Magnus admits, his voice quieter now, more measured, “it will be for observation.”

Of course.

I nod once. “I figured.”

There is a brief pause.

“But,” I add, before I can stop myself, “you’ll still be there.”

The words hang between us. Simple, but it isn’t.

Magnus does not respond immediately.

His gaze holds mine for a fraction longer than usual, something unreadable flickering behind it before it settles again into something more controlled.

“Yes,” he says finally.

That is enough. It should be enough. But it doesn’t quite feel like it.

He doesn’t look away right after he says it.

That’s what makes it worse.

There’s a brief pause, like he’s weighing something, turning it over in his mind the way he does with everything else, measuring it before deciding whether it is worth saying at all.

Then, more quietly—

“And… Lorelai.”

I still, my hands finally break apart and go back to my sides.“Yes?”

His gaze flickers, not quite meeting mine this time, settling somewhere just past my shoulder instead.

“For the other night,” he says, his voice carefully even, like he’s reciting something that has already been decided. “Your… accommodation was appreciated.”

The words are spoken in a low voice. Not with warmth or hesitance or much thought.

It’s said politely. Like a thank you card sent to your great aunt for the $5 she sent you for your birthday.

I nod before I can stop myself.

“Of course,” I say, like it was nothing at all to me, too.

I open the door, stepping out into the cool air, the forest quieter now as the light begins to shift toward evening.

As I make my way down the path, I tell myself that it does not matter why he would come. It is enough that he might.

Even if, somewhere beneath that, I had been hoping for a different answer.

Chapter Text

I don’t know where I am, what bed I’m in, but I know who it is.

Our lips seem almost tied together as we take one another in, sloppy and wet, hard and passionate. It’s almost overwhelming, but I seem to know exactly what to do. It feels so natural, having his skin on mine. Like how the sun knows to chase after the moon when dawn eventually must rise.

“Oh, Magnus,” I breathe out. My hands are twisting around his hair as his hands fiercely grip my waist. His tongue pushes further in my mouth, demanding more of my attention. I’m drowning in him and I don’t ever want to come up for air ever again.

Eventually, I fight back, releasing my lips from his and pushing them to below his ear, his neck, and downwards. My hands are roaming his body, trying to find a place where I can untie or loosen his clothes so I can feel his body on mine. I need all of him now.

He grabs me by my neck and puts me down, not allowing me any control anymore in this situation. He’s on top of me now.

I feel his hard length rub against my stomach. I gasp, looking down at his robes, which are transformed from his erection. Before I can react, he pushes his knee up against my sex, making me melt even further into his embrace.

He’s slowly unbuttoning my dress with a look I’ve never seen before. It’s somewhere in between a mischievous smirk and a look in his eye that tells me all I need to do is sit back and watch him work. Each button is undone at such an agonizing pace, but still, I continue to stay entranced as he kisses each and every inch of skin that each undone button reveals.

Once my top is off, I feel him take me in. “You’re so beautiful, Lorelai,” he whispers in my ear, the words making my whole body shiver.

His tongue is immediately at my neck, kissing and sucking at it. I’m writhing beneath him, moaning at the touch. But I need more. So much more from him.

Magnus finally drags his mouth down to my nipple, gently pulling at it with his teeth. I wince, my body pulling back.

I tug at his robes again, looking up at him and feeling much too needy. “Off,” I say, not entirely verbose at this moment in time.

“You want my clothes off?” He murmurs, his kisses coming up to just below my ear again, softly nipping at it.

I nod and simply whisper yes.

“I don’t think I can do that right now. I think some care is in order for you.”

He drags his tongue down from my ear to my neck, planting sweet kisses on my clavicle, and hands groping my breasts as he continues to take me in.

“Not fair.”

“My apologies, baby.”

The way he says baby is so natural, so right. I giggle at that, despite how distracted by everything in this situation. By His eyes. His touch. His hardness. I’ve wanted it for so long and now I have it.

And I’ll be damned if I am not allowed to be greedy at this moment.

“Something funny?” His hands are now hiking up my dress, with fingers that are lazily swirling my upper inner thigh.

I shake my head violently. I don’t want him to stop. I need him to keep going.

Like he’s reading my mind, he obliges my wishes. He starts to press his mouth to where I’m feeling the most heat in my body. My head slams into the pillow as my back arches with a loud groan.

“Already so wet for me, baby?” He teases, taking his mouth off for a second just to look up at me.

I lace my fingers into his hair, dragging his head back down.

“So needy,” he whispers.

My legs are like jello now, only able to stay up because his hands are so forcefully propping them up onto the bed. It starts slowly, with him licking my slit like he was following a line. He carefully peppers my clit with kisses, and I’m already losing my mind from the sensation.

My hand starts to loosen from his hair at some point, and he grips my hand, forcing it there as his tongue moves from my clit and starts actually pushing into me.

I start to see stars. I pull him back up for air, not wanting to finish so soon. “Magnus, I need you.”

That evil smile returns, lips curving in a way that makes me want to howl. His face is wet from my sex, something that would be humiliating if it weren’t so hot. “Why don’t you beg for me, dear?”

I shake my head. He dips his head back in between my legs in response. It’s so much faster than it was before, desperately lapping me up like a dog with a bowl of water. He bringI start shaking again, the feeling of his tongue lapping me up, taking me in. It’s all too much.

“You know what to say,” he murmurs.

“Please, please.” It’s all I can manage when he picks up with even more force. He’s almost eating me alive with the passion he’s applying down there. Apparently my words are not enough. I search my mind, which is currently on another plane of existence. “Please, Magnus! I need your cock!” I cry out.

Finally, he stops. Abruptly. I whine, not even realizing I’m making such a sound until I watch him grin at me, wiping off the liquids off his face.

He takes me into a kiss. This kiss is more decisive than the first one, but it’s hungrier. He straddles me again, his hands now in my hair, holding my face up. I start to lift up his robes, and he finally obeys me, and in one motion, they’re off. Before I can allow myself to admire him, he pushes his tongue in, and I can taste myself on his breath.

I don’t know what I’m doing, but I take my hand to his more than ready cock. I’m rubbing the tip of it clumsily, but he issues a sharp and low groan.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so hot.”

I quicken my pace, now separating myself from him so I can watch him in awe. He’s like a god above me, a god with their eyes closed and shaking and moaning from my touch. It doesn’t just feel like an honor to be able to touch a man like this. It feels like a blessing. His body, so large and muscular. His hair, long and wild, like him. His cock…

Yoba, I don’t have enough words to describe that.

Then his eyes snap open, and he moves farther away from me, forcing me to stop touching him.

“Are you ready, Lorelai?” He asks. Not even waiting for my response, his large hands tenderly wrap around my ankles as he drags me over to the edge of the bed. He steps off the bed and is now standing next to it, his cock lined up just inches away from my entrance.

“I— uh, yes.” I’m so nervous now, but I won't back down.

He leans down to kiss me on my forehead, lightly brushing a hand over my face and wiping off the thin layer of sweat I’ve gathered already. Then, he pulls my ankles up to his shoulders.

And then. He’s inside of me. I moan, loud and sharp, covering my mouth.

“This might hurt a bit.”

My eyes widen. “You’re not already inside of me?”

He laughs, but then switches to grunting at the tight fit. My eyes roll to the back of my head when I feel him hit my cervix.

I wake up with a gasp.

My entire body is in a sweat, and I can’t believe what I just saw in my dream.

Magnus?

On top of me? Touching me?

Inside of me?

It would be a lie if I try to tell myself I haven’t thought about it before. I have. But never have I allowed it to permeate my mind for so long. And never have I seen it play out so… vividly.

Before I can think twice, I roll out of bed and go to my kitchen to start my coffee machine. I’m trying to do anything but think about what just happened.

Onyx meows loudly. Shit. I forgot I needed to feed her. My attention quickly moves toward the diet of my little kitten. She’s getting better about eating solid food, but I’ve still been mixing in the kitten-specific milk that Pierre recommended to me.

As I’m pouring the white liquid into the little bowl, more dirty thoughts fill my brain. I groan to myself and slap my face, hoping I’ll wake up from this horny haze I’m under. Onyx responds with another annoyed little whine. I quickly mix the wet food into the bowl and set it on the ground.

As the coffee’s getting ready, I start to change out of my old pajamas and into my work clothes; a plain and stained set of blue overalls and a work shirt that I roll up. I was already getting a bit of a farmer’s tan, but I didn’t mind it. I look down at my skin, remembering just how real it felt when—

Nope. Not going to happen. I pour myself a cup of coffee and chug it without even sitting down. The hot and boiling liquid burns the roof of my mouth, but it keeps me awake. Focused. On anything except what I thought I felt last night. I think about what I need to get instead, making a small mental checklist in my head.

It’s the day before the Flower Dance. Everyone is in high spirits and I have received at least a dozen calls from Abigail making sure that I’m still going and only two from Sophia reassuring me that it’s okay if I choose not to. I won’t have any time tomorrow to tend to my crops in the morning. Watering will have to happen after the event. So I’ll try to do my best today and get as ready as I can for the busy day tomorrow.

I set my mug down, feeling decisive for what the day will entail. I check myself in the mirror one more time, as if it’ll help the mess of my hair and the bags under my eyes, and open the door to my farm.

I almost shriek when I see him. I definitely take a big step back, wondering if he hasn’t noticed me and I can just crawl back under my sheets, outside clothes be damned.

Magnus is there, staring at me like I was the last person he could have expected on the patio of my farmhouse.

My mouth is slightly agape, but I pull it back up and lean against the doorway, trying to look casual but feeling like a failure. “Everything alright, Magnus?” I ask casually, still too exhausted and too shocked to understand the bizarre nature of a visit like this.

He points out into the distance. I follow his finger.

I see it in the distance. My trees.

Because that’s what they are. They aren’t just seeds in the ground. They’re full blown trees. I blink, not entirely sure if my dream is still continuing.

I blink again.

Once.

Twice.

The trees don’t disappear.

They don’t shrink back into the ground or dissolve into some half-formed illusion. They stand there, fully grown, their branches stretching outward as if they’ve always belonged, their leaves catching the early morning light in flashes of green and gold. The air around them feels… different. Thicker. Alive in a way that makes the back of my neck prickle.

“That’s not possible,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.

Magnus doesn’t respond immediately.

Of course he doesn’t.

I can feel him watching me now instead of the trees, his attention shifting in that quiet, deliberate way of his. It makes my skin feel warm in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the sun just beginning to rise over the valley.

I cross my arms, mostly to give myself something to do, and step forward onto the patio, trying to look like I haven’t just woken up from the most mortifying dream of my life. The wooden boards creak quietly under my boots, grounding me just enough to keep my thoughts from spiraling completely out of control.

“This—” I gesture vaguely toward the orchard, “—this wasn’t like this yesterday.”

“No,” he says.

I exhale sharply through my nose. “Great. Good. Love that.”

I start walking toward the trees, half expecting them to vanish the closer I get, like they’ll reveal themselves to be some kind of trick of the light or leftover haze from sleep. But they don’t. If anything, they become more real. The bark is textured and solid under my fingertips when I reach the first one, rough and warm from the early sun. The leaves shift gently above me, stirred by a breeze I hadn’t noticed before.

I swallow.

“But your fertilizer didn’t say it would pop up this quickly, did it?”

He shook his head. “Frankly, my promise that you would have fruit by the end of the season was a stretch.”

“I didn’t—” I start, then stop, my thoughts snagging on themselves. “I didn’t do anything different.”

That’s not entirely true.

The memory hits me all at once. The fertilizer. The singing. The way the air had swelled around me like it was answering back.

I press my lips together.

Magnus steps closer, not enough to crowd me, but enough that I can feel his presence at my side. It’s subtle, but it’s there, steady and grounding in a way I’m trying very hard not to think too much about.

“You did,” he says.

I glance at him. “What?”

His gaze doesn’t leave the trees. “You engaged with it.”

“That’s not a good enough explanation for this,” I reply quickly.

“It is the most accurate one,” he says, just as quickly.

I stare at him.

He finally looks at me then, his expression more focused than I’ve seen it in a while. Not distant. Not detached. Something sharper. More intent.

And for a second, I forget about the trees entirely.

I clear my throat and look away first. “Okay,” I say, nodding like that somehow helps me process anything that’s happening right now. “Cool. Great. My crops are… evolving.”

“That is not what is occurring,” he says.

“Then what is?” I shoot back.

A pause. Not long, but long enough.

His gaze flickers briefly over my face, like he’s checking something, confirming something, and I suddenly become very aware of how I must look right now. Hair a mess. Probably still flushed from sleep. Definitely not put together in any way that resembles a normal human being.

And after that dream—

Nope. Not thinking about it. Not happening. I drag my attention back to the trees.

“They’re early,” I say instead, grasping for something practical. “Like… very early. These should take a full season.”

“Yes,” he says.

Again, not helpful.

I let out a small, incredulous laugh. “You’re killing me.”

“I am not attempting to.”

“I know,” I mutter. “That’s the problem.”

Onyx appears at my ankles, weaving between my boots with a small, demanding meow like none of this is even remotely interesting compared to whatever she thinks I should be doing for her right now. I curse myself for forgetting to close the door before I left.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, glancing down at her. “You already ate.”

She meows again.

Magnus watches her for a moment, then the trees, then me.

“You should not have been able to do this,” he says.

That pulls my attention back immediately. I look at him, really look this time.

“What does that mean?” I ask, quieter now. I lean down to scoop Onyx up into my arms.

He doesn’t answer right away. But he doesn’t look away either. And something in my chest tightens before I can stop it.

“It means,” he says slowly, “that whatever you are doing—” He pauses. His gaze drops briefly to my hands, like he’s remembering something I’m not fully aware of. “—is not consistent with standard magical behavior.”

“Okay,” I say. “So what I’m hearing from you again is: I’m special.”

“That is not what I said.”

“That is exactly what you said.”

“It is not.”

I grin, just a little, despite everything.

“Close enough.”

He exhales, but there’s something softer in it this time, something less tense than when he first arrived.

I lean back against the nearest tree, folding my arms again as I take in the orchard, the way it wasn’t here yesterday and now it is, like the valley just decided to skip ahead without telling me.

“Guess I don’t have to worry about fruit for a while,” I say.

“No,” he replies.

I glance at him again, just briefly, and immediately regret it, because he’s already looking at me. I turn my face away from his quickly, my head spinning and more than just dizzy.

And for a second, just for one second, I remember the dream. The feeling of it. The closeness. The heat.

I have to look away so fast it almost gives me whiplash.

“Anyway,” I say, a little too quickly. “This is great. Super normal morning. Trees, magic, no big deal.”

He watches me for a moment longer.

I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over the back of my heated neck. “You said something a few days ago. About needing to… do something. A spell.”

“A barrier,” he corrects.

“Right. A barrier.” I glance back at the trees, then at him again. “This is why?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s urgent?” I ask.

“It is necessary,” he says.

That’s not the same thing. We both know it. I nod anyway, because I don’t really know what else to do with that.

“Tomorrow,” he adds.

I huff out a small breath, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. “Of course it is.”

He doesn’t ask what I mean. He doesn’t need to.

A small breeze moves through the orchard, rustling the leaves above us. For a second, it feels like it’s passing through me too, like something is trying to settle and can’t quite find where to land.

“Will it hurt?” I ask.

He looks at me again. “Not if performed correctly.”

“Comforting,” I mutter.

“It is not designed for comfort.”

I smile despite myself. “Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”

“Try not to… sing again.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I am not.”

I stare at him. Then laugh. “I make no promises.”

He smiles at me then, his seriousness finally taking a break.

Still, in all my foolishness, I ask the one question I shouldn’t ask. I breathe out through my nose, my shoe finding a rock and fidgeting with it, kicking it back and forth. My eyes stay glued to the ground as I delicately inquired, “Are you planning on going tomorrow?” I gulp before continuing, “To the Flower Dance that is.”

His smile turns lopsided, into more a smirk. “I make no promises.”

I chuckle at that. Fair enough. Still, I have to keep my eyes back down to the ground to keep from blushing.

He watches me for a moment longer, like he’s about to say something else, like there’s something sitting just beneath the surface that he hasn’t decided whether or not to give me.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns slightly, his attention shifting back toward the trees, toward the problem, toward everything that makes more sense than this.

And just like that, the moment ends. He doesn’t say goodbye. He never really does.

One moment he’s standing there beside the orchard, solid and real in the stifled morning light, and the next the air around him tightens, like something unseen has drawn in a breath. The shadows at his feet pull inward, folding toward him, and for a split second the space where he stands looks… thinner, like it’s being pressed from both sides. There’s no flash, no dramatic burst of light. Just a quiet collapse, a subtle distortion that smooths itself out almost immediately after he’s gone. The breeze moves through the trees again like nothing happened, and I’m left staring at the empty space where he stood, already knowing exactly where he went. Back to the tower. Back to whatever version of his life doesn’t include me standing this close.

Chapter Text

I couldn’t get Magnus out of my head while I worked the rest of the day before the Flower Dance. I couldn’t stop cringing every time I remembered how I invited him to the Flower Dance and how he ripped the rug out from under me by telling me it was only for ‘observations’. And then just a few days after that, when he managed to show up just after I woke up from that dream. And to make all of it worse, I asked him about the dance again, and he still only gave a vague reply back. The embarrassment lasted all day after Magnus left. It was to the point where I would catch myself dissociating, staring at a patch of tilled mud, and then would have to shake myself out of it and move on to the next chore.

What was I thinking? He’s seven hundred years old. I’m only twenty-four. I mean, he only looks thirty, sure, but other than my strange magical attributes, I probably bore him to tears.

Besides working and beating myself up every five seconds for my clumsy conversation with Magnus, I began to read my grandfather’s journal every night since that strange encounter with that beautiful old woman. It wasn’t very helpful, and I wasn’t getting much farther into the mystery of the beautiful nature spirit he encountered, but I was getting a lot of great anecdotes about Jakob. It was nice. The grandfather I knew was nothing like this swashbuckling adventurer, he was just a sweet little old man who liked to take care of his once-grand farm that slowly dwindled into a personal garden of his.

I didn’t want to skim through to find the parts that would mention her. I don’t even know how long it would take. He didn’t just leave behind one journal, but at least ten. A page for almost every day of his life. When I did try to skim one night, it resulted in absolutely no help. Part of me wonders if the notebook is enchanted, and if it can only be read in a chronological order. Maybe I could ask Magnus to inspect it. After I got over the embarrassment from Sunday.

The morning of the Flower Dance arrives, and I, along with every other eligible girl forced to wear a terrible dress, heads over to Emily’s as soon as we wake up. I’m nervous about spending time with so many of them all at once, but I’m mostly just letting myself get excited about new friends. I had spent most of my time at the Saloon with Abigail and Sophia, but all of the other girls, even Haley when she would drop her snooty front, were people I could see myself being friends with for the rest of my time in the valley.

Putting my best foot forward, besides my own bag that includes my dress, makeup, and hair tools, I bring a basket of fruits for my friends to eat as we get ready. I was split between keeping my hair natural versus styling it, but when I remembered how cold Magnus was about coming to the Flower Dance, I decided I would rather do my hair how I wanted to do it.

Not just from the late spring air that drifts in through the open windows, but from something else entirely, something brighter and louder and unmistakably human. Laughter spills out from the living room before I even have the chance to close the door behind me, overlapping voices rising and falling in a rhythm that feels just as alive as anything I have felt in the forest, though entirely different in nature.

Emily’s house smells faintly of fabric dye and something sweet, like citrus or vanilla, layered together in a way that somehow works. The only thing that clashes in my nostrils is the strong scent of weed with incense, but I grow to like it the longer I stay inside. Color is everywhere. Not in a chaotic sense, but in a deliberate one, like every corner of the space has been touched by someone who understands how to make things feel intentional. Rolls of fabric are draped over the back of chairs, spools of thread sit scattered across the table, and a half-finished garment hangs from a dress form near the window, catching the light in shifting tones. It’s easy to tell when a design choice was made by Emily and which one was made by Haley, but it blends together in a very eye-catching way. I decide that I need to consult the two sisters when I have enough money to upgrade my farmhouse and decorate it.

“You made it!” Emily calls immediately, her voice bright and unmistakable as she turns toward me from the center of the room.

She looks the same as she always does, which is to say, surprising in the best way. Her dress is supposed to match everyone else’s, but it doesn’t even try. Instead, she leans fully into something more fluid, layers of pale pastel fabric that shift between pink, blue, and yellow depending on how the light hits them. From far away, it almost reads as white, but up close it’s constantly changing, like it refuses to stay still. The skirt moves easily when she walks, catching air like it was designed for dancing long before the music even starts.

Her short blue hair is pinned back loosely with delicate clips that glint when she turns her head, and there’s something almost effortless in the way everything comes together on her. Nothing feels forced. Nothing feels overworked. She looks like she trusted her instincts and they rewarded her for it.

“Of course she made it,” Abigail adds from where she’s standing, just in front of the couch and zipping up her mirror, her thick black combat boots kicked off beside her. “We would’ve dragged her here if she didn’t.”

“I believe that,” I say, stepping further into the room, the energy of it settling around me almost immediately. I look back at Emily before saying, “I’m glad I’m not the only one out of uniform. You did a fantastic job with that dress. You’ll definitely steal the show.”

Emily smiles brightly at me.

Abigail cuts in, “Uh, dude. We all decided to take a page out of your book and we’re all going off script this year. Check it out!”

Indeed, when I look back at Abigail and the dress she zipped up, and it’s an entirely different one from what I imagined. She has a corset laced tightly at the front with thick black ribbons that stand out starkly against the lighter fabric beneath it. The skirt has been pinned and reshaped into uneven layers, giving it movement and edge instead of softness, like it was made to be worn somewhere louder than a spring festival. The lace gloves stretch up her arms, delicate in contrast to everything else, and when she pulls on her knee-high boots, heavier and more dramatic than anything I’ve seen her wear before, the whole look settles into something completely her. Not polished. Not traditional.

“Wow. You look sick.” And it’s definitely not a lie. “Did you make that from one of your old dresses?”

She shakes her head with a mischievous grin, a lot like the one I saw when I first met her and she was running out of the door to avoid getting grounded for owning a vape. “Nah, I just used some old pieces of mine and put it together. I didn’t even feel like trying to have my dress look like the old one.”

Haley stands near the mirror, adjusting the strap of her dress with practiced precision, like she has done this same motion a hundred times before and perfected it each time. Out of everyone, she is the closest to wearing what Lewis probably intended, but even then, she has refined it into something sharper, cleaner. The fabric falls perfectly, not a wrinkle out of place, the silhouette hugging just enough without looking restrictive. It’s still subdued. Still appropriate. Still exactly what the Flower Dance expects.

But on her, it looks deliberate instead of assigned. And because of that, she somehow stands out more than anyone else in the room.

“You look gorgeous,” I breathe, unable to help myself.

She flips her long blonde hair, and replies coolly with, “I know.”

Fair enough. If you got it, flaunt it. I can’t even be mad when a gorgeous person knows that they’re gorgeous.

She glances at me briefly through the mirror, her gaze sweeping over me in one quick, practiced motion.

“…Okay,” she says after a second, her tone measured. “You actually look really good.”

I blink. “Thank you?”

“That was a compliment,” she clarifies.

“I figured.”

Her face brightens at that and she begins to gush at Sophia’s handiwork.

Sophia is already halfway across the room before I can say anything else, her expression lighting up as she reaches me, her hands hovering just short of touching the dress like she is resisting the urge to adjust something that no longer needs adjusting.

Sophia herself looks like she stepped out of something far more curated than the valley, a culmination of the styles I see her in her anime shows and K-Pop idols. She wears a short babydoll silhouette underneath a sheer outer layer that moves just slightly behind her when she walks. The sleeves barely exist anymore, reduced to the suggestion of straps with the faintest puff at the shoulder, making everything feel lighter, more delicate. Tiny ribbon bows are hand-sewn across the dress, scattered with intention rather than excess, each one catching just enough attention before your eyes move to the next. A long, narrow bow rests at the front, drawing everything together without overpowering it.

“It looks perfect,” she says quietly, her voice carrying that same quiet excitement from earlier. “I told you it would.”

“It does,” Leah agrees from where she is leaning against the wall, her arms loosely crossed, her posture relaxed in a way that feels grounded. She studies me for a moment, her gaze thoughtful rather than critical. “It fits you.”

There is something about the way she says it that makes it feel like more than just the dress.

Leah’s dress is quieter than the others, but it doesn’t fade into the background. The base is simple, almost understated, but the closer I look, the more detail reveals itself. Fine lace runs along the edges, and small, hand-stitched flowers are scattered across the fabric, not in a pattern, but in a way that feels organic, like they grew there instead of being placed. Her hair is pulled into a long braid that falls down her back, the length of it threaded with real flowers that match the ones on her dress. It doesn’t feel styled so much as assembled, like she stepped outside and let the environment finish the look for her.

If Haley didn’t win Flower Queen every year, I don’t think it would even be a competition.

Maru stands a little apart from the rest of us, not intentionally, but because she seems to exist in two places at once. Even now, dressed for the Flower Dance, she’s still finishing something small in her hands, tightening a screw or adjusting a tiny piece of metal like she couldn’t quite leave it unfinished. Her dress reflects that same balance. It’s practical, but not plain. The structure is clean, almost architectural, with subtle paneling that gives it shape without adding unnecessary volume. There are small details worked into it that I wouldn’t notice unless I looked closely, tiny metallic accents at the seams, a faint shimmer that catches the light when she moves.

She’s still the youngest out of all of us, and her dress reflects that in the modesty of it, but it doesn’t take away from the obvious fact that she is turning into a very beautiful young woman. I make a mental note to hang out with her more. I always wanted a little sister.

“Hey,” she says, offering a small smile. “You look really nice.”

“Thanks,” I reply, returning it.

Penny is beside her, smoothing the fabric of her own dress absentmindedly, her posture a little more reserved than the others, though her expression softens when she looks at me. Her fingers linger at her dress like the motion itself is comforting. Her garment is smooth in a way that feels familiar, light fabric that drapes gently without drawing too much attention. It’s modest, but not in a way that hides her. More like it reflects what she’s comfortable with. She wears a simple pearl necklace that barely kisses her collarbone to match the elegance of her dress. The color suits her, something warm and gentle that makes her look even prettier than she already is, especially when the light catches it. There are small details along the neckline and sleeves, subtle stitching that adds just enough interest without overwhelming the simplicity of it.

“You really do,” she adds quietly.

For a moment, I just stand there, taking it all in.

The noise. The warmth. The way everyone seems to fit into the space without trying.

It feels… easy.

“Okay,” Emily says suddenly, clapping her hands together once, the sound sharp enough to cut through the overlapping conversations. “Before we lose track of time, we need to make sure Lorelai actually knows how to dance.”

I freeze.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Abigail grins immediately, pushing herself up from the couch. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

“It’s not hard,” Emily assures me, already moving toward the center of the room, pushing aside a chair to make more space. “It’s more about timing than anything else.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” I say.

“You’ll be fine,” Sophia adds, though she looks like she is trying not to laugh.

They arrange themselves around me with surprising efficiency, forming a loose line, their positions already familiar to them in a way that makes it clear they have done this before.

“Okay,” Emily begins, her hands lifting slightly as she demonstrates, “you start like this. It’s slow at first, just stepping in time with the music.”

She moves gracefully, her steps light, her posture fluid, the motion simple but intentional.

I try to follow. It does not go well.

“Other foot,” Maru says gently.

“That is my other foot,” I reply with a grimace, not out of frustration but out of anxiety for my two left feet. I don’t remember us going over this dance in middle school P.E..

“No, your other other foot.”

Abigail laughs, not unkindly, stepping closer to adjust my position with a quick, practiced motion. “You’re overthinking it,” she says. “Just move.”

“I am moving.”

“You’re thinking about moving,” she corrects.

Leah steps in next, her presence steady as she demonstrates the next part of the sequence, slower this time, giving me space to follow.

“Don’t try to match them,” she says, nodding toward Emily. “Just find the rhythm first.”

I exhale slowly, letting my shoulders drop, trying to ignore the fact that I am currently being taught a choreographed dance in a room full of people who are all significantly better at it than I am.

I step again. Then again.

This time, it works.

“See?” Emily says immediately, her smile bright. “You’ve got it.”

“That feels like a lie,” I reply, already out of breath from the sheer willpower I had to exert over my untrained body. It’s like I had to do everything the opposite of what my body tells me to do.

“It’s not,” Penny says quietly. “You just needed a second.”

We go through it again.

And again.

Each time, it becomes a little easier, the steps settling into something my body can follow without constant correction. By the fourth or fifth time, I am no longer thinking about where my feet are going.

I am just… moving.

“That’s it,” Sophia says, clapping her hands lightly. “You’re ready.”

“I’m not ready,” I attempt with a glum look.

“You’re ready enough,” Abigail corrects.

I laugh, shaking my head slightly as I step back, my breathing just slightly uneven from the repetition.

“That’s all I need, apparently.”

The energy in the room shifts slightly after that, the focus loosening now that the “important” part is done. Someone turns on music that is not quite the same as what will be played at the dance, but close enough that it keeps the mood in place.

Haley moves back toward the mirror. Maru returns to whatever she had been working on. Emily starts adjusting something on Sophia’s sleeve that I am fairly certain does not need adjusting.

For a moment, everything settles.

“So,” Abigail says, dropping back onto the couch, her tone casual in a way that immediately makes me suspicious. “Who are you going with?”

I blink. “What?”

“The dance,” she clarifies. “You don’t just show up. You go with someone.”

“I was just going to… show up,” I say.

“That’s not how it works,” Haley calls in a mocking sing-songy voice from the other room.

“It can be!” I counter with a shout.

“It’s weird,” Abigail says.

I open my mouth to argue, then pause.

“Well,” I sound out slowly, “I did… ask someone.”

The room stills. Just then, I hear a clattering to the ground and Haley darts into the room, casually trying to push herself against the wall and not pretend like she didn’t just run to hear some gossip.

“Who?” Sophia asks immediately, her eyes lighting up.

I hesitate just for a second.

“Magnus,” I say.

Silence.

Then—

“What?” Abigail sits up so fast from the couch she nearly knocks a lamp over, causing Haley to hiss a curse at her.

“Magnus?” Emily repeats, her voice rising slightly.

“You mean the Wizard?” Maru adds, blinking. “Like, the purple-haired man who has lived in the Cindersap Forest for the past century?”

“Yes, well, it’s been longer than a century, I think,” I say, suddenly very aware of how this sounds. “But it’s not—”

“You invited the Wizard to the Flower Dance?” Haley cuts in, obviously with some sort of disdain for my choice in men.

“I just, uh, yes, but it’s not like that,” I reply quickly. A bit too quickly.

“That is exactly what that sounds like,” Leah says, though there is a hint of amusement in her voice as her eyes flicker against my face.

I shake my head, trying to get ahead of whatever conclusion they are all very clearly jumping to. “We’re not even going to dance together, I don’t think, I just wanted him to come out and talk to more of the townspeople besides just me.”

“You don’t think or you don’t know?” Sophia asks, absentmindedly touching her pigtails.

“I don’t know,” I reply, but then clarify in a smaller voice, “I don’t know the difference between the two.” I take a deep breath in before continuing, my face more heated than it’s ever been, “It’s just… we’ve been spending some time together.”

That does not help.

“Spending time?” Sophia echoes, her hands clasping together in front of her.

I immediately regret my choice of words.

“For research,” I add quickly. “I’ve been helping me with… some things.”

“What kind of things,” Abigail asks, leaning forward now, her interest sharp and immediate.

I hesitate. Not because I do not have an answer. Because I do not know how much I should say.

“Magic,” I settle on finally.

That lands differently.

Abigail’s expression shifts, not into surprise, but into something closer to excitement.

“That’s so cool,” she says, the words coming out faster now. “You’re so lucky.”

I blink. “Lucky?”

“Yeah,” she says, like it is obvious. “He’s, like, the only real wizard around here. Do you know how much I’ve tried to get into the mines more? Or get Marlon to take me seriously?”

“You’re in the mines all the time,” I point out.

“Yeah, but not like that,” she says. “Not like… official.”

She pauses, then adds, a little more quietly, “I think I have some magic, you know.”

The room quiets slightly.

“Like what?” I ask.

Abigail shrugs, but there is something almost self-conscious in the motion. “I don’t know. Just… stuff. Sometimes things move when I’m not touching them. Or I’ll think about something and it happens. It’s probably nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing,” I point out.

Emily, who for some time I have suspected to be some level of a practitioner of the metaphysical arts rather than magic, pipes in, “You need to trust your gut, Abigail. If there’s something calling to you, you must answer to the call of the universe.”

I for one think these are wise words. Haley, even though she stays silent, rolls her eyes at her sometimes kooky sister.

But Abigail perks up slightly at that.

“Right?” she says quickly. “So if you’re already talking to him, you could, I don’t know… mention me? Or Marlon, I guess. Either one.”

I smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” she says, settling back slightly, clearly satisfied with that answer.

The conversation drifts after that, the tension dissolving back into something lighter, easier, though I can still feel the weight of what I said lingering just beneath the surface.

Magnus.

I had not meant for it to sound like that. I am not entirely sure how it did.

But as the music picks back up and the room fills again with movement and laughter, I find myself thinking about it anyway.

And wondering, despite myself, if he will actually come. Thankfully, I put those thoughts away as I watch the room start to break into action.

Once the girls finished putting on their makeup, their attention turned to me, the frumpy farmer, and I was plucked, moisturized, styled, and with a completely made up face by the time we all stepped out of Emily’s house. It was the same look as before, but this time, with a little more glamour than I anticipated. Abigail outright refused to put heat on my hair this time, and instead, wove some fake white flowers that she borrowed from Emily's huge craft kit. It was a touch that I appreciated, and instead of calming my crazy curls, seemed to bring out the best of it.

But before we leave Emily’s house, when the final touches are done and the energy has shifted from preparation to anticipation, Leah catches me just as I reach for the door.

“Hey,” she says, her voice easy, grounding as always.

I turn toward her, the noise of the others fading slightly into the background.

“If you’re worried about partners,” she continues, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, her braid slipping slightly forward over her shoulder, “don’t be.”

I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, a small, almost amused smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “We all rotate, more or less. It was fun the first time, but after that…” She lets out a small breath. “It’s more about showing up than anything else.”

I glance past her toward the others, where Abigail is laughing loudly at something Haley said, where Sophia is still adjusting something invisible on her sleeve.

“So,” Leah adds, pushing off the doorframe, “if you want to dance with Elliot, or anyone else, just ask. No one’s going to care.”

There is something about the way she says it that feels genuine. Not dismissive. Not territorial. Just open and honest. I didn’t have many friends back in Zuzu City, most of my college friends had the right idea when they eventually moved away all over Ferngill Republic. Even then, it was a lot of backstabbing and gossip. My only real friend barely calls me anymore now that she got married and moved out to the capital to raise a picture perfect family.

I smile brightly at her, feeling a flood of new warm affection for a new friend. “Thanks, Leah!” Before I can stop myself, I put my arms around her in a big hug. “You’re a good friend,” I whisper in a low voice.

Chapter Text

By the time we reach the clearing in the western region of Cindersap Forest, we are right on time. The space looks entirely different from how I have seen it before.

The grass has been cleared and flattened into a wide, open circle, bordered by tall wooden posts wrapped in ribbons and garlands of fresh flowers that sway lightly in the breeze. Lanterns hang from nearly every surface, strung between trees, hooked onto posts, suspended just high enough to cast a warm, golden light that gives a slight haze to everything it touches.

The river runs quietly just beyond the edge of the clearing, its surface catching the last of the sunlight as it filters through the trees, and somewhere nearby, musicians are already beginning to play. The sound is gentle at first, strings and woodwinds weaving together in a melody that feels older than the festival itself, something practiced and passed down rather than written.

It is utterly scenic.

And then there are the people.

Lewis stands near the center of it all, his posture rigid in a way that suggests he is already overwhelmed by what he is seeing.

His eyes move across us slowly. One by one.

“Oh,” he says.

That is all he manages at first. Because we are not wearing the dresses. Not really.

Emily beams as if she has just completed a masterpiece. Abigail looks like she is seconds away from saying something she absolutely should not. Haley stands perfectly composed, as if nothing is out of the ordinary at all. Sophia fidgets slightly, though I can tell she is proud of what she has made. Leah doesn’t react at all, which somehow makes it worse.

Lewis clears his throat.

“Well,” he begins, his voice tightening slightly, “this is… certainly… a creative interpretation of the dress code.”

No one responds.

“I suppose,” he continues, visibly recalculating in real time, “that the spirit of the event remains intact.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Abigail mutters under her breath.

The men, on the other hand, look miserable.

Every single one of them is dressed in the same formal attire, stiff suits that do not seem designed for movement, let alone dancing. The jackets sit too tightly at the shoulders, the collars too high, the fabric too heavy for the weather.

Sam is already tugging at his collar like it is personally offending him. Sebastian stands off to the side, hands in his pockets, looking like he would rather be anywhere else. Alex adjusts his sleeves with visible irritation, while Shane, already holding a drink, looks like he has accepted his fate.

My eyes continue to move across the crowd. I don’t tell myself I’m looking for him. But I am.

And then I see him. Not near the center, of course. Why would he be? Definitely not by the music either, I imagine he would have to wear some magical earplugs for that. He’s not anywhere anyone would think to look. But my eyes are drawn to him nonetheless.

Magnus stands at the very edge of the clearing, partially obscured by the trees, where the lantern light barely reaches. The shadows soften his presence, folding around him in a way that makes him difficult to notice unless you are already searching for something that does not belong.

No one else is looking in that direction. No one else would see him.

But I do.

I hesitate for only a moment. Then I move.

“Where are you going?” Sophia asks sweetly as I step away.

“I’ll be right back,” I respond, already weaving through the crowd.

The closer I get, the more distinct he becomes.

The dark fabric of his robes absorbs what little light reaches him, the wide brim of his hat casting a shadow over his face that makes his expression harder to read. And yet, I can feel his attention shift before I even reach him, like he has been aware of me long before I crossed into his space.

“You came,” I say, a little breathless, though I am not sure why.

“I did,” he replies.

His voice is quieter here. More contained. He looks over me briefly before he looks past me.

“For observation,” he adds.

Of course. I nod, folding my arms loosely in front of me, suddenly aware of the distance between us.

“Well,” I say, glancing briefly back toward the clearing, “your timing is good. You get to observe everyone breaking the rules at once.”

His gaze flickers past me for a moment, taking in the scene, the movement, the color.

“I noticed,” he says.

There is a pause.

“I have also finalized the solution to the shielding issue,” he continues.

My attention snaps back to him.

“You have?”

“Yes.”

Something in his tone shifts slightly, more focused now, more certain.

“It will require immediate application,” he adds. “Preferably before your magic escalates further in response to environmental stimuli.”

I blink. “Environmental—” I gesture vaguely toward the festival. “You mean… this?”

“Yes.”

That should feel more concerning than it does.

Instead, I find myself distracted. By him. By the way the wind catches slightly in his hair, shifting the strands just enough to break the stillness of his silhouette. By the way his eyes track everything except me, as though I am somehow the least interesting thing in the space we are standing in. By the way he looks so focused, so composed, so entirely elsewhere.

“Are you alright?” I ask before I can stop myself.

His gaze remains somewhere out of reach. “Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” Magnus replies like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and the motion feels too deliberate, too practiced, like I am performing something instead of simply existing. I can feel the makeup on my skin in a way I could not before, heavy and present, and for a brief, disorienting second I am transported back to a version of myself that I thought I had already outgrown. Like the days of being a middle school girl in an awkward body you don’t know how to move, let alone dress, and all those boys talking about lipstick on pigs.

“I don’t know, you just seem… different,” I sigh, my head turning slightly as I try to follow the line of his gaze, as though understanding what he is looking at might somehow help me understand what is happening.

He shrugs.

And then, I ask it. I ask the question I should not ask, the one that rises before I can stop it, before I can think, before I can protect myself from the answer. I ask because it’s all I want right now, at this moment. And maybe it’s been something I’ve wanted for even longer than that, too.

“Do you want to dance?”

The words come out too quickly, too plainly, and the moment they exist between us, I wish I could take them back. My instinct is to look anywhere else. To the ground, to the sky, to the lanterns swaying gently in the distance. But I cannot seem to break eye contact, as though I can force the answer I want into existence if I just hold my gaze long enough.

Magnus stills. For a moment, he does not respond.

Then, very evenly, “No.”

It is not harsh. It is not dismissive. It is simply… final.

“Oh,” I say.

I try to laugh, but it comes out weaker than I mean it to.

“Right. Observation.”

“Yes.”

The silence that follows is brief. But it lingers. And just like that, I feel like I’ve been lingering for far too long in this place. I need to move.

“Well,” I say, stepping back slightly, forcing a small smile into place, “I should probably go find someone who actually wants to participate.”

“That would be… efficient,” he replies.

Of course it would be.

I nod once. Then I turn.

My eyes sting almost immediately, that sharp, unwelcome burn I try to ignore before it can become anything more. It’s not sadness—I tell myself that quickly, firmly. I didn’t want to dance with him like that. That’s not what this is.

It’s the way it happened. The way I put myself out there without thinking, without protecting myself first, and how easily he turned it away. Not cruel, not loud, just certain. Final. Heat crawls up my neck as I blink hard, forcing my eyes upward before anything can spill over. I refuse to let it show, refuse to let anyone see what that felt like.

I should have known better. I felt ridiculous even standing there, like I misread something so obvious it almost makes me laugh. Almost.

Once I step fully back into the clearing, the noise of the festival settles around me again, warmer now, fuller. The music has picked up slightly, the musicians finding their rhythm as people begin to gather more deliberately near the center of the grass. Lantern light catches on moving fabric and polished shoes, and the whole space feels like it is holding its breath just before something begins. We must be a few songs away from starting the dance.

I make my way toward Abigail, who has just stepped away from the girls, her posture relaxed but her attention sharp in the way it always is when she notices something out of place. She turns toward me almost immediately, her eyes narrowing just slightly as if she has already pieced together more than I am prepared to explain. There is something probing in the way she looks at me, something that makes me feel like I am being studied rather than greeted.

“Where were you?” Abigail asks immediately, her eyes narrowing slightly.

I glance back, just for a second. He is still there, exactly where I left him, untouched by the movement and warmth of everything else around us, like he exists just outside of it.

“Nowhere,” I say, forcing my voice into something casual, something that does not betray the way my attention keeps pulling in that direction.

“That was definitely the Wizard,” she says.

I freeze for half a second, my shoulders tightening before I can stop myself, and that is all the confirmation she needs

Sophia then turns around from the group and gasps quietly as she enters Abigail and I’s conversation. “That was him?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

“And?” Haley asks, now suddenly an addition to what was supposed to be a private huddle.

“And nothing,” I correct quickly, folding my arms loosely in front of me as if that will close the conversation before it expands any further. “He’s just… observing.”

The looks they exchange are not subtle, not even close, and I can feel their shared skepticism settle over me like a second layer of heat.

“Right,” Abigail says slowly, drawing the word out just enough to make it clear she does not believe me at all. I ignore it, because acknowledging it would only make it worse, and instead I turn away from them entirely, redirecting my focus toward something easier, something safer.

Instead, I turn toward the line of bachelors. The group of bachelors stands off to one side, not quite in formation yet, but close enough that it is obvious where they will be when the dance starts. They all look varying degrees of uncomfortable.

Sam is still tugging at his collar, his blond hair already slightly out of place like he has run his hands through it too many times. Still, he wears more hair gel than all the townspeople in the valley put together, so it’s not too noticeable. “I swear this thing is trying to kill me,” he mutters, pulling at the fabric again. “Who decided we needed this many buttons?”

Alex scoffs beside him, though he looks just as constrained, his broad shoulders sitting rather proudly in a jacket that does not quite accommodate them. “It’s called formal wear,” he says, though he adjusts his sleeve almost immediately after. “You’ll survive.”

“Barely,” Sam replies.

Sebastian stands just behind them, his dark hair falling into his face as he leans back slightly, his expression somewhere between amused and entirely uninterested. “You could just not complain about it for five minutes,” he says.

“I could,” Sam shoots back. “But I won’t.”

Victor stands a little apart from them, though not in the same way Sebastian does. He is more composed, his posture straight, his suit fitting him neatly, if a bit stiffly. His hair is carefully styled, his expression polite but slightly reserved, like he is trying very hard to be present in a moment that does not quite come naturally to him. I just know that Olivia has prepped him over this more than a few times, and I’m sure this morning was run by a drill sergeant, not a mother.

When he notices me approaching, he straightens just a fraction more.

“Hi,” he says, offering a small, careful smile. “You look… really nice.”

“Thank you,” I reply, returning it. “You clean up well.”

That earns a faint flush, which he tries to hide by adjusting his sleeve unnecessarily.

I join the group fully then, the energy shifting slightly as I do, the conversation loosening, expanding.

“So,” Sam says immediately, grinning at me now, “you ready for this?”

“Define ready,” I quip.

“That’s a no,” Sebastian mutters.

“Hey, I practiced,” I defend.

“With who?” Alex asks dryly, although there’s a small smile on his face that’s not just smugness.

“Everyone.”

“That explains it,” he says.

There is laughter, easy and overlapping, the kind that makes the space feel smaller, more contained. Like I’m just in a bubble, outside of Magnus’ ever-present watch.

Victor glances between all of us, then back to me. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, a little quieter. “Once you get into it, it’s mostly muscle memory.”

“That’s reassuring,” I say.

“It’s true,” he insists.

And then I feel it. He is still there.

My gaze flickers past them, just briefly, toward the edge of the clearing. He is still there, exactly where he was before, the shadows folding around him like they belong to him, the lantern light stopping just short of touching him as if it knows better. His posture has not changed, but now that I am looking, I can tell that he is not observing the crowd.

He is watching me.

I look away too quickly

“So,” I say, refocusing, forcing my attention back to the group, “any last-minute advice before I embarrass myself in front of the entire town?”

“Don’t fall,” Sebastian advises.

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s accurate,” he returns with a shrug.

Sam laughs. “Just follow the person across from you. It’s basically just this: step, turn, don’t crash into anyone.”

“That sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

“Or,” a new voice cuts in, smoother, quieter, “you could think of it as a kind of story.”

I turn.

Elliott steps forward slightly, his presence shifting the tone of the conversation without effort.

Up close, he is composed in a way that feels intentional. His suit fits him better than it should, the fabric sitting naturally against him despite its stiffness, his long chestnut hair pulled back loosely so that it does not fall into his face. He’s like what I had hoped every professor at my college would look like but definitely did not. But there’s something more charming about him than I recall in all our other times meeting.

“Every movement leads to the next,” he continues, his voice warm, measured. “Each step builds on the one before it. If you lose your place, you simply just reenter the rhythm.”

“That’s actually helpful,” I admit.

“I’m glad,” he says, the faintest smile touching his expression.

The others fall quieter, not intentionally, but naturally, the conversation narrows without anyone needing to step away.

“It’s less about perfection,” Elliott adds, “and more about presence. Being aware of where you are, who you’re with.”

His gaze holds mine for a second longer than necessary.

“Letting the moment carry you forward.”

I exhale, something in my shoulders loosening without me realizing it.

“That sounds a lot nicer than ‘don’t fall,’” I say.

Sebastian scoffs quietly behind him.

Elliott glances at him briefly but innocently, then back at me. “You’ll do well,” he says. “You already move like someone who understands rhythm.”

“That’s generous,” I reply.

“It’s observant,” he corrects, his voice softening just slightly, like the distinction matters more to him than the compliment itself.

I let out a quiet laugh, though it feels thinner than I expect, like it has to push past something still sitting in my chest before it can fully form. My fingers find a loose curl at the edge of my hair, twisting it gently around itself in a habit I have never quite been able to break, especially when I am trying to steady myself. When I look back up at him, I realize that I am actually looking this time, not just listening.

And that—

That might be a mistake.

Because there is a part of me, small and sharp and a little bit reckless, that wants to make Magnus mad. I can still feel his presence at the edge of everything, even when I am not looking at him, like a quiet pressure that refuses to leave. But there is another part of me, quieter but no less insistent, that is noticing Elliott for what he is in this moment—composed, warm, undeniably attractive in a way that feels easy rather than overwhelming.

“Say,” I murmur, tilting my head slightly, letting just enough playfulness slip into my voice to mask everything else, “I don’t remember you being this charming before.”

Elliott’s expression shifts immediately, the faint smile on his lips widening into something more open, more genuine, like I have given him permission to step further into himself. He lets out a rich, unrestrained laugh, the sound of it deep and full in a way that seems to settle into the space around us rather than break it apart. One of his brows lifts slightly as he regards me, something amused and knowing flickering in his gaze.

“Don’t you remember,” he says, his tone light but deliberate, “that time at the Stardrop Saloon when I got so drunk I danced for hours?”

The memory hits before I can stop it.

Laughter spills out of me, sudden and bright, bubbling up in a way that feels almost surprising after everything that came before. I press a hand to my chest as if that might contain it, but it does nothing, the sound escaping anyway, easy and unguarded.

“Oh, Yoba,” I manage between breaths, shaking my head as the image fully forms in my mind, “I completely forgot about that. You would not stop dancing, even when Gus was trying to kick you out after closing hours.”

Elliott smiles at that, softer now, like the memory has shifted something for him too, like it exists somewhere warmer than the present moment.

“It was a particularly compelling evening,” he says, though the corner of his mouth betrays the way he knows exactly how ridiculous it was.

“It was chaos,” I correct, still laughing, though it fades more slowly this time, lingering just enough to feel real. “You nearly took out three tables and an entire tray of drinks.”

“And yet,” he replies smoothly, “I was unforgettable.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

There is something about the exchange that settles between us after that, something lighter than before but not shallow, like we have stepped into a rhythm that does not require effort to maintain. For a moment, it is easy to exist here, in this version of the night, in this conversation that does not demand anything from me except presence.

And then, I feel it again. Like a scab that won’t go away.

A pull at the edge of my awareness, quiet but persistent, like something that has been waiting patiently for me to remember it.

My laughter fades just slightly.

My eyes shift, almost involuntarily, back toward the edge of the clearing. Magnus is still watching me. He’s not scanning the crowd or observing generally like he told me would be. He’s just watching.

And for a brief moment, our eyes meet. It feels a lot more dramatic than it is, because it lingers for more than just a few seconds and I know it’s deliberately.

Then I look away.

“I should find a partner,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.

Elliott inclines his head slightly. “I think that would be a good idea.”

I hesitate.

Then, before I can overthink it:

“Would you like to dance?” I blurt out.

His expression softens, just slightly. “I would be honored,” he says.

Before we move, I turn, scanning the edge of the crowd until I find Leah. She stands with the others, relaxed, watching everything unfold with quiet amusement. I make my way over to her quickly.

“Hey,” I say.

She glances at Elliott behind me, then back at me, already understanding. Elliot gives a pair of funny puppy dog eyes to his long time assigned dance partner, which makes her giggle a bit.

“Is it okay?” I ask, smaller now.

She smiles and gives me a kind laugh and a wave. “Of course it is,” she says easily. “Go.”

That is all I need.

When I return, Elliott offers his hand.

I take it.

The music shifts. The dancers move into place.

We take our positions across from each other, the lines forming on either side, the space tightening as everyone settles into the structure of it.

The first notes begin.

The movement starts slowly, just like Emily had said.

A step forward. A turn. A shift in weight that feels more natural now than it had earlier.

Elliott moves with ease, his posture steady, his timing precise without feeling rigid. When I hesitate, even slightly, he adjusts without making it obvious, guiding the motion forward rather than correcting it.

“You’re doing well,” he says quietly.

“I’m trying not to trip,” I reply.

“A noble goal.”

The lines begin to move. In and out. Forward and back. Hands brushing briefly, then parting again as the sequence continues.

I fall into the rhythm and the repetition. The way the music carries everything forward whether I think about it or not.

And still, I feel it. That same awareness at the edge of my senses. I glance up.

He is still there.

Magnus stands exactly where I left him, his figure half-hidden by shadow, but unmistakable now that I know where to look.

And again, our eyes meet. This time, it lasts a fraction longer. Long enough for me to feel it. Long enough for me to get mad that he’s doing this to me.

Then the movement pulls me away again, the dance continuing, the steps unfolding in a pattern that no longer feels foreign.

By the time the final sequence begins, I am no longer thinking about what comes next.

I am just… moving.

The music swells and the lines shift one last time.

And then, it gracefully ends.

The last note lingers in the air, soft and fading, the dancers slowing, separating, the structure dissolving back into something looser, less defined.

Elliott releases my hand gently.

“See?” he says. “No disaster.”

I smile, a little breathless. “You might have been right.”

“I usually am,” he replies, not arrogantly, just… matter-of-fact.

I laugh.

He leans into me, his mouth barely an inch from my ear. His breath tickles me as he whispers, “You were utterly beautiful to watch, Lorelai.”

I blush, awkwardly tucking a hair behind my ear. “Maybe we can do it again sometime?” I suggest.

He nods before he takes my hand again, this time pressing his lips against it. I don’t blush at this, because I don’t feel hot and flustered when he talks to me. Instead, I feel a small flutter in my stomach from this kind gentleman.

Before I can thank him for dancing with me, I feel it again.

Magnus is no longer standing at the edge of the clearing. He is moving toward me.

The distance between us closes quickly, though he does not rush, his steps measured, deliberate, each one placed with the same quiet certainty he carries everywhere else. The lantern light finally reaches him now, catching faintly along the edges of his robes, the brim of his hat no longer fully shadowing his face.

And yet, he still looks like he does not belong here.

I can feel everyone’s eyes on us. I gulp, hoping that the earth can just swallow me whole.

Elliott’s hand is still loosely around mine when Magnus stops in front of us. There is a pause, one that’s not long but it’s enough for me to feel some sort of tension that I cannot name.

Magnus’s gaze flickers first to me. Then, to Elliot. He doesn’t hold any sort of aggressive or confrontational look, but it doesn’t feel passive either. Instead, he holds that same assessing look he always does when he doesn’t understand or like an outcome in his ‘observations’.

Elliott does not pull away immediately.

He straightens slightly instead, his posture shifting in a way that feels almost instinctive, like he recognizes that something has entered the space that requires acknowledgment.

“Wizard,” he says, polite and composed, like the perfect gentleman he is.

Magnus inclines his head just slightly in return. “Elliott.”

The way he says his name is even. Neutral. But there is something beneath it. Something I cannot quite name.

And then his attention returns to me. “We need to go,” Magnus says.

There is no hesitation in it. No softening. Just certainty.

Both of my eyebrows shoot up, caught slightly off guard by the abruptness of it. “Now?”

“Yes.”

His gaze shifts briefly again, not fully away from me, but just enough to acknowledge Elliott’s presence without addressing him directly.

“It would be unwise to delay,” he continues, his tone quieter now, more controlled, though the urgency sits just beneath it. “The shielding spell is prepared. The conditions are… optimal.”

I hesitate.

Elliott’s hand loosens slightly around mine, not pulling away, but no longer holding with the same intention.

“I see,” Elliott says after a moment, his voice smooth, though quieter now, more reserved. “Then I suppose I have had the pleasure of your company at just the right time.”

I glance at him, a flicker of something like apology rising in my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. I want to say it’s not like that, but how else can I explain what’s going on?

“There is no need,” he replies, offering a small, genuine smile. “Some moments are meant to be brief.”

Magnus does not respond to that. But I feel it. The way his attention settles again.

The way the air shifts, just slightly, around him.

“I will return you safely,” he says, though I am not entirely sure if the words are meant for Elliott or for me.

Elliott inclines his head once more, stepping back fully now, releasing my hand without resistance. “Then I will trust that you will,” he says.

For a brief moment, the three of us stand there, the space between us carefully maintained, the music from the festival continuing just behind us as though nothing has changed.

Then Magnus turns. Not away from me. But slightly to the side. An unspoken expectation.

I follow.

And just before I step fully out of the light, I glance back once.

Elliott is still standing there, watching, his expression unreadable but calm, his posture composed as he returns to the rhythm of the festival without me.

I wave at him, even though I know it looks silly, with a smile. He returns the same gesture, his slight confusion now coming to an understanding that I’m not being kidnapped forever by some dark and evil wizard.

When I turn forward again, Magnus is already moving, guiding us toward the edge of the clearing, back into the shadows where the lantern light fades and the forest begins again.

And this time, I do not hesitate to follow him.

Chapter Text

The forest is quieter on the way back, but not empty. The kind of quiet that feels aware rather than absent, like everything around us is listening without interfering, holding the remnants of the festival at a distance without ever fully letting it go. The path winds ahead in uneven stretches, roots pushing through the ground just enough to catch at my steps if I am not paying attention, the earth shifting subtly beneath my boots as if reminding me that this place does not exist for my comfort.

Magnus walks ahead of me, his figure cutting a steady line through the dim light, his dark robes absorbing what little glow filters through the trees. He is not far enough for me to lose sight of him, but he is far enough to make it clear that he is not waiting, not slowing, not adjusting his pace for mine. The distance feels intentional, measured, like everything else about him.

I watch the back of him for a while, longer than I mean to. The way his broad shoulders stay squared, his posture still precise even now, even after everything that just happened, like nothing has unsettled him. There is no sign that anything has shifted for him, no lingering hesitation, no second thought, no evidence that the night meant anything beyond what he already decided it was.

Of course there isn’t.

“You could have just said you didn’t want to dance,” I call out to him. My voice cuts through the quiet more sharply than I intend, carrying everything I have been holding onto since he pulled me away from the clearing, since he made every single person in that town look at us like we were something we clearly were not.

He doesn’t stop.

“I did,” he states, evenly, as if the conversation had already been resolved.

I feel something tighten in my chest.

“That’s not what I meant,” I assert, quicker this time, my steps picking up just enough to close the distance between us.

He slows then, not fully stopping, but enough that I come up beside him. He turns his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge me without fully facing me. His eyes are wild, in a way I can’t describe, not angry and definitely not curious, but in a way that I don’t think he has full control over his composure.

“Then clarify,” he says.

The word is calm. Too calm. Almost chilled, even.

I let out a breath through my nose, trying to steady myself before I speak again.

“You said no,” I begin, more controlled now, though I can feel the frustration sitting just beneath it, “and then you stood there and watched me the entire time.”

That makes him stop. Completely this time.

He turns toward me fully, the moonlight catching across his face in uneven strips through the trees. His expression isn’t defensive or apologetic. It’s confusion. Which is utterly enraging.

“I was observing,” he says.

I laugh. I don’t mean to. It just happens when I hear bullshit.

“Right,” I say, shaking my head slightly. “Of course you were.”

His brow furrows, just slightly, the smallest crease forming between his eyebrows as he studies me more closely now, like I’ve introduced a variable he didn’t anticipate.

“That was the stated purpose of my attendance,” he replies.

I press my lips together, then drag a hand down my face, trying to decide how to explain something that feels obvious in a way I don’t know how to articulate.

“That’s not—” I stop, exhaling. “You can’t say no to dancing with me and then just stand there and watch me do it anyway.”

“I can,” he says, completely serious. “And I did.”

I stare at him. There’s not even a hint of irony in his voice.

“Do you hear yourself?” I squawk, throwing my hands down like some kind of little kid.

“I hear myself perfectly fine,” he replies, almost with a bit of smugness in it if I fully uncovered all of its layers.

“That’s the problem.”

The silence that follows stretches just long enough to feel intentional.

Magnus tilts his head slightly, studying me with that same careful attention he uses when he’s trying to understand a new concept. His nonsensical words aren’t what’s bothering me, it’s his confusion. It’s the idea that anyone could do what… whatever happened tonight in the forest, and not understand how wrong it felt.

“You are upset,” he notes. Any sort of warmth I’ve heard from him in the last few weeks has been replaced with that coldness he held for me when we first met.

“Yes!” I confess, completely exacerbated by his cryptic antics.

“Because I declined to participate in a social activity,” he continues, his tone almost too analytical, “and then remained present within the same environment.”

“Yes,” I repeat, sharper now.

“That does not seem inherently contradictory,” he says.

I let out a breath, half laugh, half frustration, turning slightly away from him before turning back again. I can barely believe what he’s saying, and at the very least, how he is saying it to me.

“It’s not about contradiction,” I seethe, my teeth pulled together. “It’s about the fact that you made it look like we were there together.”

“I was there because of you,” Magnus points out, as if he’s going to get into my good graces by announcing that fact.

I shake my head. “Not like that.” Even as I say it, I feel the weight of it, the difference between what I thought and what actually was. He did not come for me. Not in the way I wanted.

He watches me, and I can see it happening in real time; the way he tries to follow, the way he searches for structure where there isn’t any.

“And then,” I continue, because stopping now feels impossible, “you show up right after the dance ends and tell me we have to leave. In front of him.”

“Him,” Magnus repeats, but this time there’s more of an edge to his voice.

I close my eyes briefly. Did I really have to drag it out of him? “Yes, Elliott.”

There’s a pause. When I look at him again, something has shifted, subtle but undeniable, like a line has been drawn that was not there before.

“Yes,” he confirms.

I narrow my eyes slightly. “Yes?”

“Yes,” he repeats, more measured now, and then with a lot more bite and venom than I’ve ever heard from him, “Elliot.”

I cross my arms. “What about him?”

Magnus hesitates briefly. “He is…” he starts, then stops, his gaze flicking slightly away before returning to me. “An unusual choice.”

I feel a wave of nausea come over me. “An unusual choice,” I repeat slowly, mocking Magnus’ previous way of saying it.

“Yes.”

“For what?” I ask, my voice quieter now, but sharper.

“For…” He gestures vaguely back toward the direction of the festival, his hand moving in a small, controlled motion. “That.”

“For dancing?” I press.

“For selecting him,” he clarifies.

I let out a disbelieving breath, looking away for a second before turning back to him again, the frustration settling deeper now. “Okay,” I say. “Wow.”

His expression tightens slightly, a frown happening. “I did not intend that to be offensive.”

“Well, it is,” I reply.

“I am merely stating—”

“You’re judging,” I cut in.

“I am observing,” he corrects immediately.

“No,” I say, more firmly now. “You’re judging. You don’t even know him.”

“I know enough,” Magnus replies.

That stops me. I stare at him.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“It means, not only is he foppish and verbose and just an utter annoyance to have to listen to,” he says, slower now, more deliberate, “But that he does not possess the qualities I would expect you to prioritize.”

For a second, I cannot even respond. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out, the shock of it catching me off guard in a way I did not expect.

“How dare you say that about him! You hardly even know him and you say he doesn’t have the kind of qualities you expect me to prioritize? What qualities would those even be?”

He opens his mouth. Stops. For the first time since I’ve known him, he doesn’t have an answer ready.

“That is not the point,” he says finally.

“No,” I reply. “It is.”

The argument hangs there, unfinished, jagged at the edges, like something that refuses to resolve itself cleanly.

Magnus exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders shifting just slightly, like he is forcing himself back into control.

“We are losing time,” he says. “This is not—”

“Important?” I cut in.

He hesitates.

“Not as important as ensuring your safety,” he finishes.

That should make me feel better. It doesn’t.

“Right,” I say. I guess we can bookmark it for another time. It won’t be something I can just put in a bin as categorically as he seems to be able to.

We walk the rest of the way in silence.

The tower rises out of the trees ahead of us, dark against the sky, its windows glowing faintly from within. It looks the same as it always does, and yet something about it feels different tonight. Colder.

Inside, the air wraps around us immediately, thick with herbs and something deeper, something that feels older than the structure itself. The lighting is low, more shadow than glow, the cauldron bubbling slightly in the corner like it has been waiting.

Magnus moves past me without hesitation.

“Stand here,” he says.

I do.

He circles me slowly, his gaze focused now, all of his attention narrowing into something precise and controlled.

“This will not harm you,” he says.

“That’s comforting,” I say, voice dripping in sarcasm.

He doesn’t react.

Instead, his hands lift, and the air changes. Not dramatically. But noticeably.

It feels like pressure at first. Like the space around me is drawing inward, tightening just slightly, the “swell” I’ve grown used to suddenly pulled closer, contained.

“Do not move,” he says.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I bite back again, quieter now.

He murmurs something under his breath, the words too low to catch, his hands shifting in small, careful movements, like he’s shaping something invisible between us.

And then, it settles. The pressure smooths, softening into something contained.

Magnus lowers his hands. “It is done,” he says.

I exhale slowly. “What does it do?” I ask.

“It separates your magic from the surrounding environment,” he explains. “Not entirely, but enough to prevent further escalation.”

“So I’m cut off,” I say.

“Protected,” he corrects.

I nod. But I don’t feel protected.

There’s a pause.

Then—

“We will need to suspend further observation sessions,” Magnus says.

“What?”

“Until I am certain that no additional entities have taken notice of you,” he continues. “It would be irresponsible to continue exposing you.”

The words hit harder than anything else tonight. More than just our strange fight and everything that felt so unsaid. “So… you don’t want to see me anymore,” I say.

“That is not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

His expression tightens. “It is not.”

“Then what is it?” I ask, stepping back slightly, my arms crossing again without me thinking about it. “Because it sounds like you’re saying we shouldn’t spend time together anymore.”

“I am saying that it would be safer if we did not,” he says.

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“Because of the magic,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Not because I asked you to the Flower Dance,” I add.

He pauses.

“I do not understand the relevance of that,” he says.

Of course he doesn’t. I shake my head.

“Forget it.”

“Lorelai—”

“No,” I cut in. “It’s fine.” I look at him again, this time more seriously. His forlorn eyes, more like a dog that I just yelled at, won’t work on me. “Really, I don’t care,” I add, more for myself than for him.

I step back again, putting more space between us now. “I just didn’t realize,” I say, quieter now, “that everything between us was conditional.”

“It is not conditional,” he says in a small voice.

“Then why does it feel like it is?” I ask.

That stops him. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then he looks away. “I am attempting to ensure your safety,” he says.

I nod. “Of course you are.” The words sound dull and hollow in my mouth, even as they leave it.

I turn toward the door.

“Lorelai.”

I won't stop. I go ahead and open the door.

The night air rushes in, colder now.

Right now, I don’t feel like I belong in the tower.

I step outside, and leave him there.

Fuck.

I walk down the steps and sit on them just for a moment. I try to plug my tears with my fingers, but then remember there’s no point in trying to conserve the makeup Abigail spent so long on. I let my tears become real, even though I’m not sure what they’re for.

After a while of just sitting there, letting myself cry in silence, I get up and start walking home.

It’s late now. The moon is completely out and there’s only the moon and the stars to guide me. So much for getting me home safely, I scoff to myself.

I guess it isn’t entirely his fault, though. I did just walk out without a word even after he tried to stop me. But at the same time, I remind myself it’s not my fault, either.

After only getting about a hundred feet from the tower, I hear someone call my name.

I stop in my tracks. Shit. Is it her? Should I scream out for Magnus to come help me? If I don’t have any magic, as unhelpful as it was when I had it, how can I even defend myself? I can barely run in this dress, either, let alone these stupid heels.

“Loooooorelaaaaaaaiii,” I hear it again, but this time there’s no mistake in who it is.

I don’t turn around because I know he’ll appear right in front of me.

Lance walks up to me from behind a tree in the distance. He’s got a huge dumb grin on his face as he waits for me to catch up to him. I’m not walking up to greet him, I’m just continuing my journey back to my farm. Besides Magnus, he might be the last person I want to talk to.

“Hello, gorgeous,” He purrs, his voice way too close to my ear at this moment.

I lightly shove him off, preferring some quiet to whatever conversation he wants to attempt with me. He doesn’t even register the action, sticking close by me as he practically floats next to me.

“Sheesh, you seem mad. You cried off all your makeup, Kane. Doesn’t mean you still don’t look super hot in that dress, though.”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap at him. I don’t even care to be nice right now. I just want to go to bed and sleep for a week and never speak again.

Still, he continues to bother me with his stupid jokes. “What, is there trouble in paradise?”

“Just go away, Lance,” I manage, almost about to cry again.

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, I’ll stop. I didn’t realize he was that much of a dick. I only came up to check on you.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, lazily folding his hands behind his neck as he walks beside me. “I felt something. Seems like he put a spell on you, and not just metaphorically. So, no more magic?”

“I guess not,” I say as I exhale.

Lance sighs. “That’s too bad. I thought we were going to get to do some great things together.”

“Yeah, well, dream on,” I huff before finally begging, “Can you please just fuck off? Can’t you tell I want to be alone right now?”

Lance gives me a careful look, his eyes quickly examining me and my demeanor. “You might want to, but that doesn’t mean you need to.”

I laugh hoarsely, “So what, you’re my guardian angel now?”

“Sure, if you think that’s hot.”

I laugh again. He’s provocative, but at least he’s funny while he does it. Unlike Magnus, who is just downright infuriating.

“No, but seriously,” Lance carries on in a hushed voice, “I thought I felt something weird about your magic and I thought I should check on it. Not only that, but it’s not safe for you to walk alone at night.”

I can’t help but smile warmly at that. A tear manages to slip past my defense, but before I can wipe it away, Lance manages to take out a handkerchief and wipe it for me. “Thanks,” I say, feeling utterly stupid for looking so depressed. “So, how long were you outside of the tower?”

“Pretty much right after the spell was put up.”

“Ah,” I chuckle, though I don’t feel entirely ready to start smiling again until at least a night’s rest.

We’ve entered my farm land now, but he continues to walk by me, weaving in and out of the more uncombed parts. I can still feel the land, feel the plants growing in it, but it’s like I have a muzzle put on me where not only can I not speak, but it can’t even sense my presence.

“Thanks for walking me home, Lance,” I breathe as we get closer. He’s being quieter now, whether it's from weariness or from contemplation, I’m not sure.

“Of course,” he says politely, without missing a beat. He offers his hand to me as I walk up the steps, but he stays at the bottom, still watching me, waiting for me to say something.

As I open my mouth to tell him goodnight, he says, “You really do look beautiful, Lorelai. I’m sorry if your evening did not go as well as you had wanted.”

I offer him a weak smile. “Thank you. Get home, wherever that is, safely.”

“Ah, there is no home for me tonight. In fact, I come to bid you farewell. It might be sometime before we meet again.” There’s no cowardice in his voice, just the words of a man who knows what he has to do.

“Is it dangerous?” I ask, not wanting to come off as concerned.

He grins wickedly at me again. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they give me the taxidermy special and you’ll be the sole inheritor in case anything bad happens to me.”

I roll my eyes one last time at him. “Ew. Don’t be gross.” I then open the door and give him a small wave. “Goodnight, Lance.”

“Goodnight, Kane.”

The last thing I hear before I close the door and take a deep breath, is my loud groan and his annoying giggle at my frustration.

Now my sole agenda was to sleep for a week.

Chapter Text

I do not intend to go.

That is the first decision I make.

It is a simple one, clean in its reasoning and entirely supported by precedent. I have spent centuries avoiding gatherings such as this, not out of disdain, though that is what most would assume, but out of practicality. The presence of magic is easiest to conceal when it is not placed directly within the observation of those who fear it. The townspeople are predictable in that regard. Distance preserves equilibrium.

And yet, I find myself standing at the edge of the forest regardless.

It is not curiosity that brings me here. I’ve lived too long to have much of that. It is not an obligation. Age has made me untethered to expectations and arrangements. And yet, I know I am here only because of her.

I remain far enough that the lantern light does not reach me, positioning myself just beyond the threshold where I might be perceived as part of the gathering. The clearing is illuminated in warm tones, pale yellows and golds suspended from carefully arranged strings, each light swaying slightly with the evening breeze. Music carries outward in steady intervals, rhythmic and rehearsed, the kind of tradition that has been repeated often enough to lose its original meaning.

The people gather easily within it. They always do. I try to push away my annoyance, but I’m already feeling like I should leave.

And then she steps into view. For a moment, I forget what I am doing here.

Lorelai moves with a kind of unfamiliar certainty, as though she has already begun to belong to this place in a way that defies the short time she has occupied it.

The dress is… not what I anticipated.

It is simpler than the others, but not in a way that diminishes it. The silk falls cleanly along her frame, no longer weighed down by excess, the shortened length revealing the movement of her legs in a way that makes the entire garment feel lighter. The hem is uneven, deliberately so, the layered edges shifting with each step she takes, catching the lantern light in soft, irregular intervals.

It draws the eye without forcing it.

The neckline is lower than it should be. The thought arrives without permission, and with it, many others that make my face burn with shame. Still, I just can’t look away from her. I try to look at her dress in an analyzing way to help rather than whatever other way I’m looking at her, but I can’t seem to help myself. She’s mesmerizing.

The curve of it frames her chest in a way that is… unnecessary. The tulle quiet it, disguises it slightly, but not enough to eliminate the effect. It gives the illusion of restraint where there is, in fact, none.

I am aware of how long I am looking, and I can’t stop.

Her shoulders are bare. The halter neckline exposes more of her back than I am prepared for, the line of it clean and uninterrupted, drawing attention upward, then back again. The structure of the dress follows her without clinging, aware of her form without constraining it.

All of it just compliments and exposes her in a way that is… distracting. I do not use that word lightly. I’m not sure I’ve ever stared at a garment for so long besides in oil paintings, and I’m not entirely sure I ever will again.

Her hair is perhaps the most difficult thing to ignore. It does not behave in the controlled way most people attempt to impose upon it. It exists as it wishes, dark and full, curls forming their own structure rather than adhering to any imposed design. The light catches in it unevenly, giving depth where there would otherwise be shadow.

Her eyes follow the movement of the crowd, observant, alert, alive with something that has only grown stronger since the moment she arrived in the valley.

I have seen beauty before. That is not what unsettles me. It is that I recognize it in her without effort.

I look away. Then immediately back again.

She finds me. Of course she does. If she wasn’t a human, I would think she’s some beautiful ghost designed to torment me for the rest of my days.

“You came.” Her voice carries something light, something satisfied, as though my presence confirms an expectation rather than challenges it.

“I said that I might.” It is a measured response, a tone that I have practiced too many times. A careful one.

I try to make up some conversation about the shielding spell, but I’m not as concerned as I should be. I’m just trying to do anything but look at her form, her face, her eyes, even her hair.

She studies me, and I am aware, acutely, of the way she shifts her weight, the slight angle of her posture, the way her attention settles fully rather than dividing itself as most do in social settings.

“Do you want to dance?”

I do not answer immediately.

The image forms before I can stop it. The proximity. The contact. I can barely even fathom touching her hand, let alone any other kind of place I might have to touch. It's a complete impossibility of maintaining any degree of detachment.

No.

“No.”

The word is too quick. Too sharp. I want to wince, but her face stops me.

I see the reaction.

She does not withdraw immediately, but something in her expression recalibrates, adjusts itself around the answer.

“That’s fine.”

It is not fine. I should have softened my words. Better yet, perhaps I should have taken her hand and led her out of the shadows and into the light. But I can’t. Some strange illness takes over my body, one where I cannot move my feet but I also cannot close my eyes. I watch her go, my face burning as I still watch that silk slinkily cling to her body, the way water so easily meets and continually brushes over smooth land.

I remain there. That is by far my biggest mistake.

I tell myself I am observing. That her integration into a dense social environment provides necessary data. That proximity to multiple individuals will reveal fluctuations in magical visibility that cannot be measured in isolation.

All of this is true, but none of it is the reason I stay.

She speaks to others.

I recognize them. Predictable types. Familiar behaviors. Patterns I have observed for decades.

And yet, she narrows her attention.

To him. Elliott.

I am aware of him as an entity before I consider him as a person. His presence is structured, deliberate, less reactive than the others. He speaks with intention, not impulse. At the very least, he doesn’t stumble around her like the other ones do, and he keeps his eye contact polite and not encroaching any boundaries.

She responds. I do not like that. I do not examine why because I cannot understand why.

Their conversation continues longer than it should. Longer than is necessary. Long enough that it begins to feel intentional. Is she trying to bother me? Or am I just bothered?

When they dance, I do not look away.

I tell myself it is simply for observation. It is not.

She moves easily with him. Not perfectly, but naturally. I watch him touch her so easily, the way he doesn’t seem to fold in on himself just for being so close. I’m envious that he holds so much composure that I can’t ever seem to hold on to.

When she laughs, I feel it.

And then, she looks at me.

The first time is brief. The second is not.

She holds my gaze.

There is something in it I cannot immediately categorize.

Something that feels directed.

Then she turns back to him.

And that, that is where I make my next mistake.

When the dance ends, I move toward her. Not just because of him. Not just because of the dance. But because I have waited long enough at the margins of her attention.

“We need to go.”

Her gaze shifts immediately. To me. Always to me. If it weren’t for the look of obvious irritation on her face, my heart would have leapt out of my chest entirely.

“Now?” She’s angry.

“Yes.”

Elliott remains beside her.

I acknowledge him. Only as much as is necessary.

He steps back. Gracefully. I do not consider what that means, because I don’t even want to consider him as a part of this strange equation tonight.

The walk back is… even more inefficient.

“You could have just said you didn’t want to dance.” Her voice is sharper now, but not uncontrolled. Frustration, not anger.

“I did.”

That is accurate.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Of course it is not.

“You said no, and then you stood there and watched me the entire time.”

Watched.

The word feels differently than it should. I feel all at once that maybe I had overstepped my boundaries, that I wasn’t being as careful about her feelings as I should have. But I’m selfish, and I can’t let her know that.

“I was observing.”

She laughs at me, but it doesn’t feel playful this time. It hurts. It adds to my guilt, to my torment.

“You can’t say no to dancing and then just stand there and watch me do it anyway.”

I can. I did.

But that is not what she is saying. And I do not understand that fast enough.

“It’s about the fact that you made it look like we were there together.”

I was. That was my intention, did she not realize that? And if she didn’t realize that, maybe this was a bigger mistake than I thought. I didn’t want her to feel like I was trying to mark her, and by doing so, keeping her away from the rest of the townspeople. I never wanted her to feel like I was trying to isolate her, make her feel less than.

“I was there because of you.”

That is the truth.

Not the one she means.

“Not like that.”

I attempt to correct, but I fail.

“And then you show up right after the dance ends and tell me we have to leave. In front of him.”

Him.

Elliott.

“Yes.”

“What about him?”

I hesitate.

That is my second mistake.

“He is… an unusual choice.” I mean it analytically and comparatively.

She hears something else. She isn’t wrong in thinking that, either.

“For selecting him.”

Selecting. The word is hers. But it is the one that remains.

Selecting him.

“You’re judging.”

“I am observing.”

I am not. Well I am, but it’s not just that. There’s too many emotions, things I didn’t know I could feel, attached to it to be just that.

“He does not possess the qualities I would expect you to prioritize.”

I do not know what those qualities are. But I know he does not have them.

“And what qualities would those be?”

I do not answer. Because I cannot. Because the answer is not for her and not for anyone else. Because the answer is irrelevant, inappropriate, and too revealing for a sad old man.

The rest deteriorates.

By the time we reach the tower, the damage is already done.

The spell is easier.

Magic is always easier than this.

“We will need to suspend further observation sessions.”

This is necessary.

Logical.

“So… you don’t want to see me anymore.”

That is not what I said. But it is what she hears.

“It would be safer if we did not.”

That is the truth.

“Not because I asked you to the Flower Dance.”

I do not understand this. I still do not.

I understand later. Much later. Much too late.

She leaves.

And for a moment… I considered stopping her. I call her name, but that isn’t a true attempt. That is my final mistake.

When I look outside, she is still there.

She has not gone far.

And she is crying. Quietly. If I hadn’t stuck my head out my window, I wouldn’t have heard it at all. But it’s unmistakable.

Something in me shifts. This is not grief or loss or any kind of devastation I’ve felt in the past. This is smaller, and much much worse.

As I watch her slowly still and then get up to walk back, I start to get a knot in my stomach. I told Elliot that I would make sure she came home safely, and I’m doing just the opposite of that. I step forward, knowing that this is the last chance to make things right, and then I hear him. Another voice. Lance. Of course.

He approaches her easily. Too easily. Similar to Elliot, but with even less caution and even less manners.

“Hello, gorgeous.” My hands are shaking with rage now. I hate him.

“There’s something about you.”

There is. He notices. Of course he does. Who wouldn’t notice something about her?

I want to be there longer. I want to follow them all the way to her house. I want to see what else he will try to say to her, what she will allow and what she won’t. But I know it’s unwise. I know I have feelings for her. Some feelings that I haven’t felt in centuries, some that I have never felt before.

But if this is going to continue, I know I need to close this chapter for now. I need to detach and let go. However long that takes.

However. Long. That. Takes

However. Long. That. Takes

However.

Long.

That.

Takes.

Chapter Text

After the Flower Dance, I don’t hear from Magnus at all. Or Lance. Not a word. My interactions with the earth are nonexistent, and life goes on.

It does not stop all at once. That is the strange part.

I expect something dramatic, some clear severing, some moment where I wake up and realize that whatever had been happening to me, whatever I had been feeling beneath my skin and in the soil and in the air around me, has disappeared completely.

But it doesn’t. It fades. Slowly. Unevenly.

For the first few days, I still find myself drifting back toward the edge of my orchard in the mornings, kneeling in the dirt without thinking, pressing my hands into the soil as if something might still answer me if I am quiet enough, patient enough. I wait for that familiar pull, that strange and unnameable swell that had once risen up around me like a chorus I could almost understand.

It doesn’t come. The land does not reject me. That would be easier to accept. Instead, it simply… continues.

My crops grow at the rate Pierre told me they would. The seasons shift when they are supposed to. Rain falls when it is forecasted, not when I feel like it should. The animals wake with the sun and sleep when it sets, their needs predictable and constant in a way that leaves no room for interpretation.

There is no voice. No response.

At first, I think I have done something wrong. Then I think I have lost something. Then I stop thinking about it entirely. Because there is too much to do.

Summer arrives with a kind of force I am not prepared for, the heat settling into the valley in a way that makes everything feel slower and faster at the same time. My farm expands without me realizing how much it has changed. What had once been a small, uneven plot of land becomes something structured, something intentional.

Rows of crops stretch further than I remember planting them, watered each morning with practiced efficiency, and eventually in the fall, nurtured by the sprinklers I build with my own two hands and materials I’ve scavenged. I no longer hesitate when I move between tasks. I do not second guess where things go, or how they should be arranged.

I just… do them.

The coop comes first. The barn comes second. 

I remember standing in front of it when it was first built, the wood still fresh, the smell of it sharp and new against the older, more settled scents of the farm. It felt too large then, too ambitious for something I wasn’t sure I could maintain.

Chickens first. Then ducks. The eggs become part of my routine, something I collect without thinking, something that fits easily into the larger system of everything I am building. The ducks are messier, louder, their movements less predictable, but they add something to the space that feels… alive.

Now, it feels necessary.

The cows are the easiest. They are slow, gentle creatures, their presence grounding in a way I do not expect. There is a rhythm to caring for them, to the way they respond to routine, to the quiet satisfaction of collecting milk each morning and knowing exactly what it will become. The sheep are more particular, their wool requiring attention and timing, but I learn quickly. I always do. The pigs take longer to understand. They do not behave the way I expect them to, wandering further than I would like, rooting through the ground in search of something I cannot see. But when I begin to find truffles where they have been, small, hidden things revealed only because they knew where to look, I stop questioning them.

Chickens first. Then ducks. The eggs become part of my routine, something I collect without thinking, something that fits easily into the larger system of everything I am building. The ducks are messier, louder, their movements less predictable, but they add something to the space that feels… alive.

By the time fall arrives, my farm no longer feels like something I am trying to prove I can handle. It feels like something I belong to. Half the festivals that happen during those seasons, I forget and work through them, despite my friends pleas the days before. 

The Community Center becomes my anchor. At first, it is just a curiosity, a place I visit because I have been told to, because there is something there that needs to be done. The Junimos, strange and fleeting as they are, become less unsettling the more I interact with them. Their presence shifts from something unknown to something expected, something I begin to look for rather than avoid.

Each bundle completed feels small in isolation. But together, they change everything.

The Crafts Room is the first to make a difference I can see. When the bridge to the Quarry is repaired, I stand there longer than I need to, looking out over the newly accessible land, the rocks and ore scattered across it like something that had always been there, simply waiting for me to reach it. Mining becomes easier after that. More efficient.

The Boiler Room is the first difference I can see. The minecarts change everything. What had once been a long, exhausting walk between locations becomes something immediate, something that allows me to move through the valley with a speed that feels almost unnatural. I use them more than I probably should, stepping into them without thinking, letting them carry me from the farm to the mines, from the mines to town, as if distance no longer applies to me.

And the mines become something else entirely. I remember the first time I stepped into them, the uncertainty, the way every movement felt reactive rather than intentional. The monsters had startled me then, their presence unexpected, their aggression something I had not been prepared for.

That version of me does not exist anymore. Now, I descend with purpose. Each floor is a problem to solve rather than a threat to avoid. My movements are faster, more precise, my weapon no longer something I hold awkwardly but something I use with intention. I understand how they move now, how they react, how to anticipate rather than respond.

I am close to the bottom. I can feel it. Floor 120 is no longer an abstract goal. It is something I am approaching.

The Pantry changes my farm in a way I don’t fully understand at first. When the greenhouse is repaired, it feels like I have broken some kind of rule. The seasons no longer apply inside it. Crops grow regardless of what the valley decides the weather should be, the controlled environment allowing me to cultivate things I should not be able to at this time of year. It feels like cheating, but I do it anyway.

The Fish Tank is quieter in its reward, the restored space in the Community Center filling with movement and life that had once been absent. I don’t spend as much time there, but I notice it when I pass through, the subtle change in atmosphere, the way the building feels less abandoned with each completion.

The Bulletin Board surprises me the most. I don’t expect anything to come from it beyond another task. But after it is completed, something shifts in the way people speak to me. They know me now.

Not in passing, not as the new farmer who arrived unexpectedly, but as something more consistent, something present. Conversations last longer. Invitations come more easily. I am no longer observing the town from the outside. I am part of it.

I spend nights in the Saloon more often than I intend to. Not because I need to. But because I want to.

Abigail drags me into games I don’t always understand. Sam talks endlessly about music, about bands I have never heard of but somehow find myself caring about anyway. Sebastian sits nearby, saying very little but always listening, always aware.

Leah is quieter, but steady, her presence something I find myself seeking out more than I realize. Penny asks me about the farm, about what I’m growing, her curiosity gentle rather than invasive.

Even Haley softens. Slightly. That makes Alex a bit nicer to me, too. 

Emily always seems to know when I need something before I say it.

Sophia and I get a lot closer. She opens up about her parents dying before I came here, and we start to have a weekly routine of watching her favorite anime show together. 

And Lewis and Marnie still talk my ear off.

Fall passes in a blur of harvests and preparation, of gathering everything I need to finish what I started.

By the time the leaves begin to fall for the last time, I am close.

Very close. Now, it is winter.

The farm is quieter, the ground dusted with snow. The animals remain, their routines unchanged, their presence a steady constant even as everything else slows.

The greenhouse thrives. The mines wait. The town continues. And the Community Center stands almost complete.

All that remains now is the final foraging bundle and the rest of my pockets that will have to be emptied into the vault. A few scattered items and some coin. And then, it will be done.

And through all of it, there is no word from Magnus.

As if that night never happened. As if whatever existed between us… never existed at all.

I had grown to accept that by winter. I was confused in the summer, angry in the fall, and now I had reached a point of indifference. Being surrounded by friends helped, of course, even if I couldn’t explain it and I couldn’t tell them why we weren’t seeing each other anymore.

Simply put, I told them that our research had come to an end and that Magnus was back to being his mysterious self, putting me on the same back burner as he did with all the rest of the townspeople. Abigail continued and continues still to beg me to talk to him for her, but I wince and tell her that he won’t talk to me even if I tried. 

But I haven’t tried, and I won’t try.

Maybe it was because my pride was still hurt, or maybe because it was still present, I don’t know. But if Magnus wanted space, if that was truly for the best, then that must be true to some extent. I wasn’t going to chase after him. Besides, I didn’t even know him for an entire season. 

 Still, though, I kept up with grandpa’s journals. It was like we were going through our exploration of the valley together, in a way but fifty years apart. His adventures had slowed down, like mine, but it was a comfort still. 

And somewhere in the middle, I was beginning to find peace in the mundane. My small encounters with magic, besides my deal with the Junimos, was behind me. And I had made peace with that. 

The Community Center greets me differently this time. Not cleaner. Not brighter. Still overgrown, still sagging at the edges like it’s been holding its breath for too long and forgot how to release it. 

But it feels… aware.

Not in the unsettling way it did before, when everything felt like it was watching me without context. This is something else. Quieter. Anticipatory. Like it knows I’ve come back with purpose this time.The night before, I finally finished the vault room, which left more than just a dent in my pocket, but I hadn’t felt any change beside the room getting cleaned up and renovated, thanks to the work of the Junimos. But I feel something different as soon as I push the door open. It doesn’t creak as loudly as before.

That shouldn’t mean anything. Wood shifts. Hinges settle. Temperature changes. There are explanations for things like that. Still, I notice it.

The air inside is warmer than it has any right to be. Not stifling, just… held. Like the space has been keeping something contained and is now waiting to release it. 

The Junimos are there immediately. Not hiding this time. Not flickering in and out of the edges of my vision like something I’m not meant to fully perceive. They gather.

Small bodies and colors that don’t feel accidental—greens, oranges, blues—each one distinct in a way I still don’t fully understand but somehow recognize anyway. They chirp.

And this time, I understand them. Over time, I’ve been able to glean more and more from their words. But it’s different now. Junimo language is not like the language I’ve learned. Not like translating words into meaning. It just… arrives. Warm. Simple. Direct.

You came back.

I swallow.

“Yeah,” I say, quieter than I expected. “I said I would.”

They shift, little movements that feel like excitement without being overwhelming. One of them, green, I think, steps forward slightly.

You bring the last”

My hand tightens around the small purple petals still clutched between my fingers.

The crocus.

I glance down at it. It looks ordinary. Of course it does. A small winter flower, delicate, slightly wilted at the edges from the cold. Linus had handed it to me earlier with that quiet, knowing look of his, like he understood more about what I was doing than I ever actually said out loud.

“Found it near the mountain lake,” he’d said. “Thought you might need it.”

I hadn’t questioned it. Maybe I should have.

I lift the flower slightly. “This is it?”

The Junimos hum. A quiet, collective sound.

Yes.

Of course it is. Of course something this small would be the thing that finishes it.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Okay,” I murmur. “Then let’s… finish this.”

The Crafts Room is quieter than the others. Not empty. Never empty. But calmer. Like the work here has been slower, more deliberate. The plaque sits where it always has, embedded into the floor, symbols that no longer feel entirely foreign even if I still couldn’t explain them if someone asked.

I step forward. My boots echo faintly against the wood, though the sound seems to dull before it can fully carry. I kneel.

The crocus rests in my palm for a second longer than necessary. There’s a strange hesitation there. Not doubt. Not fear. Just awareness. Of everything this has taken to get here.

Of everything that’s changed since I first walked into this building thinking I was losing my mind.

“Alright,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “No turning back, I guess.”

I set the crocus down.

For a moment, nothing happens. And then the room exhales.

Not wind. Not sound. Something deeper.

I realize then, that something has shifted in me. Something that’s been blocking my communication with the valley. 

The shield has dropped. Whether it was from me, or far-away Magnus, I have no idea. But I can speak again. And that, in turn, allows me to listen. 

The plaque glows, faintly at first, then brighter, the symbols shifting in a way that makes my head tilt slightly like I’m trying to follow something just out of sync with my vision.

The Junimos move all at once.  They gather around the plaque, small hands lifting, voices rising, not loud, but layered, like multiple notes stacking into something that feels bigger than the sound itself.

The building responds. That’s the only way I can describe it. The walls don’t move, but something within them does. The vines that had crept along the edges seem to pull back, not disappearing, just… retreating, like they’re making space.

The air shifts and I push myself back onto my feet slowly, watching as the glow expands outward, threading through the cracks in the floor, the beams above, the broken remnants of what this place used to be. Or maybe what it still is.

The final bundle. Complete.

The Junimos turn toward me.

All of them.

For a second, I just stand there, caught in the center of it, unsure what I’m supposed to do with that kind of attention.

And then—

Thank you.

My chest tightens slightly.

“Yeah,” I say, voice quieter now. “You’re welcome.”

One of them steps closer. The same green one, I think.

It tilts its head.

We fix now.

I blink. “Fix—?”

The room brightens, gradually, like a quiet spring morning. 

The warped floorboards settle, straightening as if they remember what they used to be. The walls lose that heavy, sagging look, color returning in faint but undeniable strokes.

I turn slowly, taking it in. The fireplace. The beams. The air itself.

Everything is… coming back.

“Oh,” I breathe.

That’s not something you can explain away.

The Junimos begin to fade. Not vanish. Not like before. This is different.

Tomorrow.

I look back toward them. “Tomorrow?”

“You will see”.

And then they’re gone. They even take their little hut with them, just a chair and a rug to replace them.  The silence that follows is not the same silence that was here before. This one is… full. I stand there longer than I mean to.

Just looking. Just… existing in it. Eventually, I let out a slow breath and run a hand through my hair, glancing toward the door.

“It’s probably really late,” I mutter.

No response this time. Just the faint hum of something settled.

I step outside. The night air hits differently. Cooler. Sharper. Grounded in a way that pulls me back into myself after everything that just happened.

The valley is quiet. Not empty. Never empty.

But still.

I glance back once.

The Community Center stands behind me.

As I feel my feet on the ground, I can feel the dirt beneath it shift like it did all those seasons ago. It feels like I’ve come home in more ways than one. 

I don’t realize I’m smiling until I turn away.

Winter 3, 1975

Well, that just about does it. It’s been two and a half seasons since I started a daily search for the beautiful woman in the woods. I’ve stopped looking for her and have officially diagnosed myself with insanity. Maybe I’ll never see her again, but just to gaze upon her beauty for a moment, is the only gift I will ever need in this life. To see her smile and to hear her laugh, maybe it is enough. Still, maybe I’ll get a tattoo of her just so that image never frays in the margins of my mind. I don’t believe I could ever forget her, nor have her anywhere but a few thoughts away, but still, my mind wanders to reckless places.

Chapter Text

The next morning feels wrong. Not in a bad way. Just off. The light is brighter than usual when it slips through my window. Not harsh. Just… clearer. Like something in the air has shifted overnight.

I sit up slowly, still half-expecting to feel that same strange pull from yesterday.

Instead, I just feel…normal. Which somehow feels stranger.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, rubbing sleep from my eyes before standing and stretching, joints popping in a way that feels reassuringly human.

“Okay,” I mumble. “Good. Grounded. Normal. We like that.”

Then I hear it. Not from the valley or the land or any of my animals. Voices. Distant and more than usual. I frown slightly, stepping toward the window. I don’t see anything, but that probably doesn’t help since I’m at my farm. I thought in my half-asleep state that maybe it was the valley.

Oh shit. The Community Center.

“…Oh,” I say, a slow realization settling in.

Right. Tomorrow.

I let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Of course they didn’t explain that part.”

I don’t rush. I should, probably. But something in me wants to take a second. To sit in this moment before everything shifts again. Because it will. It always does.

Still, I grab my jacket, run a hand through my hair, and head for the door.

The valley is already awake. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like it’s waiting for me.

I’m greeted like a hero when I arrive at the Community Center.

Not in a subtle way, either.

The moment I step through the doors, it’s like the entire building inhales and then everyone descends at once. Hands on my shoulders, my arms, my back. Someone presses a drink into my hand before I can even register who it is. Lewis is already halfway through a speech by the time I realize I’ve been pulled toward the center of the room.

The whole day feels like it’s happening slightly out of sync with me.

Voices overlap. Laughter echoes too loudly against walls that, just yesterday, could barely hold themselves upright. The floors don’t creak anymore. The air doesn’t feel heavy. Everything is open. Bright. Restored in a way that makes it hard to believe I ever saw it any other way.

Lewis hands me a trophy at some point. I don’t remember what he says. Maybe something about dedication? No, I think it’s about community. He definitely talked about my grandfather in there somewhere, too.

I nod when I’m supposed to. Smile when it’s expected. Let people hug me, let them thank me, let them act like I did something far bigger than placing a few items on a plaque and hoping for the best.

Pierre and Morris get into a fistfight at some point. I don’t even question it. Someone cheers. Someone else tries to pull them apart. Abigail is laughing so hard she nearly spills her drink. Shane mutters something about “finally” under his breath. It all folds into the same blur of noise and movement and warmth.

Pam even tells me, after splashing me with a bit of pale ale, that the bus got fixed and she’s starting her job again starting tomorrow. And that she would put the drinks down at least during the day now, too. Emily cheers loudly at this, even though she’s across the room, announcing to everyone that we all have to come up to the desert and meet her friend Sandy. Whatever that means. The drinks start getting to my head and make the rest of the day even more of a blur.

It feels like a festival. Like something the valley has been waiting for.

And for a while, I let myself be part of it. By the time it’s over, the silence feels earned.

It doesn’t crash down. It settles. People trickle out slowly, reluctant in the way you are when you know something good has ended but don’t want to be the first to acknowledge it. Chairs scrape softly against the floor. Doors open and close in uneven intervals. Voices fade into the night outside, carried off into smaller, quieter conversations.

Until it’s just me, the building, and a plastic cup of beer that’s gone warm in my hand (and a wide-eyed Abigail wandering around somewhere). I lean back against one of the newly restored tables, staring out across the room.

It’s… beautiful. Not in a grand way. Not polished or perfect. But whole. And I don’t think my heart has ever felt so full. It’s a far cry from where I was when I started. Just a few seasons ago, standing in this same building thinking I had finally lost whatever fragile grip I had left on reality.

Even farther from Zuzu City. From fluorescent lights. From inboxes. From a life that felt like it had already decided what I was before I had the chance to object.

Here, I did something. Something that mattered. I exhale slowly, letting that settle into me.

And still, my grip tightens slightly around the cup. Because even with all of this…

I think of him.

Yoba, will it ever end?

Abigail is the last to leave. She always is. It’s something I’m learning is my favorite thing about her. She lingers in the doorway like she’s considering staying all night, grinning at me like she knows something I don’t.

“You’re kind of a big deal now, you know,” she says, arms crossed loosely.

“Don’t start,” I groan, but I’m smiling.

She steps forward anyway, quick and unapologetic, planting a kiss on my cheek before I can dodge it.

“Too late,” she says brightly.

I shove her lightly toward the door. “Go home.”

She laughs, already halfway out. “Don’t stay up all night being mysterious!”

The door shuts behind her.

And just like that, it’s quiet again. Late. Maybe an hour before midnight. The kind of quiet that feels deeper because of everything that came before it.

I stare down into my drink, tilting it slightly, watching the thin film on the surface shift. It wobbles unevenly, catching the light from the overhead lanterns in a way that makes it look almost metallic. The last of the foam clings stubbornly to the edges of the cup, leaving behind a faint ring where it’s settled.

I tip the cup back and chug the rest, letting myself lean back as I let the alcohol calm my buzzing brain. Then I get up and walk over to Gus’ keg, who graciously announced that I would be the sole owner of it for the day. I fill the rest of my cup and continue to lean back on the table.

I hear it then.

The humming from the building. It’s subtle and easy to miss if I wasn’t already standing still, already paying attention to the quiet in a way I wasn’t earlier. But it’s there.

I frown slightly, lifting my head, letting my gaze drift across the room. Everything looks the same.

The restored wood. The clean lines of the tables. The faint glow of the lanterns now that the sun has fully disappeared. The shadows stretch longer now, pooling in the corners, settling into spaces that feel less abandoned and more… intentional.

My fingers tighten slightly around the cup.

Because the feeling is familiar. I set the drink down slowly on the table behind me.

The wood is smooth beneath my fingertips as I let go, the faint warmth of the room still lingering in the grain.

The air shifts. A breath.

Not mine.

I don’t turn right away. Because I already know.

“Lorelai.”

His voice lands exactly where it always does. Low. Even. Certain. Like it belongs here.

I hate that his voice still does that. It’s quieter than I remember, or maybe I’ve just forgotten how close he used to stand when he spoke. It sits low in his chest, steady, like nothing ever really shakes him.

I close my eyes for half a second before I turn. That’s my first mistake.

He looks the same. Of course he does. As handsome as he always was.

Dark robes, like the seasons haven’t touched him at all. His hair falls loose around his shoulders now, not as pulled back as I remember, and it makes him look… softer. Not less controlled. Just less distant. He seems to be growing a full beard now, which is an interesting development, but it doesn’t take away from his sharp cheekbones and defined jaw. His eyes are still that same dark and captivating presence as always, and I can’t help but be drawn in.

I hate that I notice these things.

He stands near the far end of the room, just past the threshold of the Crafts Room, where the shadows gather a little thicker than the rest of the building. He doesn’t step out of them fully, but he isn’t hidden either. The lantern light catches on the edges of him, outlining the dark fall of his robes, the loose strands of his hair resting against his shoulders.

“You’ve got great timing,” I say, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. “You missed the entire celebration.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze moves across the room first.

Slowly. Taking it in.

The repaired structure. The absence of damage. The quiet, settled presence that has replaced what used to be decay and overgrowth.

Then his attention returns to me.

“I am aware.”

Of course he is.

I let out a short breath through my nose, shaking my head slightly as I push myself off the table, straightening fully.

“Right. Of course you are.” I gesture vaguely around us. “Because why would you actually show up when people are, I don’t know, thanking me for figuring all this shit out by myself?”

His expression doesn’t change much.

But I see it. That slight tightening around his eyes. It was like a code I was beginning to put together but I never got to see it complete.

“You did not require my presence for that.”

I laugh sharply.

“That’s not the point.”

Silence settles between us again, but this time it’s not quiet in the same way as before. It feels… reactive. Like the building is listening to the tension in the room.

“I completed it,” I say after a moment, my voice quieter now, though the edge is still there. “The last bundle. Everything. It’s done.”

“I can see that.” He doesn’t sound impressed or surprised. He just says it with some kind of certainty.

It irritates me more than it should.

“Good,” I say quickly, looking back down at my drink. “Great. Glad you could confirm.”

“The shield has lifted.”

My stomach drops slightly. There it is. Of course, that’s what he notices.

“Yeah,” I say, folding my arms without thinking. “I figured that out.”

His gaze sharpens just slightly, his attention narrowing in a way that feels more focused now, less observational and more engaged.

“You felt it.”

“Kind of hard not to,” I reply, gesturing loosely to the space around me. “Everything’s louder again. Not literally.” I groan, dragging a hand through my hair. “You know what I mean.”

He steps deliberately forward then. Each step measured, controlled, closing the distance between us in a way that makes me suddenly very aware of how empty the room is now.

How quiet. How alone we are.

“You are no longer contained,” he says, his voice lower now, more precise. “Which means you are no longer shielded.”

I tilt my head slightly, watching him approach.

“From what?” I feel a mocking smile spread across my face. My drunkenness has made me bold.

A pause.

He stops a few feet away from me.

“Everything.”

That should probably scare me, but it doesn’t. Instead, I feel my nerves get stronger.

“Convenient,” I say, my voice quieter now, but not kinder. “You disappear for two seasons, and then the second something you deem important changes, you show up to check on it.” I raise my hands to the scene around me. “There’s been a lot more change than just the shield dropping. But of course, you wouldn’t care about that.” His jaw barely tightens.

“That is not why I am here.”

“Well, then why are you here?” I ask, stepping forward this time, closing the distance he left between us without really thinking about it. “You’re not here to admire the work I’ve done, not here to congratulate me and you’re definitely not here to apologize, so what is it?”

Now we’re close. Closer than we’ve ever stood without something else happening around us. Without magic. Without chaos. Without distraction. Just this.

“You don’t get to just—leave,” I continue, quieter now, the anger still there but less sharp, more… tired. “And then come back like nothing happened.”

His gaze drops lower, taking me in in a way that feels different from before. Slower and more deliberate.

“I did not leave without reason.”

“Then what was it?” I press.

A pause. Longer this time.

He looks at me again.

And for a moment, I can almost hear him say it. I can see it. Right there.

“It was necessary.”

Of course that’s what he says.

I let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking my head as I look away from him, my hand coming up to rub at my temple.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I am aware.”

That almost makes me laugh again. Almost.

Silence stretches again, but it feels different now. Thinner. More fragile.

“I thought you didn’t want to see me anymore,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. They crack and fall awkwardly. The second they’re out, I regret it. Because now it’s there. Between us.

He stills completely. “That was not my intention.”

“Really?” I ask, looking back at him, my voice quieter now, less defensive, more honest than I mean it to be. “Because that’s kind of what it felt like.”

Another pause. He steps closer. This time, I don’t move.

The air between us shifts again, something subtle but undeniable, like the space itself is tightening, narrowing, focusing in on just the two of us.

“I did not trust myself,” he says.

“What does that even mean?” I ask, more hushed now.

His gaze holds mine. I suddenly feel much too close for comfort. His face, his body, all just seconds away from touching mine.

“It means,” he says slowly, “that your presence introduces variables I did not account for.”

That is the most Magnus answer he could have given. And somehow, it still makes my chest tighten. I let out a small breath, shaking my head slightly, though there’s no real frustration behind it this time.

“You’re such a weirdo,” I mutter.

“I have been told that before.”

I look at him then. Really look at him. At how close he’s standing now. At the way his shoulders are just slightly tense, like he’s holding himself in place. At the way his gaze hasn’t left mine.

“You could’ve said something,” I say again, quieter this time.

“I am saying something now.”

I swallow slightly, suddenly very aware of how quiet the room is, how close we are, how the air feels thicker than it should.

“You’re still late,” I say, softer now, but there’s something else in it.

Not anger. Not entirely.

“I am aware,” he repeats.

And then, even quieter, he says, “I came as soon as I realized the barrier had fallen.”

I hesitate. Something about that, about the way he says it. Like he had been watching and waiting. It shifts something in me.

“Yeah?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper now.

His gaze flickers. Just slightly. “Yes.”

The silence that follows is not empty. It hums.

He continues. “I came as soon as it happened. I was outside the Community Center last night. I watched you take it all in. You looked so much more… alive. I didn’t want to barge in and take that away from you. I came the next morning to your farm. I watched you step outside and hurry back into Pelican Town. I wanted to say something then, too, but I didn’t want—” He takes a breath in now, clearly annoyed at himself for some reason. “I wanted you to feel that sense of accomplishment you deserved. I knew if I was present, it just would have taken it away from you.”

I don’t miss a beat. “But you’re here now.”

“Yes. I am.”

But I have to put my foot down. I lean back, breaking the spell between us. I watch him blink, as if he feels the tension start to come down, too. I have to say something.

“Look, if all you’re here for is because of some stupid shield, then just put it back on me and be done with it. In fact, I don’t see why you, the great and powerful wizard, can’t just do it away from me. If you don’t have to see me, can’t you just do it from far away?” I look down at my drink again, wondering if it would be inappropriate to chug the rest of it in front of him. “I don’t want you to come back again just to leave.”

“I can’t put a shield on you from far away, Lorelai,” He murmurs, the lowest his voice has ever sounded. The sound echoes in my ribs and tightens my fast-beating chest. His eyes won’t leave my face, even if I’m looking away from him.

“So, that’s all this is about?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer right away. He never does when it matters. Instead, he just looks at me, really looks this time, and I feel it before I can stop myself.

It’s not just that he’s staring. It’s the way he does it. Like he’s trying to understand something he’s not supposed to want. His eyes are darker in this light, almost impossible to read, but they don’t move. Not even when I shift. Not even when I try to look away.

I force myself to hold his gaze. I refuse to let him see a reaction.

He shakes his head.

“Then what is it?” I beg.

He sighs. I can tell he’s breaking at the seams. It's enough to make me think maybe he has his own sort of magical protection against him from talking about this any further.

I think that I’ve pushed him to his limits, that he’ll shut down at any moment and start giving me more Magnus answers. But then he finally responds.

“I can’t do that because I have to see you, Lorelai. You’re the first person in a very long time who I’ve allowed myself to spend this much time with. It—-” He stops. The word catches in his throat like it’s not supposed to exist there.

I don’t look up right away. Because if I do, I think I’ll lose whatever control I have left.

“It what?” I press, quieter now.

There’s a shift in him. This time I really see it.

His shoulders tighten like he’s bracing himself. His hand lifts an inch at his side, like he’s about to gesture, and then stops, fingers curling back in on themselves.

“It’s changed things,” he says finally.

He sounds different. Not just quieter, but closer. I don’t remember when he stepped forward, but he must have, because I can see more of him now. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his full lips tighten like he’s choosing every word before it leaves him.

I didn’t realize how young he looks when he does that. It makes him look almost less untouchable in a way.

“Changed what?” I ask.

His gaze flickers away for a moment, not out of avoidance, but like he’s searching for something he doesn’t quite have language for. When he looks back at me, there’s something more open in his expression now. Less guarded. Less certain.

“My expectations,” he says, more quietly this time. “My… routines.”

I huff out a small breath, shaking my head slightly. “You sound like I ruined your schedule,” I mutter.

A faint, almost disbelieving exhale leaves him, something just short of a laugh.

“That is not what I meant,” he tells me.

“Then what did you mean?” I ask, and there’s less fight in it now. More… need.

He hesitates again. But this time, he doesn’t retreat from it.

“It means I noticed when you were gone,” he says.

The words mean more to me than they should. I wasn’t expecting him to say anything like that. And I definitely wasn’t expecting him to look at me like that while he said it. The way his eyes almost look like he’s begging me to stay. There’s something in his expression I don’t recognize. Like he’s not sure what I’m going to do with what he’s giving me.

“It means I expected to see you,” he continues, his voice steady but quieter now, like he’s aware of how much weight each word carries. “More than I should have.”

My heart flutters. I can’t even try to stop it.

“And when I didn’t,” he adds, his jaw tightening slightly, like he’s forcing himself to keep going, “it was… difficult to ignore.”

I stare at him. That’s not clinical. That’s not distant. That’s real. He sounds like a completely different Magnus than the one who left me crying on his doorstep.

“It means,” he says, and this time his voice drops just a fraction, something more grounded, more certain beneath it, “that I value the time we spent together.”

I swallow something hard down my throat, but he doesn’t look away.

“And I did not anticipate that,” he finishes, quieter now, like that part is meant more for himself than for me.

And even though I don’t want to, I offer him a small smile in exchange for his truth. He doesn’t deserve it, I know, but I need it more than him.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I say, though my voice is gentler now, the edge now completely gone.

He exhales, a faint shake of his head following it.

“It was,” he confesses honestly.

That almost makes me smile.

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” I admit, my voice smaller than I mean it to be.

This time, his expression changes more noticeably. Not dramatically. But enough.

“I was always going to come back,” he says.

“When?” I ask.

A pause. His gaze dips, just slightly, like he’s choosing how much to give me.

“When I was certain I could,” he says.

“That’s not an answer,” I point out.

“No,” he agrees.

I wait. He looks back at me.

“It was not safe for you before,” he says, more firmly now. “And it was not… wise for me.”

I narrow my eyes slightly. “What does that mean?”

He hesitates again. And for a moment, I think he won’t answer.

“It means I did not trust myself to keep my distance,” he says.

My breath catches. That’s a new development from him. I stare at him, really stare this time, trying to understand what he’s actually saying and what he isn’t.

“You’re really bad at this,” I murmur.

He huffs out the smallest breath at that, barely there, but I see it. It shifts something in his face, just enough that I can almost imagine him smiling if he let himself. I forget, sometimes, that he’s capable of that. That he’s not just stone, but there actually is something underneath all of it.

“At what?” he asks.

“This,” I gesture faintly between us. “Talking like a normal person.”

“I am attempting to,” he says dryly, clearly amused at something in this situation that has yet to actually become comical to me.

“You’re failing,” I reply.

“I am aware.”

This time, I do smile. It’s small, but it’s there. I see Magnus visibly soften himself when he sees it on my face.

The air between us shifts again.

“So what are you saying?” I ask, my voice barely above a hushed murmur.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. “I am saying that you are not… inconsequential to me,” he says.

I tilt my head slightly. “That’s still not great,” I say. I need more from him. I need to hear that there’s something here I should stay for.

A flicker of something passes across his face. “I am saying,” he corrects, more firmly now, his gaze steady on mine, “that I care what happens to you.”

“And I care,” he continues, slower now, like each word is being placed deliberately, “whether or not you are… present.”

My stomach does another flip.

“And I did not intend to make you believe otherwise,” he finishes.

The silence stretches, but I don’t look away from him.

“Okay,” I say finally, warmer now. “Just don’t disappear again.”

The words leave me softer than I intend, quieter than anything I’ve said to him tonight. There’s no edge left in them, no frustration to hide behind. Just something honest, something I didn’t mean to say out loud.

He doesn’t respond right away. He just looks at me, his expression unreadable in that way I’ve come to expect, but not empty. There’s something moving underneath it, something slower and harder to define. And for a moment, I stand there, waiting for him to give me one of his careful, measured answers.

But he doesn’t.

And before I can think better of it, before I can talk myself out of it or decide that this is a terrible idea, I step forward and wrap my arms around him.

It happens quickly, almost clumsily. One second there’s space between us, and the next there isn’t. The fabric of his robes is cool beneath my hands, heavier than I expect as I pull him in, my arms settling around him like it’s something I’ve done a hundred times instead of something I’ve never done before.

The second I do it, I realize what I’ve just done. The realization hits me when I feel the hardness of his body, not slender like I always expect out of him, but muscles beneath the fabric that lays in between the two of us.

And then I go completely still. I can feel him freeze too. Not in a dramatic way, not like he’s startled enough to pull away, but in that controlled, deliberate way he does everything. His body goes rigid for just a moment, like the action has interrupted something he didn’t prepare for, like he’s trying to decide what this means before he decides how to respond to it. His hands remain at his sides at first, unmoving, as though he’s unsure whether he’s meant to return the gesture at all.

For a brief, uncomfortable second, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. Then he exhales.

It’s subtle, but I feel it, the shift of his chest beneath the layers of his robes, the tension easing just slightly as he lets the breath go. His hands lift slowly after that, not with certainty, but with care. He doesn’t pull me closer the way I did to him. Instead, he places one hand against my back, just below my shoulder blade, light enough that I could step away if I wanted to. The other follows a moment later, settling lower, steady but restrained, like he’s still deciding how much of this he’s allowed.

It isn’t a tight embrace. But it isn’t nothing. And that matters more than I expect it to. I don’t pull away right away. I can feel the tension still lingering in him, the way he’s holding himself carefully, aware of every point of contact between us. But he doesn’t let go, and after a second, neither do I. My grip tightens just slightly without me meaning to, my face brushing against his shoulder for a moment as I steady myself.

“You’re… very direct,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” I mumble, my voice a little muffled where I’m still half pressed into him. “I’ve been told that.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, and for a moment we just stand there, the quiet of the Community Center settling around us again, but different this time. Not empty. Not tense. Just still.

Eventually, the awareness creeps back in. How long I’ve been standing here. How close we are. What this actually looks like. I feel a hand on my head, softly brushing it. He does it for longer than I anticipate. Maybe he would have continued on for longer if I didn’t eventually break away.

I pull back a little too quickly, my hands dropping from him as if I’ve just remembered something important I was supposed to be doing instead.

“Sorry,” I say, the word coming out before I can stop it. “I didn’t– I mean, I just–”

I trail off, not entirely sure how to finish that sentence.

He doesn’t move away. That’s the first thing I notice.

He stays where he is, his hands lowering more slowly than mine did, like he’s not in as much of a rush to create distance again. When I look at him, really look at him, something about his expression has shifted. It isn’t as closed off as it was before, not as carefully composed.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he says.

His face is red. I notice it instantly. Mine is, too, but that’s common around him. I try to brush aside any questions I might have, trying to ignore the idea that he might be feeling just as flustered as I am.

But he hesitates again, and his eyes clouding. “But I can’t promise you I won’t disappear again.”

“Oh.” That's all I can say to him.

“The nature of my work and research can make it hard. I can’t always be in my tower.”

I keep watching him, hoping that my gaze is enough to hold him.

“But I can promise you that I will never let another season go by without seeing you,” Magnus adds in a low voice. “I know it was much more than just one season since I saw you last, but I… I never want to go an entire season without hearing you laugh.”

I smile at that. It feels almost romantic, but I won’t allow myself to think that, even with all the progress we’ve made tonight.

“So,” I start, feeling more confident as I continue. “Can we be friends again? Colleagues at least?”

He gives me a smile. A real and genuine one from him. I can actually see his teeth. “No, not colleagues. Let’s be friends.”

And even though I thought today was going to be the end of an adventure, really, it was the start of a whole new one.

“Okay then,” I agree, sticking out my hand. “Friends.”

He takes my hand kindly, his face softer than I’ve ever seen it. My heart, too, feels softer than I’ve ever felt it. The Community Center was complete, but Magnus and I were beginning again. Not resuming where we were, but starting a new chapter. And that was more exciting than anything.

Winter 4, 1975

Yoba, I got so drunk last night that I did the one thing I thought I would never do… I actually made friends with that Lewis character. Turns out, when you ply him with a couple of beers and get him around some smoke, he can actually loosen out quite a bit. He’s the son of the mayor, you see, so it’s probably a weird position for a young man to be in. We drank so much that we started talking about campaigning him for manager when his daddy eventually retires! I know it’s a crazy dream, but I think we could make a lot of changes around here if we had a good friend running this little town. Maybe we could even build a center. We don’t have a townhall, we just have occasional meetings on the town square and we all bring out our little rinky-dink chairs. But maybe we could do something more personal than a townhall, where everyone in the community could enjoy each other’s company and their work. I don’t know, maybe being so hung up on a beautiful mirage I saw once in the woods is making me go crazy in more ways than one. The farm’s coming along, despite it being winter. Roger offered to help build me a greenhouse this season, so maybe next season I won’t have to rely so much on fishing. Well, a boy can dream.

Chapter Text

And just like that, Magnus is back in my life. 

The next three days pass in a way that feels almost impossible to separate into hours. I stop thinking in terms of morning and night and start thinking in terms of floors. In terms of how far we have left to go. In terms of how long my body can keep moving before it forces me to stop.

Magnus returns the morning after the Community Center like nothing ever happened. No mention of the silence between us, no careful revisiting of the things we said. Just a quiet, steady presence at the edge of my farm and a single statement that we are finishing the mines.

And we do.

The deeper levels feel different from the moment we step into them. The air grows heavier the further we descend, thick with something that presses against my skin, something that makes every sound feel closer, sharper. The monsters are worse here. Faster. Less predictable. But I’m not the same as I was when I first set foot in those caves.

And neither is he.

Magnus doesn’t fight the way I do. There’s no urgency in him, no wasted movement. His magic unfolds exactly where it needs to, precise and controlled, like he already knows how everything is going to move before it happens. But he doesn’t leave me behind. He never steps in too early, never takes over. He lets me push forward, lets me figure it out, and only intervenes when something actually matters.

It doesn’t feel like being watched. It feels like being trusted.

Somewhere between floor ninety and one hundred, we stop talking about what we’re doing entirely. We fall into a rhythm that feels… easy. I move, he follows. He moves, I adjust. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing, just the quiet understanding that we are doing this together.

We stay longer than we should. Every day.

Long enough that when we finally surface, the sky feels too bright, the air too open. I go back to the farm just long enough to tend to what I can’t ignore, to water what needs watering, to make sure everything above ground hasn’t fallen apart while I’ve been underground.

Then he’s there again.

Or I am. And we go back down.

By the time we reach the final floor, everything feels… still. Like the mine itself knows there’s nowhere left to go.

Floor one hundred and twenty doesn’t greet us with a fight. No rush of monsters. No chaos. Just a quiet chamber carved deeper than the rest, lit by something faint and steady that doesn’t flicker like the torches above.

A key is waiting for us in an opened chest.  I don’t hesitate when I pick it up.

It’s heavier than it should be. Warmer, too. Like it’s been sitting there, holding onto something, waiting for someone to finally take it.

I look at Magnus.

Not because I need him to explain it. But because I want to know if he feels it too. He doesn’t say anything. He never does. But the way he looks at me, steady and certain, tells me enough. 

When we leave the mines for the last time, it isn’t rushed. There’s no urgency anymore. Just the slow climb back up into the valley, into the light, into something that feels like the start of something instead of the end.

We’re exhausted. Covered in dust and sweat and whatever the lower levels leave behind. And somehow lighter.

The next morning, I find a letter waiting for me.

The paper is rougher than the ones I’ve gotten before, the handwriting familiar enough that I recognize it before I even read it.

“Lorelai,

I’ve unlocked the back room of the shop. Come by when you have a chance. There’s something I want to show you.

–Willy”

I read it twice before folding it slowly.

When I look up, Magnus is already watching me. He has stuck to our ritual of meeting at my farmhouse every morning at 6:30 am sharp. Although that was usually because we had to utilize every minute of the day in the mines, it seems as though this might be a new habit for the two of us.

“Willy,” I say, holding the letter out slightly. “He wants me to come by the shop.”

Magnus doesn’t take the letter. He doesn’t need to.

“The boat,” he says.

“You already know what it is?”

“Yes.”

Of course he does.

“It leads beyond the valley,” he continues, his gaze shifting past me for a moment, like he’s already thinking several steps ahead. “Ginger Island.”

I roll the name around in my head. “That sounds… tropical.”

“It is.”

“Can’t you just warp us there?” I ask, feeling all too lazy about starting another project after I just finished the Community Center. 

He shakes his head. “I can warp myself there, but not you. If I were, I would have been doing that a lot more rather than all of this walking I’ve been doing with you.”

This feels like a sufficient answer to a question I’ve held for a while but never asked. 

I glance down at the letter again, then back at him. “So I fix the boat and go on a nice beach vacation?”

His expression shifts, just slightly. Not quite concern. Not quite hesitation. Something in between.

“It is not that simple,” he says. “Your magic is tied to this place. The valley is… responsive to you in a way that is not typical.”

I nod slowly. “So what, I lose it the second I step off the dock?”

Without missing a single beat, he answers. “No.” Then he takes a pause. “But it will change,” he adds.

“Change how?” I ask.

Magnus is quiet for a moment, like he’s trying to understand it still himself. 

“The valley amplifies what you are,” he says. “It is saturated with old magic. Roots that run deeper than most places. Ginger Island is… different. Still powerful. But not the same kind of power.”

I lean back slightly against the edge of my table, folding my arms. “So I’m not going to just… stop.”

“No,” he says again, softer this time. “You will not stop.”

That should be comforting. It is. Mostly.

“But I don’t understand it,” I admit. “Any of it.”

He studies me for a moment. “I am aware,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Great.”

“That is why,” he continues, more deliberate now, “we will begin proper training.”

I take a quick breath in. “Training?”

“Yes.” Not observation. Not notes. Training.

“For your own understanding,” he adds. “Not just for mine.”

I straighten slightly, trying to ignore how much that matters.

“Okay,” I say. “And what, you’re going to start teaching me how to not accidentally grow an orchard overnight?”

“That would be a good place to begin.”

I huff out a small laugh.

Then he reaches into his robes.

I watch as he pulls out a set of items, placing them carefully on my table one by one. More hardwood than I’ve ever seen before. Iridium bars. Battery packs. Each set down with the same precision he uses for everything else, like he’s already decided this is happening and I’m just catching up.

I stare at them. Then at him.

“You—” I stop, blinking. “You just… had all of this? I didn’t realize you could keep so much in your robes.”

“Yes.” He doesn’t answer the second part of my realization. 

“Why?”

“I anticipated the need.”

Of course he did.

I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my lips despite everything. “You’re unbelievable.”

He doesn’t respond to that. “When the boat is repaired,” he says, “I will accompany you.”

That catches me off guard. I look up at him fully now.

“You’re coming with me?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I feel something shift in my chest. “Okay,” I say, more excited this time. “Yeah. Okay.”

And for the first time since I read Willy’s letter, I’m not thinking about leaving the valley. I’m thinking about what it will feel like to go somewhere new with him.

“Well, I guess we could start by packing bikinis, then,” I joke.

His brow furrows, clearly not understanding “Bake ini?” He says, the words foreign. It’s like watching a dog try to chew peanut butter. 

I then try to explain the concept to him and his face burns with embarrassment. He shakes his head over and over again. “You and I do not need to be wearing that!” He cries out.

I burst into a pool of laughter. “No, I was joking about you wearing that! I would be the one wearing that.”

He shakes his head again. “No. That sounds highly impractical and much closer to underwear than actual protective water proof clothes.”

I laugh again, poking him in the ribs. “Relax, grandpa. You really are more than a few centuries old, aren’t you?”

He stiffens, like he always does when his age gets brought up. I don’t know why it bothers him so much. I would be perfectly happy with getting to live so long. 

“No matter. We should begin training.”

I raise a disbelieving eyebrow. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

I take another sip out of my mug. Or, at least, I try to. He takes the mug out of my hands without even touching it, some sort of magical magnetic force field forcing it out of my hands and setting it on the counter. I groan loudly. 

“Outside.”

“Yes, sir,” I groan, pushing myself out of my seat before I put on my layers. 

The cold winter air seemed to only be getting worse these days. I thought that by moving out to the countryside, I might avoid the cold. I was unfortunately very wrong. On the last day of fall, Haley shoved a pair of nice leather gloves in my arms and told me that by the next day, the entire ground would be covered in snow and would remain that way until the first day of spring. I laughed at that and ignored Haley’s glare. I should have heeded her warnings sooner. 

By the next day, the entire valley was covered in a foot of snow. It has yet to relent or melt. 

Without even realizing it, I walk towards the orchard. The first place that I felt something listen back.

Winter has touched everything.

The trees stand bare, their branches stripped of the easy language of leaves, their forms reduced to bone and structure against the pale sky. Snow gathers in quiet drifts at their bases, smoothing over the uneven ground, dulling the edges of stone and root and memory. It would be easy to call it dead, from a distance. Easy to assume that the valley has emptied itself out, that whatever I felt in the spring has gone silent.

But it isn’t silent. It is quieter. Slower. Like something breathing under thick blankets.

I stop just at the edge of the orchard, my boots sinking slightly into the snow, and for a moment I don’t move. The air feels different out here than it did inside the house. Colder, obviously. Sharper. But also thinner in a way that makes everything harder to grasp, like the valley has pulled itself inward for the season and left only the faintest threads exposed.

Magnus stands a few steps behind me. I can feel him before I hear him, that same steady presence pressing lightly against the edge of my awareness.

“Focus,” he says. His voice is even, but there is something beneath it now. Not impatience, not quite. Expectation.

I exhale slowly, watching the breath leave me in a soft cloud. “It’s harder,” I admit. “I can’t… hear it the same way.”

“It has not disappeared,” he replies. “It has withdrawn. You are attempting to listen to something that is not speaking at full volume.”

“That’s comforting,” I mutter.

“It should be.”

I glance back at him briefly. He hasn’t moved closer, but his posture has shifted slightly, more attentive than before, like he is measuring something I can’t see.

I turn back to the trees. The orchard feels different from the rest of the farm. It always has. Even now, buried under snow, there is a structure to it that feels deliberate, cultivated, remembered. The roots beneath the ground are older here, deeper. Intertwined in ways that feel less accidental.

I close my eyes. For a moment, there is nothing.

Just the cold pressing against my skin, the faint sound of wind moving across open land, the distant creak of wood as one of the branches shifts under the weight of frost.

Then, slowly, something settles. It is not a sound. More like a pressure, a presence that gathers at the edges of my thoughts. Faint, but persistent. Like something waiting for me to notice it.

I reach for it, but not with my hands. With whatever it is Magnus keeps insisting I have.

The sensation is weaker than before. Thinner. Like trying to grasp water through fabric. It slips, resists, pulls away just as I start to recognize it.

“Do not chase it,” Magnus says from behind me. “Allow it to come to you.”

I bite back a response, forcing myself to stay still.

The cold sinks deeper into my fingers, my face, my lungs. My awareness narrows, then widens again, stretching outward past the surface of the snow, past the frozen crust of soil beneath it.

There. Something shifts.

It is subtle. So subtle I almost miss it. A faint stirring beneath the ground, a slow, dormant awareness coiled deep within the roots of the trees. Not asleep. Not gone.

Waiting.

I inhale sharply, and this time when I reach for it, it does not slip away. 

The nearest branch trembles. It is not dramatic. It does not crack or groan or lurch into motion. It simply moves. A small adjustment, barely more than a lean, the thin structure of it angling ever so slightly in my direction as if responding to a pull that only it can feel.

My eyes snap open.

The branch stills immediately, but it does not return to where it was before. It remains angled toward me.

“Magnus,” I say, breath catching.

“I see it.”

There is no awe in his voice. No surprise. Just acknowledgment.

I turn toward him, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping me. “Did you see that? I—”

“It is insufficient.”

The words cut cleanly through the moment.

I blink at him. “Excuse me?”

He steps forward now, closing the distance between us, his boots barely disturbing the snow. His gaze flicks briefly to the branch, then back to me, sharp and assessing.

“You are brushing the surface of the valley’s awareness and mistaking it for control,” he says. “A minor response from a single tree is not mastery.”

My chest tightens. “I never said it was—”

“You are capable of more than this.” There is something firmer in his tone now. Not cold, not detached. Frustrated.

I stare at him, the flicker of pride I had felt dissolving into something sharper. “Well, sorry if I didn’t instantly become some kind of forest god in the middle of winter,” I snap.

His expression shifts, just slightly. Not quite regret. Not quite reconsideration. “Then I will show you what is required.”

Before I can respond, he lifts his hand.

The air changes. It happens instantly. The quiet stillness of the orchard fractures, something deeper stirring beneath the surface of the land. I feel it before I see it, a violent displacement, like the valley itself recoiling.

The ground splits.

The sound is wrong. Too sharp, too sudden against the muffled silence of snow. A crack tears through the earth in a jagged line, slicing forward from Magnus’s outstretched hand, cutting through frozen soil and root and stone as if they offer no resistance at all.

And something in me recoils before I can think. Not fear. Recognition. Like watching something living get cut open.

It is coming straight toward me. I freeze.

For a fraction of a second, my mind refuses to process what I am seeing. The crack widens as it moves, the ground collapsing inward, snow spilling into the growing divide. And beneath that, I feel it, faint and fractured, like threads snapping somewhere out of sight. Roots. Networks. Something being severed faster than I can track it. The distance between us shrinks too quickly, the dark line in the earth rushing forward with terrifying speed.

I can hear the earth crying out. It was not meant to be distorted like this, not torn to shreds. 

“Magnus—”

“Stop it.”

His voice is sharp now. Commanding. Not to the ground. To me.

Something in my chest snaps into place. I do not think. I do not question. I reach.

Not outward. Down.

Past the snow. Past the frozen crust. Deeper than before, deeper than I knew I could go. The valley does not feel distant anymore. It is immediate, urgent, alive in a way that surges up to meet me the moment I touch it.

Roots. There are so many of them.

Threaded through the soil in vast, intricate networks, coiled tight with winter’s restraint but not lifeless. Waiting. Holding. Enduring.

Move.

The command does not come from my voice. It comes from somewhere deeper.

The response is immediate.

The ground beneath me shifts, not breaking but rising. Thick roots surge upward from beneath the snow, powering through the surface in a sudden, violent motion. Not tearing, not like his. This feels different. Like something being asked instead of taken. They twist and coil over one another, forming a barrier just as the crack reaches me.

The earth shudders.

The forward motion stops. Snow cascades into the newly formed divide, settling into the gaps between the roots that now hold the land together.

Silence slams back into place.

I stagger backward, my breath coming too fast, too shallow. My hands shake as I stare at what I have just done, at the thick, living structures that now sit above the ground where there should be nothing but frozen soil.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Then, Magnus laughs.

It is not loud. Not uncontrolled. But it is unmistakably real, a sharp, breathless sound that seems to surprise him almost as much as it does me.

I look at him, wide-eyed.

His expression has changed completely. The rigid control is still there, but it has fractured, something brighter breaking through beneath it. His eyes are fixed on the roots, on the disrupted ground, on me.

“Again,” he says, and there is no mistaking it now.

That is excitement.

I hold out a hand to stop him. He pauses and looks at me with a question written on his face.

“You can’t just rip the earth open like that,” I snap, not realizing there’s anger inside of me until the words are out there and sitting between us. I exhale, feeling a bit out of breath. “It doesn’t feel right. I can’t explain it, Magnus. I—”

It’s his turn to motion at me. He waves me off casually. At first, I think it’s because he’s ignoring what I’m saying. “Apologies, Lorelai. I didn’t account for how disruptive this exercise must be to the ground beneath us.”

For a moment I think he’s saying it sarcastically.

But then he has that cold analytical face again. His eyes narrow at me, before he clicks his tongue. “Close the earth. Return it to what it once was.”

Instead of arguing this time, instead of throwing my hands up and allowing myself to believe that I don’t have the ability to do it, I focus. 

My eyes stay open this time. It’s easier with them closed, but I know it wouldn’t make for good practice. I have to learn to hone this skill into something more useful than just farming. 

I focus.

Not on the surface. Not on the snow or the jagged line that still scars the ground between us.

Deeper. It is harder this time.

Before, everything had been urgency. Instinct. A reaction to something that felt wrong in a way I didn’t have time to question. Now, there is no immediate danger to pull from, no sharp edge to push against. Just the quiet aftermath of it, the disruption lingering beneath my feet like something unsettled.

The valley feels… uneven.

I can still sense the place where the earth was forced apart, where roots were torn from their paths and soil was displaced too quickly to understand what had happened to it. It is not pain, not exactly, but it is close enough that I hesitate.

Magnus does not interrupt. For once, he lets the silence sit rather than coaching me through it.

I draw in a slow breath, the cold air biting at my lungs, and try to remember what it felt like before. Not the panic. Not the fear. The connection is still there, just quieter now. Slower. Like the valley is waiting to see what I will do next.

“Okay,” I murmur under my breath, more to myself than to him.

I reach again.

This time, I do not pull. I listen.

The roots beneath the orchard are not chaotic, not tangled in the way I first imagined them. They are structured. Intentional. Each one follows a path that has been shaped over years, growing around obstacles, weaving between stones, settling into a system that works because it has been allowed to.

And right now, that system is broken. Not destroyed. Not beyond repair. Just interrupted.

My fingers twitch at my side as I try to map it in my mind, tracing the paths that no longer quite line up. I can feel where the soil has shifted, where the weight has redistributed unevenly, where the roots have been pulled too far from where they should be.

“Do not force it,” Magnus inputs quietly.

I almost laugh. “I’m trying not to.”

“Good.”

I exhale slowly, steadying myself.

Then, carefully, I reach toward the break in the same way I would approach something delicate. Not with force, not with command, but with intention.

The first movement is small. A root at the edge of the fissure shifts, not upward this time, but inward. It slides through the soil with a soft, almost imperceptible motion, easing itself back toward where it had been before. Another follows. Then another.

It is slower than what I did before. Infinitely slower. But it feels right. The soil begins to settle around them, not collapsing, but reshaping, small pockets of air filling in as the structure beneath it starts to rebuild itself. Snow slips into the narrowing space, disappearing as the ground rises to meet it, the jagged edges softening as they draw closer together.

I feel it as it happens. Not just the movement, but the relief of it. The tension easing out of something that had been pulled too far, too fast.

My breath catches.

“Magnus,” I say quietly, not looking at him. “It’s—”

“I see it.”

There is something different in his voice now. Not just observation. Attention.

I focus harder, ignoring the way my head starts to ache from the effort, the way the connection flickers at the edges when I try to hold too much of it at once. I narrow it down, piece by piece, guiding instead of pushing, letting the valley do most of the work while I… assist.

The last gap closes. The ground stills. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the surface settles completely, the snow lying smooth over it once more, the crack reduced to nothing more than a faint, uneven line that quickly disappears beneath the wind’s quiet sweep.

I sway slightly on my feet, the effort catching up to me all at once.

“Holy—” I cut myself off, pressing a hand to my temple. “That’s… a lot harder when no one’s trying to kill you.”

Magnus steps closer, his gaze fixed on the ground, then shifting to me. He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the way I am starting to recognize.

“You corrected the structure,” he notes finally. “Not just the surface.”

I shrug weakly. “I didn’t really know what I was doing. I just… followed it.”

“Yes.”

That single word lands heavier than I expect.

I glance up at him. “What does that mean?”

His eyes linger on me for a moment longer before he looks back out at the orchard, at the trees standing bare and patient in the winter light.

“It means,” he says slowly, “that you are not imposing your will onto the valley.” He scans my face again. “You are participating in it.”

Something in my chest tightens at that, though I am not entirely sure why. I look back at the ground, at the place where the damage had been, now quiet, now whole. Not untouched. But healed. The land seems to finally take a breath after holding it for some minutes. 

Magnus exhales softly, almost thoughtful.

“Again,” he says.

This time, I don’t argue.

Winter 10, 1975

I finally got George to soften a bit and he took me to the mines today. It’s not as glamorous as I thought it might be. In fact, he handed me a pickaxe and told me that if I wanted to tour with him today, I must want to work, too. I didn’t mine (get it) the labor, especially if it let George go a bit slower. He’s still a huge grouch, but I think I’m beginning to grow on him a bit. That being said, the mines were so creepy and I’ve never felt so many sore muscles in my body, I doubt that I’ll ever try to go down there again.

Chapter Text

In a strange turn of events, Haley has actually started to become friends with the purple-haired girl. I watched it begin during the town’s Luau. Of everyone in town, Abigail would have been my last guess for Haley’s new companion, but there is something about the way they orbit each other that works. Haley’s sharp edges soften just slightly around her, and Abigail seems to enjoy pushing at those edges just enough to make them bend instead of break.

Today is the warmest it has been in weeks, just shy of forty degrees for a handful of fleeting hours. It is not enough to melt the season, but it is enough to make the air feel less punishing, less intent on driving us back indoors. Evening settles slowly over the ocean, the sun lowering itself toward the horizon in a wash of color that feels almost too vivid for winter. Pale gold bleeds into pale pink, then into something deeper, something quieter.

We sit at the edge of the docks near Willy’s shop, our legs swinging lazily over the water. The tide moves in slow, steady rhythms beneath us, dark and endless, carrying the cold of the season with it.

Yesterday, I gave Willy everything he needed to repair the boat. He had nearly jumped out of his skin when I handed over the materials, eyes wide in a way that made me realize how strange it must have looked. I had not checked the backroom. I had not asked about the letter. I had simply just known. When he finally found his voice, he told me it would take a day or two to finish. I think I scared him a little.

Some silence lapses in between the three of us after we laugh about something stupid Sam said to Abigail. 

Haley is the first to break it with a sigh and a small criticism, typical of her even with her personality development in the past few seasons. “You know, I thought we would see you more in the winter season since you don’t have any crops to feed, but the opposite has seemed true.”

I chuckle at that and shrug. “Well, I still have animals to take care of. And a greenhouse.”

When I glance over, Abigail and Haley are looking at each other, something unspoken passing between them. It is not subtle. It is not even particularly well hidden.

It is suspicious.

“Can I say it?” Abigail asks, directing the question and her gaze at Haley. 

The blonde flips her hair behind her, sighing loudly. “Fine. Go ahead. You’re a loudmouth anyways.”

Abigail playfully elbows her in the ribs. “I resent that.”

I try not to notice the way Haley’s expression shifts, the faint color that rises in her cheeks as she looks away. She is seated between us, which leaves her nowhere to go but down, her gaze dropping to where her boots hover just above the water.

Abigail then squeals, “We know you’re hanging out with the Wizard again!”

I groan, putting my face into my hands, as the two girls giggle at my annoyance. They then begin to descend into madness. 

“So, how big is it?” Abigail asks in a sing-songy voice. 

My brow furrows. “How big is— wait, ew!” I reach over and tug lightly at her ponytail. She shrieks, batting my hand away as if I had attempted something far more violent than I actually did.

Haley rolls her eyes, though there is a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She leans back on her hands, her posture more relaxed than I am used to seeing, though her gaze flicks toward me again, more careful this time.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” She asks quietly, the sound barely rising above the moving tides of the ocean. 

I feel shame all at once. I had spent so much time with these girls, all of the girls in Pelican Town, that I knew I had become a cemented part in their lives. They were cemented for me, too, but at 24 years old, I still felt like I was learning how to be a good friend. And part of being a good friend was telling your friends when big things happened to you. 

Instead of hugging them, I shrug. I still can’t figure out how to explain all of this to them. I know I will at some point, but I have yet to find the words to describe the kind of magic I feel all around me. Worse, I was scared they would just tell me I was crazy. I saw how everyone in Pelican Town treated Magnus. I didn’t want to be feared like him. 

“We just started doing research again. It’s not a big deal.” The words sound hollow and fake. They notice it immediately. 

Haley raises an eyebrow at me. “You didn’t get out of bed for a week when you two stopped hanging out last time,” she points out. 

“And you went quiet or just left anytime anyone would mention him, too,” Abigail adds, pulling her legs into her body and hugging them. 

I wince. I forget how badly I reacted to Magnus and I falling out all those seasons ago. 

“I just…” I hesitate, my gaze dropping to the water below us, where the fading light fractures across the surface. Then I mutter, “I don’t want to jinx it.”

They hear it. They note it.

Haley pats my shoulder. It’s a weird and unnatural thing, seeing Haley attempt to be a normal person. She exhales as she says, “Look, I don’t want to have to drag it out of you. And I won’t, because frankly, I deserve better than that.”

I laugh hoarsely.

Abigail stretches her neck out so she can look at me. “What she’s trying but horrifically failing to say is that we want to hear about it. We won’t call you crazy and we won’t make fun. We’re your friends, right?”

I nod slowly at that. 

Haley glares at me. “Well, then act like it!”

Abigail quickly moves in to calm her. “Haley, watch it.”

“Do I have to explain it right now?” I squirm in my seat. Suddenly, my clothes feel too warm. 

The two shake their heads. 

“Eventually, though,” Haley corrects. 

I nod again. That seems fair. “How about I tell you in a week?” I offer. “Same place, same time. I’ll come clean.”

They exchange another look, then nod.

“That works,” Abigail says.

Silence settles over us again, but this time it feels different. Not empty. Not waiting. Just shared.

We sit there as the sun finally slips below the horizon, the last light stretching across the water before it fades. The cold begins to creep back in, slow and steady, but neither of us moves to leave just yet.

For a little while longer, we stay. Together, watching the day disappear.

Then, Abigail pushes herself to her feet. She says something that I’ve never heard from her before. “I gotta go, Dad said to be home by seven.”

Haley and I look up in shock, which prompts Abigail into a spiral of giggles. Laughter always comes so easily for her. It’s another thing I admire about her. 

“Your faces are hilarious! I know, it sounds weird coming from me, but Mom’s making her shepherd’s pie. With all the shit I’ve been getting in trouble for, Dad told me that he would throw my share in the trash if I didn’t make it home by seven.”

“Oh thank Yoba,” I breathe, wiping imaginary sweat off my forehead. “I thought you were, like, seriously ill or something.”

“Nope!” She begins to spring away before shooting us a wave and a holler. “See you guys later!”

Haley and I watch her run off in the distance, her body quickly becoming a dot on the horizon. 

I don’t really ever get the chance to spend much time alone with Haley. Not only does she kind of scare me, but she always seems to want to have another person around us. Namely Abigail, but also her sister Emily sometimes, too. 

I glance over at Haley. Her face is still a bit red, probably from the nipping cold that seems to get fiercer the longer we’re out here and the darker it gets. 

“You okay?” I ask, lightly poking her boot with mine. 

She recoils from the touch. “Yeah, I’m fine,” She replies sharply. A bit too sharply. 

I’m convinced that I’ll have to find a place to make conversation, but then she asks me something that catches me almost completely off guard. 

“You think she’s gay?”

I stare blankly at her. “Who, Abigail?”

“Yeah.”

I turn around again, making sure that Abigail really is gone. I don’t want to talk behind her back, but I also don’t know what Haley’s point is, either. 

Shrugging my shoulders at her question, I try to find some sort of verbal response to it. “I mean, I know she dresses alternatively and listens to rock music, but I’m not sure if I would say she’s gay.” I scratch my chin. “Maybe bisexual or bicurious. I wouldn’t put that past her. Either way, I haven’t ever really heard her talk about hot guys or girls besides the bands she listens to.”

Haley takes a beat. 

The wind shifts slightly, colder now that the sun has dipped below the horizon, and it lifts a few loose strands of her hair across her face. She doesn’t brush them away right away. She just sits there, staring out at the water like it might give her an answer.

“I don’t think she’s straight,” she says finally.

Her voice is quieter now. More careful. 

I tilt my head slightly, studying her. “Okay,” I try slowly. “What makes you say that?”

She huffs softly, like she immediately regrets opening her mouth. “I don’t know. Just the way she is.”

“That’s not an answer,” I reply, nudging her again with my boot, gentler this time.

She doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t respond to the touch either. Her shoulders lift slightly before dropping again, like she’s trying to shake something off and failing.

“I just notice things,” she mutters.

I raise an eyebrow. “Haley, you notice everything. That doesn’t narrow it down.”

“I mean, she wears heavy combat boots that I’ve never seen a straight girl wear. She’s always putting on this thick ass eyeliner that I know for a fact guys don’t even like. She’s loud and annoying and always giggling or making fun of people. It’s like she’s trying to scare off the entire male population.”

She lets out a short, frustrated breath, dragging her hands through her hair before letting them fall back into her lap. For a moment, she looks like she’s going to shut down completely, retreat back into that polished, untouchable version of herself she wears so easily around everyone else.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she glances at me. And there’s something different there. Not annoyance. Not superiority.

I think she’s actually nervous. 

“Well, anyways, I’m gay.”

Oh, shit. Despite her casual but measured delivery of it, my head is spinning. I know I shouldn’t have made any assumption of her but—

“But what about Alex?” I blurt out, and I’m in disbelief that I would say something so dumb so quickly. 

Haley laughs at that. Hard. “Oh. My. Yoba.” She puts her head in her hands as she continues to shake from the giggles.

“What?!” I squawk indignantly. 

She finally looks up, laughter still bubbling from her, as she waves her hand in dismissal. “Me and Alex? Are you kidding me?” She finally takes a deep breath in, silencing any amusement in the situation. “Alex is gayer than a Judy Garland fan.”

I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but I don’t question it either. It makes… a lot more sense than it actually should. The fact that Alex and Haley, a lesbian, are always paired up in social situations. The way Alex wore his Flower Dance suit so prim and proper and got annoyed by the other guys’ discomfort. The way he consistently ignores me unless he feels the need to make fun of my outfit. After all this time, I thought he was just picking up the same insults from Haley because he had a crush on her. But now it all makes way more sense. 

I sit back on my hands in disbelief, just taking a minute to let it all sink in. Then, I ask her, “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Well, why can’t you talk about Magnus?” She shoots back. It’s the first time I’ve heard any of the townspeople call him by his first name. She sighs through her nose, her hands busy at fidgeting with a loose thread on her long red scarf. “I’m sorry. I deflected. I’ve known for a really long time, it’s just—” She breathes in again, this time frustrated. “I don’t like talking about it. I never wanted it to be some big deal or for people to look at me differently. I don’t even care if people judge me, I just don’t want me to be walking down the street and everybody’s like, ‘Hey, there’s the lesbian!’, you know?”

There is a bitterness there that I haven’t heard from her before. Not sharp. Just tired. I don’t interrupt.

“And I told you,” she starts slowly before picking up her pace, “Because you’re the weirdest, most nonjudgmental person in this whole town. I figured if you could hang out with the one person besides Linus that this town avoids, that you’d be okay with hearing that I’m gay.”

I beam at that. 

But she still seems nervous for some reason. Like that wasn’t all she was trying to say. 

“I like her.” She’s talking about Abigail. I know it because she’s looking behind herself again.

It lands so plainly that it almost takes a second to register. I blink at her. “Yeah,” I say, a little thrown off and also annoyed at hearing something that sounds so simple and so obvious. “I mean… we all like her. She’s—”

“No,” Haley cuts in quickly, her voice tightening. “I don’t mean like that.”

Oh. 

Oh.

I sit up a little straighter, turning more fully toward her now. “Oh,” I repeat, softer this time.

She looks away immediately after saying it, her gaze snapping back out toward the ocean like she can outrun the words now that they’ve been said.

“I think I’ve liked her for a while,” she continues, quieter now. “I just… didn’t want to think about it.”

The confession seems to settle into the space between us, heavier than anything we’ve said all evening.

I don’t interrupt. She exhales again, slowly, her breath visible in the cold air.

“I’ve dated girls,” she says, like she’s trying to convince herself of something. “And it’s fine. It’s always been… fine.” She pauses, her fingers curling slightly against the wood of the dock. “But it never feels like much. I thought I was broken for a while. Like, I don’t like guys, but I can’t seem to ever find the right girl, either.”

Her voice wavers, just slightly, and she presses her lips together before continuing.

“And then I move to Pelican Town, and she shows up, and she’s loud and annoying and always in my space and—” she lets out a small, breathless laugh, shaking her head, “ I actually care what she thinks. Like, really care.”

I can’t help the small smile that pulls at my lips.

“That sounds about right,” I say. “Although, technically she didn’t show up, she’s lived here longer than you have.”

Haley shoots me a look, but there’s no real bite to it. “This isn’t funny.”

“I didn’t say it was,” I reply kindly. “It’s just… very you.”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s automatic. Defensive more than anything.

“I don’t even know if she’d like me like that,” she admits after a moment, her voice dropping again. “I mean, I know I’m a lesbian. I’ve known that for a long time. But it feels different here, with the friends I’ve made. I don’t want them to think I have some big lesbian crush on all of them, either. I just want to stay in this bubble for as long as I can. I’d rather let myself think it’s possible, like, with me and her, than to know it’s impossible.”

There it is. Not just a crush. Something bigger. Something that’s been sitting under the surface, waiting.

I shift slightly, leaning back on my hands as I look out at the water beside her.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” I say. “You can just… like her.”

She’s quiet.

Then, softer, “That feels like cheating.”

I glance at her. “How?”

“Because it’s easier,” she says. “If I just say I like her, then I don’t have to say anything else.”

I hum thoughtfully. “Or maybe it’s just the truth you’re ready for right now.”

“I don’t know if she’d ever like me like that,” she admits again after a moment. This time it feels more real. “Or if I just ruined whatever we have by even thinking about it.”

I tilt my head slightly. “You didn’t ruin anything. You haven’t even done anything.”

“Yeah,” she mutters. “That’s kind of the problem.”

I let that sit, then lean back on my hands, glancing out at the darkening water beside her.

“You don’t have to figure all of it out right now,” I say. “You already know who you are. That’s more than most people get.”

She’s quiet at that. Then, softer, almost hesitant, “It feels different saying it out loud.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It usually does.”

She nudges my boot lightly with hers, mirroring what I had done earlier.

“You’re not going to tell anyone, right?” she asks.

I scoff. “Haley, I can barely explain my own life right now. Your secret is safe.”

That earns a small smile from her. Not polished. Not practiced. I can even see her gums when she does it. 

I say in a softer voice after some time, “I think, honestly, if you told her, she would never judge you. The Abigail I know would never stop being your friend just because of a crush.” I look out on the horizon, feeling my next words in my chest, “You never know until you try.”

Maybe I meant those last words more for myself than for her. 

“Will you tell me a secret, too?” Haley asks, her eyes wide and sweet. 

I can’t help but give in. She knows exactly how to push people to give her what she wants. It would be a scary thing if she wasn’t a good friend. 

“Okay, well, I know I said I would tell you guys in a week, so don’t tell Abigail.” I shoot her a warning glance. 

Haley silently crosses her heart and kisses her fingers. 

I look down at my feet. I can’t look at her while I say this. “I think I have a crush on Magnus.”

She rolls her eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know, whore.”

I shove her slightly, but continue. “Ever since I came to the valley, there’s just been… something about him. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding completely insane.”

“That ship has sailed,” Haley mutters.

“Haley.”

“I’m kidding,” she says, though she’s smiling now, softer than before. “Keep going.”

I huff out a breath, dragging my gaze away from her and back out toward the water. It’s easier like this. Talking into the horizon instead of into someone’s eyes.

“He makes everything feel… sharper,” I say slowly. “Like the world is more real when he’s around. Or maybe I’m more real. I don’t know which one it is yet.”

Haley doesn’t interrupt.

“That sounds dramatic,” I add quickly. “And it is. I know it is. But I can’t really tone it down without lying.”

She hums thoughtfully. “You’ve always been a little dramatic.”

“I am not!”

“You literally just said a man makes reality feel more real. You’re lucky I didn’t call you crazy for that part and get you shipped off to a psych ward.”

I groan. “You’re missing the point.”

“I don’t think I am,” she replies, bumping her shoulder lightly into mine. “I think you’re just embarrassed.”

I pause. She’s not wrong.

I let out a quiet breath. “I just… don’t know what to do with it,” I admit. “It’s not like this is normal. He’s—” I hesitate, searching for the word. “Magnus. He lives in a tower and disappears whenever he feels like it and everyone in this town either avoids him or thinks he’s insane.”

“And you’re in love with him,” Haley says plainly.

“I am not in love with him,” I snap, too quickly.

She raises an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“I’m not,” I repeat, weaker this time.

“Sure.”

I glare at her, but it lacks any real force. “I just like him,” I say. “That’s it.”

“Mmhm.”

“Haley.”

She laughs under her breath, clearly enjoying herself now. “Relax. I’m not judging you. If anything, I think it makes sense.”

I blink at her. “It does?”

She shrugs. “You like weird things.”

“I do not like weird things.”

“You moved to a farm in the middle of nowhere, befriended a bunch of forest spirits, and now you’re dating a wizard.”

“Wait, when did you find out about the forest spirits?”

“I’m a closet lesbian. I know exactly how to find out everyone’s secrets, magic girl.”

Oh shit, I really did underestimate her. I say this much out loud. She shrugs. 

“And anyways, I’m not dating Magnus,” I add. 

“Yet,” she corrects.

I open my mouth to argue, then close it again, because I don’t actually have anything solid to stand on.

She grins. “See?” she teases. “You didn’t even deny the ‘yet.’”

I shove her again, harder this time, and she lets out a small yelp, laughing as she steadies herself.

“You’re insufferable,” I mutter.

“And you’re predictable,” she shoots back easily.

There’s a pause after that, the teasing settling into something quieter, something a little more thoughtful.

Haley glances at me again, her expression shifting just slightly. “Does he know?”

The question catches me off guard.

I shake my head. “No. And I don’t think he would even… process it the same way.” I let out a small, humorless laugh. “Half the time I can’t tell if he understands how people work at all.”

Haley tilts her head. “Does he treat you differently than everyone else?”

I hesitate.

“Yes,” I confirm finally.

“Then he either knows or he’s in love with you, too,” she replies simply.

I stare at her. “That’s not how that works.”

“That’s exactly how that works,” she insists. “You think I didn’t notice things with Abigail before I said anything?” She gestures vaguely toward the direction Abigail ran off in. “People don’t have to say it out loud for it to be obvious.”

I frown slightly, turning that over in my mind. Magnus’s voice. The way he looks at me. The way the air seems to shift when we stand too close to each other. The way he says my name.

I quickly push the thought away before it can settle too deeply.

“I’m not ready to deal with that,” I admit.

Haley nods, like she understands more than she lets on. “Then don’t,” she says. “Just… don’t pretend it’s nothing.”

Her words strike me as uncomfortable. Because that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

We fall quiet again after that, the conversation easing into something quieter, less urgent. The sky has gone dark now, the last traces of color swallowed by the night, the ocean turning into something deeper and harder to read.

Haley nudges my boot again. “You’re a lot worse than me, you know,” she says.

I glance at her. “How?”

“You’re hiding from two things at once,” she replies. “I’m only hiding from one.”

I sigh. “Aren't you also hiding from two things? Gay and in love with your friend?”

She waves that off. “I’m not hiding that I’m gay, I’m just not declaring it to the whole world. Besides, it’s a rite of passage for every gay girl to fall in love with a friend. I’m just earning my stripes”

“I would say avoiding it is a form of hiding.”

“You’re not gay,” she retorts. “You can’t tell me how to view my experience.”

I raise my hands in defense with a short laugh. “Okay, fair enough, you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” she says, a hint of her usual confidence slipping back in.

I smile despite myself.

For a little while longer, we sit there, the cold finally beginning to chase us off the docks, the quiet of the night settling around us.

The moment marinates for a while before I choose my next words. “I know it’s not my business, but when you eventually tell Abigail, I hope you’re a lot prouder of who you are after. It’s not embarrassing. Anyone who cares about you won’t just see you as the gay girl in town. You’re kind when you’re not protecting yourself. You’re beautiful and funny and creative, and you have the best fashion sense in town.”

She smiles at me, although her lips are closed. She seems uncomfortable, even if she appreciates what I said. 

“You’re also a raging bitch,” I laugh. 

This time, she shoves me. Hard. Half my body flies. I shriek, my leg halfway submerged in the water. I take it out, but not before I splash her. 

She screams back, and we begin a war. It starts small.

A retaliatory splash, quick and sharp, cold water arcing through the air before I can fully brace for it. It hits my sleeve and soaks through instantly, the chill biting into my skin.

“Haley!” I yelp, scrambling backward on the dock.

She’s already laughing, that bright, unrestrained kind that feels rare for her, like it’s not something she gives out easily. “You started it!”

“I did not!”

“You absolutely did!”

I lean forward, scooping up as much water as I can with both hands and flinging it in her direction. It’s messy, uneven, and mostly ineffective, but enough of it hits her coat to make her gasp.

“Oh, you’re dead,” she says, though she’s smiling when she says it.

“Come try it!” I shoot back.

She does. In a move that is far more coordinated than I expect, she grabs my wrist and shoves me sideways just enough to throw off my balance. I let out another shriek, slipping for a second before catching myself on the edge of the dock, my boots skidding dangerously close to the water.

“Haley!” I laugh, breathless now. “I will actually drown out here!”

“Then maybe stop antagonizing me,” she replies, though she’s still holding onto my sleeve, steadying me before I can actually tip over.

The moment lingers there for half a second longer than it needs to. Then I splash her again.

“Okay, that’s it!” she shouts, finally letting go and lunging back toward the water.

We devolve completely after that. There’s no strategy, no real aim. Just cold water, laughter, and the kind of chaos that only happens when no one else is around to witness it. My hands go numb almost immediately, my coat soaking through at the edges, but I don’t stop. Neither does she.

At some point, we both freeze at the same time, not because we’ve agreed to stop but because we’re both too cold to keep going.

I hunch over slightly, clutching my sides as I try to catch my breath, laughter still breaking through in uneven bursts. “Okay,” I gasp. “Okay, I surrender. I surrender.”

Haley stands a few feet away from me, equally soaked at the edges, her hair slightly out of place, her cheeks flushed bright pink from the cold and the exertion.

“You should have surrendered earlier,” she says, though she’s breathless too.

“Yeah, well, I thought I could take you.”

“That was your first mistake.”

I straighten slowly, shaking out my hands as best I can, though it doesn’t do much to bring the feeling back into them. We both stand there for a moment, catching our breath, the laughter fading into something quieter.

Then Haley starts laughing again. Not at me. Just… laughing.

I can’t help it. I join her.

It’s gentler this time. Warmer, somehow, despite everything.

The kind of laughter that lingers instead of bursts. Eventually, it fades, leaving behind a quiet that feels different from before. Easier.

Haley wipes at her sleeve, then glances at me. “You look terrible.”

“You look worse,” I shoot back.

“Impossible.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.

She hesitates for just a moment, then nudges my arm lightly. “Thanks,” she says. It’s simple. Unpolished. Real.

I nod. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

Then she exhales, glancing back toward the path that leads up from the docks. “We should probably head back before we freeze to death.”

“Probably,” I agree, though neither of us moves right away.

For a second longer, we just stand there, the ocean stretching out in front of us, dark and endless, the night settling fully over the valley.

Then, finally, we turn.

And head home.

Winter 11, 1975

It warmed up some today. Not enough to change anything, but enough to make you notice the difference. The kind of warmth that tricks you into thinking winter might loosen its grip if you just wait a little longer.

I spent part of the evening down by the water. Didn’t do much. Just sat there and watched the light fade out over the ocean. It gets quiet in a way that makes your thoughts louder than you want them to be.

I keep thinking about her again. I told myself I was done with that. That I’d let it go and get on with things that are real and solid and don’t vanish the moment you reach for them. But it’s strange how something like that doesn’t really leave. It just… waits.

There are things I could say, if I ever saw her again. And there are things I wouldn’t know how to say at all.

Funny thing is, I’m not sure which would matter more. For now, I think I’ll leave it where it is. Some things feel safer before they’re spoken out loud.

Chapter Text

The next morning comes too quickly. The kind of early that still feels like night, where the sky hasn’t quite decided what it wants to be yet. A pale gray stretches over the water as I make my way down to the docks, the cold biting at my nose and fingertips in a way that feels sharper after yesterday.

I don’t dress like myself that morning. Or maybe I do, just not the version of me the valley has gotten used to.

The poncho comes first. Deep green, heavier than it looks, draped over my shoulders and falling just past my elbows. It’s not something I would normally wear, but it feels… right. Practical for the cold, but light enough to shed. The color stands out against everything else I own, like something pulled from the forest instead of the farm.

Underneath it, I’ve made a choice. Not a fashionable one. A deliberate one. The top is fitted, closer than anything I’ve worn before, made from thick, durable cloth that hugs my ribs and doesn’t give when I tug at it. It’s cut shorter than I’m used to, shaped more like a bra and it’s clearly meant more for movement than modesty. Brown. Simple. But strong. Something that won’t tear the first time I make a mistake. The pants are the opposite. Loose. White. Wide-legged enough to move easily, the fabric light but layered, gathered and tucked into my boots so I won’t trip over them. They breathe when I move, shift with me instead of against me. Not farm clothes.

Not quite armor either. Something in between.

My boots are still mine, brown, worn, reliable, but cleaner than usual, laced tighter, built for more than just dirt and routine.

The gloves are new. Fingerless, running up past my wrists, made from reinforced leather that doesn’t restrict my grip. Marlon had insisted on them when I stopped by the Guild a few weeks ago, muttering something about “keeping your hands where they belong.” I hadn’t understood it at the time. Now I do. They let me feel everything. Without costing me skin.

I keep my hair mostly pulled back with a thick bandana, with only a few pieces pulled out so my face doesn’t look entirely too round.

I don’t look like a farmer. And for the first time since I got here, I don’t feel like one either.

By the time I make it to the beach, Magnus is already there. Of course he is.

He stands near the edge of the pier, his posture as composed as ever, his dark robes stark against the washed-out colors of morning. For a second, I wonder how long he’s been there, whether he’s been standing in the same spot since before the sun even thought about rising.

“Good morning,” he says without turning.

I blink. “That’s unsettling.”

“You are late,” He points out dryly. “Had fun last night?”

“I am five minutes late,” I counter, but now my thoughts are drifting towards all the words I exchanged with Haley last night.

“You are late.” That takes me back into reality.

He finally turns to look at me now. His eyes quickly scan me up and down, not in any romantic way, just adjusting to my new look. If he’s noticed any changes about my appearance, he doesn’t say anything about it.

I roll my eyes, pulling my coat tighter around me as I step up beside him. “You’ve lived here for how long and still don’t understand human tolerance for time?”

“I understand it,” he replies calmly. “But understanding does not mean I have to hold respect.”

Before I can respond, the sound of boots against wood echoes from behind us.

“Lass!”

Willy’s voice carries easily across the dock, warm and familiar in a way that immediately cuts through the cold. He approaches with a wide grin, though it falters just slightly the moment his eyes land on Magnus.

The pause is subtle. But it’s there.

“Well, I’ll be,” Willy mutters, his gaze flicking between the two of us. “Didn’t expect to see you bringin’ company like that.”

Magnus inclines his head slightly. “I was not aware my presence required approval.”

Willy lets out a short laugh, though it sounds more like he’s buying himself a second to process. “Not approval, no. Just not every day I’ve got a wizard on my boat, is all.”

“I will do my best to behave accordingly.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Willy mutters under his breath, though there’s no real bite to it.

I snort, stepping forward before the two of them can circle each other any further. “He’s coming with me,” I say simply. “If that’s okay.”

Willy studies Magnus for a moment longer, something thoughtful settling into his expression. Then he shrugs.

“Aye,” he says. “Long as he doesn’t turn the tides on me or summon anything out of the deep, we’ll be just fine.”

“I make no promises,” Magnus replies.

Willy barks out a laugh at that, clapping his hands together once. “Right, then! Let’s get goin’ before I start thinkin’ better of this.”

The boat slows as it cuts through the last stretch of water, the island rising fully into view.

Even from here, it feels different.

The valley breathes. Quietly. Subtly. Like something aware of itself but content to remain still. This place does not bother with that. It spills over itself. Green layered on green, thick and unrestrained, the air almost visible in the way it carries heat and movement and sound all at once.

It feels wrong to call the valley and the island the same thing. In the valley, the roots behave like a network, shared and structured. Here, they’re individual, aggressive, constantly reaching past each other like they don’t trust anything to hold.

Willy secures the boat with a practiced motion, though his attention flicks more than once toward Magnus, like he still hasn’t fully decided how he feels about this arrangement.

“Right, then,” he mutters, stepping back. “Island’s all yours. Try not to anger anything that looks like it might eat you.”

Magnus steps off first this time.

“I will keep that in mind.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Willy grumbles.

I snort under my breath and hop off after him, my boots sinking slightly into the warm sand. The shift in temperature hits immediately, the cold of the valley replaced with something almost disorienting.

The moment I step off the boat, the heat hits. Not gently. Not gradually.

“Well now,” Willy calls out, eyebrows lifting slightly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Looks like you came prepared after all.”

“I tried,” I reply, a little more self-conscious than I want to admit.

“Aye,” he nods. “Smart to dress for the heat. Lot of folks don’t think that far ahead.”

That helps. A little. I glance past him. Magnus hasn’t moved from where he stepped off the boat. He’s looking at me. Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would catch. But I see it.

His gaze moves once, measured, controlled, taking in the change without lingering anywhere too long. It’s quick. Efficient. Intentional.

Then, he looks away.

“The climate is more suitable for your current choices,” Magnus says, voice even as ever. He pauses for a moment before continuing, “You should not need to adjust further.”

“That’s your way of saying I won’t overheat, right?” I try to confirm.

“Yes.”

“Great. Good. Love that.”

He nods once, like that settles it. It should. It almost does.

But there’s something in the way he said it. Something in the timing. The fact that he waited until after I—

No. I shake it off, shifting my grip on the poncho and glancing back toward the island instead. Haley and I spent way too much time letting myself get caught up in a fantasy. I couldn’t think about that today.

The jungle stretches ahead of us, thick and alive, the air humming in a way that feels entirely different from the valley.

It feels… loud. Not in sound, but in presence. I barely have a second to take it in before something catches my eye.

Movement. To the right. I turn, and there he is.

A boy, perched high in the branches of a tree just off the beach, sitting like he belongs there more than the ground itself. Barefoot, steady, completely at ease in a way that makes my own stance feel clumsy by comparison.

He’s watching us. Not curious. Not exactly afraid. Just… aware. I don’t realize I’ve stopped moving until Magnus speaks behind me.

“You’ve seen him.”

“Yeah,” I murmur.

The boy tilts his head slightly, like he can hear us even from that distance. Then our eyes meet. And the moment I notice him, he’s gone. Not vanished. Moved.

He drops from the tree in one fluid motion, landing lightly in the sand before darting toward the dense jungle path to the east. There’s no hesitation in it, no backward glance. Just instinct.

“Wait—” I start, already stepping forward.

Magnus does not question it. He follows.

The path into the jungle is narrow, half-swallowed by thick greenery that presses in on either side. The air changes almost immediately, heavier, damp with life, the ground softer beneath my boots.

“He is not fleeing in panic,” Magnus notes as we move.

“No,” I reply, pushing past a cluster of leaves. “He just… doesn’t want us here.”

“That is not the same thing.”

I don’t answer.

Because I’m too busy trying to keep up with where he disappeared.

The jungle opens suddenly. And there it is. A structure, if it can even be called that. A long set of uneven wooden steps leads upward, built into the side of the terrain in a way that feels less constructed and more… adapted. At the top sits a small hut, partially wrapped around a tree that grows straight through it, like the building had no choice but to accommodate it.

I slow at the base of the stairs.

“He lives here?” I murmur.

Magnus studies it carefully. “He does not separate himself from the environment.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

I climb the steps slowly, each one creaking faintly under my weight. There’s something about the place that makes me instinctively quieter, like I’ve stepped into something I’m not supposed to disturb.

At the top, I hesitate. Then I step inside.

The boy is there. Standing just off to the side, half-hidden, his posture tense now, like he’s deciding whether to bolt again. But he doesn’t.

Because he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the parrot. Perched comfortably inside the hut, bright and alert, its eyes sharp with something that feels far more knowing than any normal animal has a right to be.

The boy turns to it and lets out a series of soft, deliberate squawks. Not randomly and it’s not a sort of mimicry either. It’s communication.

I blink. “Did he just—”

“Yes,” Magnus says quietly.

The parrot tilts its head, listening, then responds with its own sharp call. The boy nods. Then he glances at me only for a second before looking away again.

“He doesn’t want to talk to us,” I whisper.

“He cannot,” Magnus corrects.

I frown. “What do you mean?”

Before he can answer, something catches my eye just outside the hut. A faint glimmer. I step back out, scanning the ground near the entrance, pushing aside a bit of foliage—

And there it is. A walnut. But not like any walnut I’ve ever seen. It gleams gold in the filtered sunlight, almost unnaturally bright against the dirt.

I pick it up slowly. The moment it rests in my palm, I feel it. Not like the valley. Not like roots or soil or anything deep and steady. This is sharper. Lighter. Like a pulse sitting just beneath the surface.

“What is this?” I ask, turning it over.

Magnus watches it carefully. “A concentrated form of energy. Not dissimilar to what you draw from the valley, but… less grounded.”

“That’s concerning.”

“It should be.”

I glance back toward the hut. The parrot is watching me now. Not passively. Expectantly.

I step back inside and hold the walnut out slightly. “Do you… want this?”

The parrot lets out a sharp, pleased squawk, hopping closer. That feels like a yes. I hand it over. The bird takes it eagerly, clutching it in its claws before letting out another series of chirps that sound almost triumphant.

The boy watches the exchange carefully. Then looks at me again. There’s still distance there. Still hesitation. But something has shifted.

Not trust. Not yet. Recognition.

“You see?” Magnus murmurs beside me.

I don’t look away from the boy. “Yeah.”

Outside, the jungle rustles softly. Behind us, the island stretches further than I can see, thick with movement, with secrets, with things I don’t understand yet.

And ahead of us, the path opens. We follow it.

Not in a straight line, not cleanly, but in fragments. The island doesn’t offer direction so much as it reveals itself in pieces, one step at a time. The jungle folds around us, dense and humid, every inch of it alive in a way that feels louder than the valley ever does.

Leo is always just out of reach.

A flicker of movement to the left. A shadow shifting through the trees. Once, I catch him perched low on a branch, watching us openly before disappearing again like he was never there at all.

We don’t chase him this time. We just… move.

A clearing opens. A shrine built around bananas, bright and deliberate against the green, something sacred in its stillness. I don’t touch it. Magnus doesn’t suggest I do.

Further in, I nearly miss a crate half-swallowed by foliage, inside, bundled supplies. Tent kits. Left behind or left for someone.

“Convenient,” I say.

“Intentional,” Magnus replies.

The jungle gives and takes in equal measure.

By the time we circle back to the beach, the air feels different again. Open. Salted. Familiar in a way the interior never quite is.

And then I see them. The other paths. Blocked. Two massive turtles sit across the openings to the north and west, unmoving, entirely uninterested in us.

“Of course,” I mutter.

The parrot appears again, sharp-eyed and expectant, its gaze flicking between me and the path north.

“Yeah, yeah,” I sigh, already reaching into my bag.

The golden walnut feels warm in my hand.

The moment I offer it, the parrot takes it eagerly, chirping loudly before turning toward the turtle. A series of calls. A pause.

Then, the turtle moves. Slowly, deliberately, shifting its massive body just enough to clear the path.

I stare. “Okay. That’s… kind of incredible.”

“The island responds to exchange,” Magnus says.

“Noted.”

We head north. The air changes with every step.

The jungle thins, the ground rises, and the warmth shifts from something alive to something… harsher. The scent sharpens. The earth darkens.

Then I see it. We both do.

“Is that a volcano?” I whisper, more to myself than my companion.

Magnus nods his head slowly. “Yes. Mount Kulhdor. It was once a part of a great dwarf kingdom.”

Even though I have more questions, I feel a stronger urge to explore further into this island’s mysteries. I continue forward.

We don’t stop.

The volcano does not welcome us so much as test us, each floor collapsing into the next in a blur of heat, movement, and instinct. Lava rivers force quick decisions, my watering can hissing against molten rock as temporary bridges form beneath our feet while Magnus moves beside me with a steadiness that never quite wavers. Creatures come in waves. Burning sprites that burst apart on impact, lurking things that spit fire through stone, things that rise from the ground itself and somewhere between fear and necessity, I start to change. There are no roots here, not the kind I understand, but something smaller clings to the cracks, stubborn and isolated, and I learn to reach for it, not to control, but to interfere, to shift just enough to survive. It isn’t clean or practiced, but it’s enough.

At some point, I step wrong.

The edge gives beneath my foot, and suddenly there is nothing but heat and open air as I slip forward toward the lava. I reach without thinking, grasping at something that barely exists, the smallest resistance in the stone—

And then, Magnus’s hand closes around my wrist. Hard.

The force of it snaps me back, my body colliding into his as he pulls me onto solid ground. For a moment, neither of us moves. His grip doesn’t loosen immediately, his fingers still wrapped around my wrist like he’s making sure I’m actually there.

“You need to watch your footing,” he says, but his voice is lower than before. Not distant. Not entirely controlled.

“I am,” I breathe, though I’m not sure it’s convincing.

He looks at me for a second longer than necessary. I feel heat rise to my cheeks but I try to ignore it, push it down, as I stay entranced in his dark eyes.

Then he lets go. We keep moving.

After that, the dungeon compresses into something sharper, faster, the space between moments thinning until everything becomes reaction and motion and breath pulled too quickly to count. I don’t think about what I’m doing anymore, just feel it, adjusting the ground beneath me, disrupting just enough to stay ahead of whatever comes next.

Magnus stays close, closer than before, not hovering but never far enough that I lose track of where he is. It feels intentional. It feels different.

By the time we reach the final floor, the air changes. Not cooler. Just… open.

The ceiling breaks above us, the night sky cutting through the stone in a wide, fractured opening, light spilling down into the cavern in uneven beams. The heat is still there, still constant, but it no longer feels suffocating.

At the center is the Forge. We cross the narrow path without speaking, the lava shifting beneath us as we move. The structure rises from the middle of it all, ancient and deliberate, the anvil glowing faintly with something contained and precise.

I step onto the platform first.

The moment I do, something in the space settles; focused, controlled in a way the rest of the volcano never was. I move closer without meaning to, drawn in by the steady hum of it, my hand lifting slightly as if I might touch it.

“You should be careful,” Magnus says behind me.

I glance back. “You first.”

His gaze lingers on me, unreadable, but there’s something in it now that wasn’t there before. Not distance. Not entirely.

Something closer to attention. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then, the air shifts. Subtle. Wrong. I turn back just as the space beside the anvil bends, light catching at nothing before folding inward.

And someone steps through.

I freeze. Magnus doesn’t move, but I feel it, the way his focus sharpens instantly, the space around him tightening in response.

The man stands beside the Forge like he belongs there, like arriving out of thin air is the most natural thing in the world.

And suddenly, the heat, the climb, the space between Magnus and me, all of it shifts into something else entirely.

“Well, well,” the familiar voice calls out, easy and amused. “You found me. I didn’t think you missed me that much, but I’m okay with being wrong from time to time.”

By the time I turn, he’s already there, standing beside the Forge like he belongs in it as much as the stone and fire.

I don’t need to see him to know who it is.

The voice gives him away instantly. Clear, confident, edged with something just shy of arrogance.

And he is underdressed. Not in a careless way. Not unprepared. Intentional.

The heavy armor I’ve seen him in before is gone, stripped away entirely, replaced with something far more suited to the heat of the volcano. His muscled shoulders are bare, the fabric he wears draped instead of secured, a deep blue cloth pulled across his back like a loose mantle, fastened just enough to stay in place while leaving most of him uncovered. It shifts slightly with his movement, catching the light from the lava in muted tones.

Below, the same color wraps at his waist, layered into something between robes and battlewear, the fabric tied low on his hips in a way that allows for movement without restriction. It’s practical.

It’s also distracting.

My gaze drops before I can stop it, tracing the line of it longer than I intend to. Where Magnus seems to exude an overall brutish strength in his muscles, Lance is much leaner, much more defined. I catch myself comparing the two a second too late.

There’s a flicker of something familiar in that moment, something that reminds me a little too much of Magnus turning away when he saw me in my pajamas.

And right on cue, Magnus shifts beside me. It’s subtle. Not magical. Not obvious. But I feel it. He straightens slightly, his posture sharpening, shoulders settling back like he’s just remembered something important. Or someone. His presence changes, not larger, but more… deliberate.

Like he’s aware of being watched. Like he’s aware of who is watching.

Lance notices this. His mouth pulls into a slow, knowing smirk, his gaze flicking between the two of us before settling back on me with far too much ease. He tilts his head, watching me carefully, something more attentive sitting just beneath the surface of his expression.

“Winter looks good on you,” he adds, and that is where the smirk returns. “You look more practical than your muddy overalls. And more dangerous.”

Right. There’s the Lance I know. My eyes drop again, against my better judgment, taking in the very obvious lack of armor.

“Did you lose your shirt in battle,” I ask, “or is this a new strategy?”

His grin sharpens. “Depends. Is it working?”

I don’t answer that. Which, unfortunately, is an answer.

Behind me, Magnus’s posture adjusts again, barely noticeable, but present enough that I can feel it without looking.

Lance’s gaze flicks to him. Then back to me, slow but measured.

“Bit overdressed for the climate,” he adds, gesturing vaguely in Magnus’s direction, though he’s very clearly still talking to me. “You sure he’s going to make it through the rest of the day?”

“I’m quite certain I will survive,” Magnus replies coolly.

“I’m sure you will,” Lance says easily. “The question is whether or not you’ll enjoy it.”

Magnus doesn’t take the bait. That almost seems to amuse Lance more.

“I wasn’t asking you anyway,” he adds lightly, his attention returning fully to me. “You’ve had… what, two seasons to decide whether you prefer practicality or aesthetics?”

“Two and a half,” I correct without thinking.

“Is that right, sweetheart?” Lance coos.

“You disappeared,” I reply. “I didn’t exactly have a way to check in.”

“I didn’t disappear,” he says, almost absently. “I’ve been here.”

He gestures loosely to himself, bringing the attention back on him like the male peacock he is. “So you do enjoy the change of wardrobe?” he asks, voice light, almost teasing. “I’ll admit, I thought it was a bit much at first, too, but it gets rather… unforgiving in here.” His eyes drag slightly, just enough to be intentional. “Heat like this doesn’t leave much room for modesty, if you know what I mean.”

He winks. I immediately look at Magnus.

His arms are crossed now, not stiffly, not defensively, but in a way that somehow makes him look even more composed, more grounded in the space he occupies. His expression doesn’t change much, but there’s something colder in it now. Sharper.

“I don’t enjoy it,” Magnus says evenly, “and I don’t know what you mean.”

Lance exhales a quiet laugh through his nose.

“I wasn’t talking to you, old man.” The words are easy. Casual. But there’s a line under them.

He takes a step closer, then another, closing the space between us with that same unhurried confidence, like he’s never had to question whether he belongs somewhere.

And then, that shift again. His expression softens just slightly when he looks at me, the sharpness fading into something more curated.

“I was asking her.”

I don’t move.

Which, unfortunately, gives him all the time in the world to continue.

“Few adventurers make it this far,” he goes on, gesturing loosely to the space around us. “Mount Kohldur was once a thriving dwarf stronghold. Not many people get to stand where you’re standing now.”

“I already said that,” Magnus mutters under his breath.

I shoot him a look. He stops. Not dramatically. Not noticeably. But enough.

Enough that Lance sees it. And that is where things get worse.

His eyes flick between us again, slower this time, more observant, something like amusement settling in behind them. He lifts a hand, dragging it back through his hair, pushing it away from his face in a motion that feels practiced without being forced.

“You should let her speak more,” he says lightly.

Magnus opens his mouth. Then closes it. I almost laugh, but instead, I step in before this turns into something neither of them will recover from.

“What are you doing here?” I direct my sharpness to him.

Lance’s attention snaps back to me immediately, like nothing else in the room matters anymore.

He shrugs, easy, unbothered. “The First Slash has taken an interest in this place,” he says. “They’ve asked me to guard the Forge. Keep the monster population from getting… excessive on the lower floors.”

His gaze flicks briefly to Magnus. Then back to me.

“But,” he adds, tilting his head slightly, “it seems I’ve been beaten to the task.”

Magnus doesn’t rise to it. That almost makes it worse.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I reply, before Magnus can decide whether or not to engage. “We barely made it up here.” It’s definitely a tad overdramatic, but I say it nonetheless.

“Is that so?” Lance’s eyes narrow just slightly, not suspicious, but interested. “You don’t look like you struggled.”

“That’s because you didn’t see it,” I say dryly.

“I’d have helped,” he offers easily.

“I doubt that,” Magnus cuts in.

Lance smiles, slow and unbothered. “I don’t,” he replies.

The two of them hold that for a second longer than necessary. Not a fight. But not far from one, either. And somehow, I’m right in the middle of it.

Lance’s attention shifts again, softer now, like the edge was never there to begin with.

“Still,” he says, stepping just a fraction closer, not enough to crowd, just enough to be intentional, “I’m impressed. Most people don’t make it past the first few floors without turning back.”

His gaze lingers. “You’re not most people, are you?”

I cross my arms, mirroring Magnus without meaning to. “I’m starting to think I don’t have a choice in that phrase anymore.”

“That’s usually how it starts,” Lance counters.

There’s something in the way he says it. Something that feels less like flirting. And more like recognition. Behind me, Magnus shifts again. Just slightly. But this time, I don’t turn to look.

Lance lets out a long sigh, his eyes rolling back in a very bored motion. “Well, I hate to say this but I must get going.”

“What?” It comes out much more defensively than I thought it would.

His eyes flash in that same mischievous way as always. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll see you around. Until then, the First Slash sends their regards.”

He takes a confident step back, and before long, he simply fades out of the scene. No sound. No trace. No shift in the air to mark where he had been. Just absence.

I stare at the space for a second longer than I should. Then I turn.

Magnus hasn’t moved. But whatever restraint he had been holding onto is thinner now. It shows in the tight set of his jaw. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his gaze lingers just a fraction too long in the place Lance had been standing.

It’s not explosive. It’s controlled. Which somehow feels worse.

“The night has already approached,” he says, voice even, though it doesn’t quite hide the edge beneath it. “We must return to the valley.”

“But I’m not tired—”

He looks at me. And whatever I was about to say stops. I’m aware now of him. Of the space between us. Of everything that had just happened and hasn’t quite settled yet.

“You will be,” he says. “And I would prefer not to test the limits of your endurance again tonight.”

I don’t argue after that.

We leave the Forge in silence, the heat of it lingering at our backs as we step away, toward the door, a new path that we hadn’t seen until Lance left the scene.

The island is quieter when we emerge. Darker. The air still warm, but softened now by the night settling in around it.

For a moment, I glance back. At the volcano. At the place where everything had shifted just slightly out of place. Magic that had exploded out of my fingertips in a way I didn’t know was possible, forcing its way out of my body in angles I had never seen before.

Then I turn forward again, and follow Magnus down.

Winter 12, 1975

I have decided that winter on this farm is a special kind of miserable that nobody warned me about. At least in spring I had something to do with my hands. Now I just walk around looking at snow and feeling personally insulted by it.

Spent the morning helping Gus haul a delivery up from the docks. He's a good kid, maybe fourteen, fifteen, built like a barrel already and cheerful about it in a way that makes me feel like I've been doing something wrong with my constitution. His family runs the saloon and he already talks about it like it's his, which I respect. I told him so and he handed me a piece of bread he had in his coat pocket. Just like that. Kid's going to be somebody.

Lewis came by in the afternoon. He always has an opinion about how I'm running the farm and I always have to stop myself from telling him what I think about that. He's going to be a politician someday, mark my words. The kind that genuinely believes he's helping.

Ran into Willy at the docks after. He didn't say much, just handed me a line and we sat there until it got too dark to see our own breath. That's the thing about Willy. Silence with him doesn't feel like anything is missing. It just feels like quiet.

George was at the saloon when I came in to warm up. He had that look he gets sometimes, the one where he's staring at his drink like it owes him an explanation. I sat down without asking and he didn't tell me to leave, which is as close to an invitation as I ever get from him. We didn't talk much. Evelyn had been in earlier, apparently, and I know better than to ask about that.
The valley does something to you in winter. Strips it back. Makes it harder to ignore what's actually here.

I still can't explain the feeling I get sometimes near the old forest. Like something is paying attention. I've stopped mentioning it to anyone. They'd think I was losing it.

Maybe I am.

Either way, the farm is still standing and so am I. That'll have to be enough for today.

Chapter Text

Today is the first day in a week since Magnus hasn’t shown up right at 6:30 am. I know that because I chose to sleep in late this winter morning, almost until half past seven.

When I eventually roll myself out of bed, I figure I should probably check to see if Magnus left me a letter. Knowing him, he would have probably shown up anyways, realized I wasn’t waking up any time soon, and then left a note.

I push open my door and instead of looking at a letter, I find a person.

I audibly groan at who it is.

“Lance?” I ask out loud, more to the universe than to him.

He’s not wearing his Ginger Island attire, but he’s back in his usual armor. He smiles at me, which only widens when he sees what I’m wearing.

Unsurprisingly, I’m not wearing some sexy lingerie. I’m actually wearing my footed pajamas, the squirrel themed one, mainly because I was wearing even more layers beneath it. I had spent so much time focusing on expanding my farm, I hadn’t given much thought to expanding my house, including the shitty heating system. That made pretty much every night in the winter almost unbearable.

“Nice getup, Kane,” Lance winks at me. “I think this is sexier than what you wore yesterday.”

But I’m not embarrassed about my “state of undress”. If anything, I hope it tells him even more how much I want him to fuck off this early in the morning.

“Whatever.” I blow some air out, shifting a piece of frizz out of my face.

I ignore him and look to my left, finding the letter there, the right corner stuffed carefully underneath my mat. I stoop down and pick it up before I continue to stare blankly at Lance.

“Is there something you’re here for?” I ask dryly, my mouth dry as a cottonball. All I want to do is crawl underneath the covers and sleep the past week of adventure away. And maybe call my friends.

He shifts in his feet, looking behind me and into my house. I’m sensing a feeling from him that I’ve never gotten from him before. Uncomfortable, maybe? No, that’s not it.

By the time I see him pull something out from his pockets and turn it over in his hands with some kind of fidgeting motion, I realize it.

Lance seems nervous. And that makes me nervous as a result.

“Is there something wrong? What happened?” I blurt out my questions, trying to look behind him. Did my entire farm explode over night with some weird magic? Did the First Slash order him to kill me? What exactly is going on?

“No, uh, I—” Suddenly, he begins to straighten, every awkward movement from him vanishing in a precise instant. “I received word from your guild administrator, Gil, that Marlon was looking to contract with a combat mage. After reviewing the relevant tasks and missions, I decided to accept.”

He searches for something in my face, like what he just said was supposed to mean something to me. I still am unsure exactly how this changes anything, but I left him continue.

“And I must admit, after we reunited at Mount Kohldur’s caldera, you piqued my interest.”

I raise an eyebrow. I had already felt his interests in me before, though I wasn’t sure how true they actually were in comparison to how much Lance enjoyed getting a rise out of Magnus.

“Yeah, I think you’ve made that pretty clear before.”

His mouth twitches at that.

“I’d like to get to know you better, but I travel quite often, so at the risk of being a little forward…”

Forward? What does that mean? I get that answer quickly.

“Here’s my schedule.”

He now presents me with folded paper in his hands. I take it hesitantly, not opening it quite yet, because his words have stopped me.

“Wait, I’m confused, what do you mean?” I ask, still feeling like I’m half asleep, which I am, technically.

He shrugs, that carefree grin still set in stone on his charming face. “It can mean whatever you want it to, Kane. At least, I know I could help train you and help you develop your powers more than you might think.”

Before I can say or ask anything else, he turns from me before simply saying, “We will meet again soon.”

And with that, he disappears. I yawn loudly as soon as the moment ended, and turn back into my house to read my two papers.

I go into my usual routine, that being where I turn on my coffee machine and start to make myself look decent while everything still feels hazy. I left my two letters on my breakfast table as I’m pulling off my pajamas and pulling on my winter layers.

Long johns, check. My thick work jeans, check. My thickest sweater, check. My hair tied up in a bun because I didn’t wash it last night, check.

When I’m done washing my face and teeth, I sluggishly make it to my kitchen and start to pour a cup of coffee when I hear a knock on my door. Fucking Lance, always making sure to annoy me when that’s the last thing I could want in the world.

I groan to myself, but push myself off the counter to answer it.

The first words out of my mouth as I open the door are, “Can you fu— Magnus? Oh, hey. Good morning.”

He’s there and he looks annoyed already. He’s wearing heavier clothes than usual, with more layers than he typically wears. He even wears a thick fur hood that he has pulled up over his head.

“You look… warm,” I note, still in a daze about what exactly is going on. First Magnus, now Lance?

“Was he here?” He asks, point blank.

I shake my head, more to wake myself up than an answer. “Uh, who? The mailman? I got your letter, I just haven’t read it yet.”

“Lance.”

Jeez. I felt like I needed to put the two in a couples counseling session at this point with all of the animosity. Although, I sense that most of the hatred was coming from Magnus’ end rather than Lance.

But I answer with a kind voice anyways, “Yeah, he was just here. Everything okay? You can come in, if you’d like.”

Magnus pushes himself inside of the house gruffly, forcing me to step aside so I don’t get completely ran over by such a large man. He sits down at the breakfast table, or more accurately, nearly crushes the seat by how swiftly he falls into it. His hands immediately start rubbing his exhausted face, eyes glazed over and somewhere between the floor and the table.

I push my sleeves up to my elbows and take a deep breath. I can get pretty snappy in the mornings. “You know, guests typically answer the invitation verbally instead of just silently stomping in when the host tells them they can come in.”

He looks up at me with those puppy dog eyes. Those eyes where there’s a large white gap just below his large purple irises, those eyes that make my heart flutter more than just a little bit. Magnus doesn’t even seem to be aware that he’s doing it when it happens, but it still feels like some kind of tactic.

“Apologies, Lorelai,” he manages, as if it pains him.

But, because I’m a good friend, I decide to reveal what Lance has told me. “He basically told me he was interested in me and gave me his schedule.”

“HE WHAT.” He doesn’t shout, but it seems loud coming from him.

I hold my hands out in some weak attempt of defense. “Settle down, he was talking about training.”

That doesn’t seem to help. He shakes his head and mutters something beneath his breath.

“What was that?” I inquire, finally allowing myself to pour a cup of coffee and join him at the table. I have my legs crossed as I hold the cup on my knee, the boiling heat a small comfort to this drafty home.

“I came by earlier with something I needed to inform you,” Magnus states in his all-too familiar and all-too infuriatingly analytical voice. “The Ferngill Republic’s Society has given us some important news. It would appear a high-ranking council member has expressed interest in developing your arcane potential, which isn’t a common occurence…” As his voice trails off, so do his eyes, which now are taking me in intently. He clears his throat and continues, “My colleagues have tasked me with teaching you warp magic.”

I raise an eyebrow at that. “I have no idea what that means,” I admit, taking a long sip from my coffee. I forgot to buy creamer the day before yesterday. I wince at the bitterness of the drink, but continue to slurp it.

“It means that you are my student now.”

I shake my head. I surely must still be in some weird, David Lynch movie dream sequence. “Wait, what? Slow down. What’s the Society? What’s warp magic?”

He sucks his breath in, his eyes still settled into mine. “The Society is short for the Society of Wizards. It is basically the only semi-government structure for any registered witch or wizard in the Ferngill Republic, where we live.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, I know we live in the Ferngill Republic, but what do you mean, ‘registered witch or wizard’?”

“It is a governing body for magic users. To put it simply, we magic users can sense others’ affinity for magic. We notice it, note it, and then we act. Most of these individuals have a small ability for very novice-level magic, and therefore, don’t get an invitation to having a teacher. It seems that despite my protests, you have been noticed and have been selected for instruction.”

“Wait, what do you mean your protests? You don’t want me to learn magic?”

He shakes his head like I’m not understanding anything he’s saying, which in all fairness, I don’t. “I had no desire for you to learn magic because I did not want the Society to know about you. You have been watched, Lorelai, since the day you stepped foot in the valley and showed a connection in the land. Anyone who meets you can sense that there is magic there. But it’s not that you possess an ability for it, you are magic.”

I tease him despite his serious expression. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what most people say about my good looks and charming personality.”

“No, Lorelai. You know this to be true. I’m not even sure if I can teach you warp magic, but if it will convince the Society that you are in fact a witch and not some strange unknown ‘other’, then I will try my hardest.” He takes a steady breath in, his eyes shifting forward and away from me. “And now to hear that Lance, a mage from the First Slash has offered to train you… It could spell your doom.”

I cock my head. “Doom? He doesn’t mean any harm, he’s just an idiot.”

“He senses the same thing from you that I sensed when we first met. But he’s young and reckless, and he can’t think with his head because he doesn’t have one.” Magnus breathes out again, trying to calm himself. “He will push you until you break. I don’t mean that he would harm you, but that you will reach an uncontained state, one that is far more dangerous than what you are in now.”

Crossing my arms, I turn my head to fully look at him, trying to stare him down. “That won’t happen because I have self control, Magnus. I won’t just try and do whatever he tells me to do.”

He sighs now, dropping his head into his hands, rubbing slowly at his temples. He shakes his head very slowly. “I don’t think you understand what the possible consequences could be if the Society found out that you are not a witch.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” I admit.

He keeps his head in his hands, but he straightens his neck so he’s looking at the ground. His body goes completely still. “They would observe you. Closely, not from afar. And if they could not understand you, they would find a way to control you. They could put you in a cage or a bind, or even worse, turn you into some kind of weapon. The Society of Wizards exists for a reason, but it is not a kind government. Rules must be in place for a reason. And they must be enforced. And if they could not control you…”

The silence hangs there for a bit. I know how his sentence would have ended, but I don’t press it. I know he’s right, even if I’ve never met this all-knowing organization. And maybe it's because of this that I’m not scared.

“He said he could help me,” I say finally.

Magnus doesn’t answer immediately. When I finally look up, he’s already watching me. Not analytically. Something tighter than that.

“He can,” Magnus says at last.

That surprises me.

“But not safely.”

I exhale slowly. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I do when the consequences extend beyond you.”

My eyes narrow. “That’s not fair.”

“It is not meant to be fair,” he replies. “It is meant to be accurate.”

I push back in my chair slightly, the wood scraping softly against the floor. “You’re asking me to just ignore this. To stay where I am and pretend I don’t want to know what I’m capable of.”

“I am asking you,” Magnus says, sharper now, “to understand what will happen if you draw the wrong kind of attention.”

“I already do,” I shoot back. “You made that very clear.”

“Then act like it.”

The words land harder than anything else he’s said. For a second, I just stare at him.

“I am,” I say, quieter now, but no less firm. “I came back from the volcano, didn’t I? I didn’t die. I didn’t do anything reckless—”

“You nearly fell into lava.”

“I didn’t.”

“You would have,” he says, and this time the control cracks just slightly. “If I had not been there.”

That stops me. Not because he’s wrong. But because of how he says it, like the words spilled out of his mouth. It was attached to some other feeling, feelings I don’t know if he can understand.

“I’m learning,” I say, softer now. “You said that yourself.”

“I did.”

“And I need more than just one way to do that.”

Magnus goes still. Completely still. His gaze doesn’t leave mine.

“And you believe he is the correct alternative?” he asks.

“I think he’s… different,” I admit. “And I think that matters. And I think I should get to decide that for myself.”

Magnus exhales. Slowly. Not annoyed. Just… thinking. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. More controlled than before. But there’s something else in it now. Reluctance.

“You do not understand the position you are in,” he says. “You are not simply learning magic, Lorelai. You are becoming something that does not fit within any existing framework.”

“I know.”

“No,” he says, firmer now. “You do not. Because if you did, you would not be so eager to expose that uncertainty to someone like him.”

I swallow.

He leans forward slightly, his voice lowering.

“If he pushes you, and he will, and you fail to demonstrate control within a recognizable discipline…” he pauses, choosing his words carefully, “…then what you are becomes far more visible than what you can do.”

I glance down at my hands. At the paper. At everything I don’t understand yet.

“What are you saying?” I ask quietly.

Magnus watches me for a long moment.

Then, he relents. Maybe not all at once, but it's enough.

“You may train with him,” he says.

I feel myself gawking at him after all this time arguing. “What?”

“You may train with him,” he repeats, slower this time. “In tandem with your instruction under me.”

I sit up straighter. “Magnus—”

“I am not finished.”

Right. Of course he isn’t. His gaze sharpens again, that familiar control settling back into place.

“…You will need to be very deliberate in what you show him,” he says finally.

“Show him?” I repeat. “It’s training, not a performance.”

“For you,” Magnus replies evenly, “there is little difference.”

That… is not reassuring. I tilt my head slightly, my lips soon following in a downturned expression. “Okay, now you’re going to have to explain that.”

“Most practitioners draw from a single source,” Magnus begins. “Nature. Elements. Emotion. Their abilities are shaped by that source, and, more importantly, limited by it.”

I nod slowly. “Right. That part I understand.”

“That is what Lance expects to see,” he continues. “A first-tier practitioner. Predictable. Contained.”

“And you think I’m not that.”

“I know you are not.”

The certainty in his voice makes something in my chest tighten. I shift slightly in my seat. “Then what am I, exactly?”

Magnus studies me for a moment. “…You are not limited to a single source,” he says. “Even if you have not yet realized it.”

I frown. “That sounds like a very polite way of saying I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“That is also true,” he says calmly.

I stare at him. “…You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he replies with a small smile and that same furrowed brow, “still correct.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Fine. Keep going.”

Magnus inclines his head slightly. “There are disciplines beyond the foundational ones,” he says. “Methods that interpret or refine. Divination. Illusion. Language. They remain within the same structure. They observe, but they do not cross.”

“Cross what?”

“The boundary.”

Magnus continues before I can interrupt. “The world is not singular,” he says. “It is layered. Different planes, existing simultaneously, each governed by different rules. The hidden realm is one such plane.”

My fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the table. “And you can just… go there?” I ask.

“I can access it,” he corrects. “Open a path. Stabilize it, if necessary. But that is not the same as belonging.”

I hesitate. “…And I do?”

Magnus doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, it’s quieter. “You do not force your way to the boundary,” he says. “You… arrive at it.”

Something in my stomach drops. “That doesn’t sound like something I can just ignore,” I say.

“It is not,” Magnus agrees. “Which is why you must be very careful about who notices.”

I exhale slowly. “Lance.”

“Yes.”

“You think he’d figure it out?”

“If you are careless,” Magnus says, “immediately.”

I sit back, processing that. “And what happens if he does?”

Magnus’s expression doesn’t change. “He will ask questions you are not prepared to answer,” he states calmly. “And he will not ask them gently.”

“…Okay,” I say after a moment. “So what exactly am I supposed to do?”

“You are a nature practitioner,” Magnus replies without hesitation. “You encourage growth. You restore. You listen to the land. That is all he is permitted to see.”

“And everything else?”

“You will not use it.”

I let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You’re saying that like I even know how to.”

Magnus’s gaze sharpens slightly. “You do,” he says. “Instinctively. That is precisely the problem.”

I open my mouth to argue, then stop. Because… he’s not wrong. “…And this has happened before,” I say slowly. “Hasn’t it.”

Magnus goes still. The shift is subtle, but it’s there. Then he looks away.

“Yes.” The word is quiet when it leaves his lips.

I lean forward slightly. “When?”

A pause.

“When I was young,” Magnus begins. There’s something almost ironic in the way he says it. “I was not as… measured as I am now.”

I can’t help it. “That’s hard to imagine.”

“It should not be,” he replies. “I was arrogant.” Blunt. Unflinching. “I believed that if something existed, it was meant to be understood,” he continues. “And if it could be understood… it could be controlled.”

I tilt my head. “And that turned out to be wrong.”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“There was a man,” Magnus says. “A practitioner who believed the boundaries between planes were unnecessary. That magic, in its purest form, should not be confined to one layer of reality.”

“That sounds familiar,” I murmur.

“It should.”

His gaze flicks back to me.

“I listened to him,” Magnus continues. “More than I should have. As did many others.”

I feel my stomach tighten. “You said you weren’t alone before.”

“I was not. It became a conflict,” he says. “Between those who believed the boundaries should remain… and those who believed they should be removed.”

“…A war,” I say quietly.

Magnus’s jaw tightens.

“Yes.”

The word settles heavily between us.

“It was not fought where most would see it,” he adds. “It unfolded in places where the boundaries were already thin. Beneath the earth. Between layers.”

The mines.

I swallow. “And your mentor?” I ask.

Magnus is quiet for a moment. “He warned me,” he says finally. “From the beginning.” A faint, almost bitter edge enters his voice. “I thought him overly cautious.”

“What happened?” I ask.

Magnus’s hand stills against the table. His eyes glaze over as he looks at the table, as if there’s something there that could be studied if his gaze stayed there long enough. “He was right,” he says simply. “He always was.”

I sit back slowly, the weight of that settling in. “…So,” I say after a moment, “your advice is that I don’t make the same mistake.”

Magnus looks at me again. “Precisely.”

“Underestimation,” he adds, “is far safer than curiosity.”

I let out a quiet breath. “…Alright,” I say. “Nature magic it is.”

Magnus inclines his head once. “For now,” he says.”

“And if I can’t do this? If I can’t appear as a nature practitioner?”

His jaw tightens, a small and strange look forming on his face. “You will still have me,” he says.

It’s quiet. Almost too quiet. But it lands harder than anything else he’s said. Not with authority or instruction. It’s something else, something that’s personal.

The room stills. I don’t look away this time.

“Okay,” I say finally.

It is not agreement in the way he would define it, not submission in the way I would resent, but something in between. It means I am choosing to let him guide me, even when I do not fully understand where he is leading, even when every instinct in me resists the idea of handing that control over to someone else.

It’s frustrating. It’s infuriating. And, against my better judgment, it does something else entirely.

There is something about the way he claims certainty, the way he draws lines where I cannot yet see them, the way he speaks as though he already knows what I am capable of becoming. It settles low in my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

It’s kind of hot, I think to myself.

Magnus nods once to my answer, and thankfully not to my inner thoughts. Not satisfied. Not entirely. But it’s acceptable at least.

My eyes drift back to the paper. Still folded. Still waiting.

This time, I pick it up.

I unfold it slowly, deliberately, the paper sliding open beneath my fingers with a soft sound that feels louder than it should in the quiet room. My eyes skim over the list, taking in the structure of it, the neat organization of his time, the way his life seems to exist in clean, defined segments that mine has never quite managed to achieve.

MON: GALDORAN OUTPOST
TUES: STARDEW VALLEY
WED: STARDEW VALLEY
THU: GINGER ISLAND
FRI: GINGER ISLAND
SAT: HIGHLANDS
SUN: HIGHLANDS

I let out a quiet breath through my nose, my eyes flicking back up to Magnus, who is already watching me.

Closely.

His expression shifts just slightly when he notices what I’m looking at, something tightening in his features, something almost… pained, though he masks it quickly enough that I almost miss it.

“You know,” I start, keeping my tone light even as I let my gaze linger on him, “I technically don’t have to do what you tell me to do.”

I tilt my head slightly as I speak, watching for his reaction, testing the edges of the space he has just drawn around me.

Magnus exhales, slow and controlled, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if he is already anticipating where I am going with this.

“Yes,” he replies, his voice even, though there is something firmer beneath it now, “but if I were you, I would.”

The certainty in it… God.

It shouldn’t do anything to me. And yet.

My fingers tighten slightly around the paper, my gaze dropping back down to it as if that will ground me, as if focusing on something tangible will keep my thoughts from drifting somewhere far less manageable.

It doesn’t.

Instead, my attention catches on the unfamiliar names, my curiosity pulling me forward despite everything else. My finger traces lightly beneath the words, brushing over “Galdoran Outpost,” then lower, slower, beneath “Highlands,” the motion absent but deliberate.

“What are these places?” I ask, my voice quieter now, more focused. “I’ve never heard of them before.”

Magnus reaches for the paper.

The motion is quick, sharper than it needs to be, and for a second, our fingers almost brush as he takes it from me. The contact doesn’t quite happen, but the absence of it feels just as noticeable, like something narrowly avoided.

He smooths the paper out between his hands, his attention shifting fully to it as he reads, his posture straightening again into something more composed, more removed.

“No,” he says, his tone returning to that familiar, measured cadence, “you would not have heard of the continent of Galdora. Nor the Highlands.”

He glances up briefly, his gaze catching mine before dropping back to the page. “Although the Highlands exist within the Ferngill Republic, they are… highly inaccessible. The boundary between the physical world and the hidden realm is exceptionally thin there. In some areas, it is nearly nonexistent.”

His fingers adjust slightly on the paper, his grip tightening just enough to suggest that this is not just information to him.

“It allows monsters to move freely,” he continues, his voice lowering just slightly, “without restriction. Without concealment. Day or night.”

A chill runs through me despite the warmth of the room.

“I highly doubt the government would want to involve themselves with a place like that,” he adds, quieter now, “if they were fully aware of its existence.”

My head tilts slightly, confusion settling in deeper now, threading through everything he is saying.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “How can they not know about it?”

Magnus folds the paper again, slower this time, more deliberate, the edges aligning perfectly beneath his fingers before he slides it back toward me across the table. His hands remain there for a moment after, resting against the surface, fingers loosely interlaced as he considers his next words.

“There are many locations,” he says, “that are intentionally concealed from non-magic users.”

His gaze lifts, settling on me fully now.

“Primarily for their safety.”

I feel something shift again at the way he says it, the weight of it, the implication that I have already stepped beyond that boundary whether I meant to or not.

“As you know, magic is not entirely unheard of within Stardew Valley, nor within the Ferngill Republic,” he continues, “but it operates on a need-to-know basis.” There is a faint edge to his voice now, something more serious than before. “We conceal our presence. Our practices. The existence of anything that could not be easily explained. And in return, we are largely left alone.”

My fingers tighten slightly around the paper again.

“For the most part,” he adds.

I nod slowly, though the motion feels delayed, like my mind is still catching up to everything he has just said. It is difficult to reconcile, difficult to understand how something so large, so significant, could exist entirely outside of what I have known my entire life.

Magnus watches me for a moment longer. He leans into the table now, his face closer to mine. Everything is closer to me.

Then he continues. “As for Galdora,” he says, and something in his expression shifts again, something darker this time, more distant, “it is not a place suited for inexperience.”

His gaze drifts slightly, not away from me, but past me, like he is recalling something rather than describing it.

“The largest region of the continent is known as the Crimson Badlands,” he continues, his voice quieter now, more measured, “where the heat during the day is relentless, and the cold at night is… unforgiving.” Magnus takes a small breath in. “And the monsters,” he adds, his eyes returning to mine, sharper now, more focused, “are not only more numerous than those found in the Highlands.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “They are far less restrained.”

The words settle between us, heavier now, pulling the room back into silence. His gaze centers on me with those focused, moonlit eyes he always seems to carry, sharp and searching in a way that makes it feel like he is seeing more than I am offering. But I am not looking at them. Not really. My attention drifts everywhere else, anywhere else it can land without getting caught in that intensity.

I look at his body instead.

Or at least, the outline of it, the way his robes fall around him in heavy, structured lines, the fabric concealing more than it reveals, but not enough to hide the shape beneath. I know what he looks like under there, or at least I have imagined it enough times to feel like I do, and that knowledge makes it worse. My eyes trace upward before I can stop them, catching on the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble that has grown in just enough to soften it without dulling it.

It is unfair. Completely unfair.

My gaze lifts further, catching on the loose strands of hair that have fallen forward, just enough to break the otherwise deliberate way he holds himself. It makes him look less controlled.

More… I drag my eyes away before I can finish that thought. I hate that I do this to myself. I hate how easily I can get caught in it, how quickly my focus slips from what he is saying to what he is, like he is something to be studied rather than someone I should be arguing with.

The room does not help.

The farmhouse is small, and there is nowhere for anything to hide. The kitchen and living space blend into one another without any real separation, a worn wooden table sitting between them like it is trying to define the space where nothing else does. The couch is just a few steps away, angled toward the fireplace that struggles to hold heat this time of year, and beyond that, the narrow doorway leads to the bedroom, the only place in the house that can be closed off from everything else.

There is no distance here. No buffer. Just him standing too close.

I cough, the sound sharper than I intend, cutting through the quiet that has settled too thickly around us.

“So,” I attempt, forcing my voice back into something that resembles normal, even as I straighten slightly, trying to shake the tension from my shoulders, “when can I go to these places?”

Magnus does not hesitate.

“You will not be going at any point, Lorelai.” The answer lands immediately, firm and absolute, like it was never a question to begin with.

I scoff, the sound leaving me before I can filter it. “Are you serious?” I ask, my frustration snapping back into place just as quickly as it had disappeared. “You cannot just—”

“I can,” he interrupts, his voice calm but immovable, cutting cleanly through whatever I was about to say. “And I am.”

I stare at him. Really stare at him this time.

He stands across the table, his posture straight, his hands resting lightly against the wood as if he has anchored himself there. The distance between us is barely anything, the table the only thing separating us, and even that feels insignificant when he leans forward just slightly, closing the space in a way that feels deliberate.

“You are not prepared,” he continues, his voice quieter now, but somehow more intense for it. “Not for the Highlands. Not for Galdora. Not for what exists beyond the boundaries you are familiar with.”

“And whose decision is that?” I shoot back, stepping closer without thinking, my hand pressing flat against the table as I lean into it, matching his position without meaning to. “Yours?”

“Yes.”

There is no hesitation. No apology. Just certainty.

And something about that…

Yoba.

It does something to me that I cannot explain.

“That is not how this works,” I say, though my voice has lost some of its edge, something else slipping in beneath it, something quieter but no less charged.

“It is,” he replies.

Another step. Not forward, but closer. Because now the table does not feel like distance anymore. It feels like an excuse.

“You do not yet understand the environments you are asking to enter,” he continues, his gaze holding mine now, no longer drifting, no longer avoiding. “You do not understand how your abilities will respond. Or fail to.”

The word fail lands harder than the rest. I swallow, my grip tightening slightly against the edge of the table.

“Then let me learn,” I say, softer now, but no less insistent. “You cannot just keep me here.”

“I am not keeping you here,” Magnus says. His voice lowers then. “You are not ready to leave.”

The distinction is subtle. But it is there.

I exhale slowly, my eyes flicking away from his just long enough to break the hold he has on me, my attention catching briefly on the rest of the room again, the small stove in the kitchen corner, the faint clutter of dishes I have not gotten to yet, the way the firelight flickers unevenly across the walls, casting both of us in something warmer than the words we are saying.

When I look back at him, he has not moved. But something in him has.

“You will go,” he adds, quieter now.

My brow furrows slightly. “I will?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“When you can do so without putting yourself at risk.”

I huff out a small breath, somewhere between a laugh and something more tired. “And how exactly am I supposed to prove that?”

Magnus watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable, but his attention unwavering.

“You will show me.”

The words do not land like an order.

They settle.

Slowly. Deliberately. Like something placed between us with care, rather than thrown. There is no sharp edge to them, no demand, no force—but they carry weight all the same, pressing into the space between us until it feels like the room itself has shifted to accommodate them.

It is an expectation. Not imposed. But assumed. And somehow, that feels far more dangerous.

Magnus moves first.

It is sudden, but not abrupt. His body straightens as he rises from the chair, the fabric of his robes shifting softly around him, the sound quiet but noticeable in the stillness of the room. The movement breaks something, just slightly, like the moment has been folded away before it can stretch any further.

“We will meet at the tower tomorrow night,” he says, his voice returning to that familiar, controlled cadence, though there is still something quieter beneath it that has not fully settled. “I have preparations that must be made for your training to begin.”

I blink, the shift in tone pulling me back into something more structured, something easier to hold onto.

Okay.

“Okay,” I repeat, the word leaving me slower this time, softer, like I am still catching up to everything that just passed between us. I have no idea what kind of preparations he is talking about, no clear sense of what tomorrow night will actually look like, but I nod anyway, like that is enough to anchor me in something real.

Magnus does not linger. Of course he doesn’t.

He turns toward the door, his movements precise, deliberate, his posture returning fully to something composed and distant, like whatever had shifted between us moments ago has already been tucked away somewhere I cannot reach. His head remains angled away from me as he crosses the small space of the farmhouse, the distance between us stretching again with every step he takes.

And I feel it.

The absence.

Before he even reaches the door.

He pulls it open, the wood creaking softly as it gives way, and immediately the cold rushes in, sharp and biting, cutting through the warmth of the room in an instant. It curls around my ankles, climbs up my spine, a stark contrast to everything that had just existed here seconds ago.

He pauses in the doorway.

Then, he looks back.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

His gaze finds mine again, and for a second, the distance between us collapses entirely, the cold air, the doorway, the space of the room—none of it matters.

There is something in his expression.

Something unreadable. Something that almost makes him look like he is about to say something else.

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. And just like that, the moment closes. He turns away, and the cold follows him out.

Winter 14, 1975

I have decided that the farmhouse is too small in winter.

It wasn't too small in spring. It wasn't too small in summer or fall either, for that matter. But something about the cold makes every wall move inward. The ceiling drops. The table takes up more room than it did in October. I spent most of this morning in it with someone whose company I had not asked for and did not know how to get rid of, and by the time they left I felt like I needed to go stand outside for twenty minutes just to remember that space was still a concept that existed.

I won't say who. That's not the point.

The point is that people have a way of showing up and rearranging things without touching a single object in the room. I keep thinking I have a clear idea of what my days look like and then someone comes along with their own idea about what my days should look like and suddenly I'm sitting at my own table nodding at things I haven't agreed to yet.

And the worst part of it is that they're usually not wrong. That's what makes it so irritating. If they were wrong it would be simple.

The farm is good. The ground is cold and hard and I won't be able to do much with it for another couple of months, but I walked the whole perimeter this evening after everyone had left me alone and something about it felt right. Like it was patient. Like it wasn't going anywhere and neither was I and we had both made a kind of peace with that.

I don't know what I'm becoming out here. I don't think it's what I thought I was coming here to become, which is a strange thing to sit with.

But I think that might be alright.

Maybe I should build a greenhouse with all this spare time on my hands.

Chapter Text

“So you’re telling me you have two men that are actively in love with you?” Abigail asks as she sinks a shot into the pocket of the billiards table.

It’s just the four of us tonight at the Saloon: me, Sophia, Abigail, and Haley. Abigail had asked Sebastian and Sam if they wanted to come along, but they had refused, saying they had some serious Solarian Chronicles business to get down to. Normally, Abigail would drop everything to go hang out with them. But today, she seemed more than content to just be hanging out with the girls. Plus Alex.

He was a surprise invite, and I was still cautious of his sharp tongue, but I didn’t say anything when Haley came striding into the game room with him following behind her.

I shrug with a loud sigh between my lips, lazily fidgeting with the cue stick in my hand, feeling the smooth wood beneath my fingers.

“They’re not actively in love with me,” I argue, brushing a piece of hair out of my face. I look over at Haley, who's currently sitting on the couch’s arm chair and focused on making sure her lipliner hasn’t worn away from the drink in her hand. A vodka cranberry, her go-to mixed drink, and free, since Emily works at the Saloon every night. Alex sits next to her, with a half-drank beer in his hand, quietly judging all of us in the room.

Haley snaps her makeup compact shut, looking up at me now. She’s wearing something different than her usual push-up bras and mini skirts, clad in a white baggy pair of cargos and a tight pink cami on top. It wasn't a huge difference, but maybe Abigail was rubbing off on her.

“Yeah right. Magnus won’t leave you alone for the life of him, and Lance just gave you his schedule,” Haley says as she extends her hand casually and honestly, her palm facing towards the ceiling, “I would say that’s giving romance.” She folds her elbows at her stomach.

Sophia shoots me a weak smile from the couch. She sits on the farthest end, like she’s trying to give Haley and Alex as much space as she can.

“I would say so, too,” Alex affirms.

He’s been silent since 9, when Haley and he arrived. The clock’s arms declare that it’s somewhere a few minutes past 10 now. I’m unable to gather if his posture is due to his typically cold and arrogant nature, or if it’s something else. Maybe nerves. I rarely see him spend time with the other guys in Pelican Town, but I also don’t see him hanging out with any of the girls besides Haley.

“Alex, not helping,” I put forth in a weak voice.

He shrugs, taking a sip from his drink. Well, more like a chug. Alex tips the whole thing back and swallows it in one go, before getting up to go wander off to the bar.

Sophia, in all her shyness and infinite compassion, gently asks Haley, “Why did you invite him? I feel like he’s not having a good time with us.”

Abigail flashes a grin at Sophia. “We can break him down, we just gotta work harder.”

Haley stiffens at what her friends were saying about her own friend. I understand that kind of defensiveness. “Look, he just takes a minute to warm up to other people, but he can be really nice when he’s not…”

“A dick?” Abigail offers.

“Bitchy,” Haley finishes, giving Abigail a withering look.

Abigail slides the pool stick to behind her neck, her arms stretched out to keep it in place. She bounces over to Haley’s spot on the couch and playfully twirls a strand of Haley’s blonde waves. “Come on,” she teasingly coos. “We promise we’ll make him feel a part of the family.”

I don’t think Sophia nor Abigail know what I know about Alex. And by the looks of it, I don’t even think they have a hint to what’s going on.

Haley slaps Abigail’s hand out of her face. “Don’t touch me,” she warns, though I know she’s not saying it out of anger or annoyance. She’s flustered. I feel Sophia’s eyes flip to my face, but I don’t acknowledge it.

“Sheesh, grumpy pants,” Abigail jokes, skipping back over to the table. She shoots, misses, and then curses loudly, “FUCK!”

We hear Gus’ concerned voice over our giggles, but we’re unable to pick apart exactly what his words were. Probably that we were driving out his customers, customers that are regulars at the Saloon, come rain or come shine.

Alex comes back now, a new beer in his hands. He seems more relaxed now. And by relaxed, I mean that his posture isn’t perfectly straight. I notice then that his face has a bit of a pinker tint to it, with large red blotches littering his cheeks and trailing all the way down to his covered chest.

“Do you have Asian flush?” I ask without realizing how my question sounds.

Alex’s thick eyebrows furrow, confused by my question. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Yeah, what is that supposed to mean?” Sophia confronts me. She’s noticeably more sober than the rest of the group, but still, I’ve never seen her get flushed from a drink before.

I laugh quietly at that. “It’s a medical term, I’m not calling Alex Asian, and Sophia, I’m not making fun of you. It’s when you get red splotches on your face from drinking. Well the scientific name for it is called alcohol flush reactions, and the other term is colloquial. It’s genetic, caused by a deficiency in the enzyme—”

Abigail groans, “Enough biology talk. Let’s talk about magic!”

I shake my head, firm on my stance that I don’t plan to talk anymore about Magnus and Lance. “You can talk about it, Abigail, but I’m not saying anything more.”

“Okay, I’ll bookmark it for later and talk about my own stuff if you can actually manage to hit a ball into a pocket.” She uses her cue stick to point to all of the nearby pockets that my colors could go into.

I roll my eyes but stalk up to the table anyways. I line up my shot, trying hard to focus on the angles. I loved geometry and trig in high school, but applying it to a game of 8-ball was impossible for my awkward movements. Still, all of this training with Magnus was helping me lean into something more graceful, more purposeful, than I ever was before.

My stick lunges forward, kissing the white cue ball, and sending it flying to the ball I had hoped it would make contact with. The ball sputters across the table, taking with it another one of my balls into the pocket.

I stand up proudly, with a much too smug look on my face.

Abigail relents, “Okay fine, I’ll talk about it.”

Haley and Alex begin to talk amongst themselves, while Sophia gently tries to open the conversation to allow her into it. I watch the two of them, eventually three react to one another while I listen to Abigail.

“So, I’ve been getting into tarot, right?” Abigail says like I remember what she’s talking about.

“Sure,” I confirm without a beat.

“Well, I’ve been making good progress on it. Almost too good. I recently drew ten cards, a common spread for tarot, and every card I drew was like… eerily too accurate. But also, I don’t know how accurate they’ll be if I haven’t seen them play out yet, you know?”

My head tilts to the side as I tuck another piece of my frizzy hair behind my ear. “What do you mean? Can you explain what you drew?”

Abigail nods, her expression more serious. I try to lighten the situation by continuing to line up my next shot at the table.

“So my first card was the Four of Cups, right? Which basically signifies stagnation and apathy, repeating the same cycle again and not seeking out new paths. I feel like that represents how I’ve just been kind of… stuck here. Doing the same thing. Having the same arguments with my dad about not going into the mines or adventuring. I’m not depressed, I just feel like I’m wasting my potential, you know? I also pulled the Emperor card, which is supposed to be this masculine card, representing the authoritarian role my dad plays in my life.

“A lot of it kind of followed the same ideas, at least, from what I was reading into. And then I got my last card, which was the Two of Cups. Which is strange because usually that card represents relationships, like human connection. It looks like I’m either going to have a new relationship in my life soon that will push me to a new perspective or place, or maybe the deepening of an existing one. I pulled a mix of Wands and Cups cards, which is the suit of action and willpower and the suit of subconscious feelings and relationships. So, maybe this mystery person will lead to a new adventure? I’m not sure. It seems like this person will probably be someone I might have never considered before, so I hope romance isn’t the only adventure.”

When she finishes, I shoot the ball, which narrowly misses the pocket. I look up at her, and then look over at Haley. Just briefly. But it’s long enough.

Her eyes are intently glued on Abigail, who doesn’t seem to realize this. Alex is engaged in some quiet conversation with Sophia, but Haley can’t be bothered with the two of them. It’s like Abigail and Haley are the only people in the room.

When I look back at Abigail, I shrug. “Who knows what it could mean. Knowing you and your weird intuition, it probably will come true.”

Abigail sighs frustratedly, dragging a hand through her long orchid hair. “It’s just so weird. I feel like each time I think I’m just going crazy and that it’s not magic, something weird will happen anyways, you know?”

“I mean, yes, I do know what you mean,” I respond in a low voice, looking away from her and focusing on my muddy boots.

“I wonder who the person could be,” Abigail muses. She chews her lip in silent contemplation.

Without even looking at Haley, I know I need to make a move on her part. Subtly and quietly. Even if it’s only been a few days, I couldn’t handle her inaction in this situation. “Maybe it’s someone who's not your usual type. Like, think of your usual type and then think of the opposite of that.”

Abigail groans, leaning her lower-body onto the table as she crosses her arms. “How would I know? I’ve only dated like, two people.”

“Okay, who is your celebrity crush?” I push, feeling Haley’s gaze lightly touch the two of us.

“I mean if I had to pick, probably the alternative-looking ones. Like I don’t need dyed hair but I love different crazy hair colors, obviously. Probably ones that wear a lot of eyeliner and baggy clothes. Like when you look at them, you’re not really sure you know what you’re looking at, but they just look cool.”

That was entirely unhelpful to this cause. It was as if she purposely avoided using any gender-specific language. Maybe Haley was correct in feeling so anxious about assuming what Abigail’s sexuality could be.

But I couldn’t come right out and ask “guys or girls” or ask if it was in the middle or any other shade of queerness. So, I kept pressing forward.

“So, maybe someone that doesn’t look like you?” I suggest with a slightly cracked voice.

Abigail giggles at that. “I didn’t realize I just described myself with black hair. That’s funny.”

Okay, so possibly a woman? It was sort of implied. Maybe. But I won’t push that.

“Maybe your true love doesn’t have dyed hair,” I joke in the most lighthearted tone.

Abigail playfully punches me in the ribs with a hearty laugh. “Oh, I sincerely doubt that.”

I feel Haley stiffen in the corner of my eye. Was Haley a natural blonde? Fuck, my thoughts were getting all confused on this recon mission. I needed to abort the mission and just transition to a normal conversation.

“Well, you know what they say, love usually happens when you least expect it,” I say as naturally as I can. I shift in my feet, not really sure what to say or do next, despite the fact that Abigail is oblivious to my inner monologue.

Abigail brushes it off with ease and a relaxed shrug. “Yeah, I’m not too worried about it. Besides, it could have just been that I was reading the cards wrong. Maybe it’s about a new friend instead of love.” Her eyes narrow, focusing on my expression. “It could be about you. We’re new friends.”

Okay, but Haley is actually a newer friend than me, but I don’t dare to correct her outloud. At least, not like that. “Girl, we’ve been friends since spring. I wouldn’t count that as new.”

Abigail groans and relents to this fact.

We drift off into other avenues of conversation after that, the tension dissolving just enough to let something softer take its place. Sophia leans forward slightly, her hands folded neatly in her lap before she relaxes into the cushions, finally allowing herself to take up more space as she shifts closer to Alex and Haley’s side. Their shoulders brush once, then again, until it feels natural, like they have settled into a rhythm that does not need to be acknowledged.

Alex and Haley’s voices lowered into something quieter, more private, their heads angled toward one another in a way that keeps the rest of us just out of reach. Every now and then, Haley’s laughter slips through, light and quick, followed by Alex’s quieter response, the two of them existing in their own small pocket of the room. Every now and then, Haley will say something to address Sophia, allowing her to make a small comment here and there. I note that Alex speaks to Sophia more than a few times, and not in his usual sarcastic or derogative voice.

Abigail nudges my arm lightly, pulling me back into the conversation as Sophia begins listing off songs she has been listening to lately, her voice soft but steady, gaining confidence the longer she speaks. We fall into it easily after that, trading artists and albums and half-remembered lyrics, the conversation weaving between us in loose threads that never quite break.

The Saloon feels warmer than it ever has before.

Not just from the fireplace, though the heat from it flickers steadily across the room, casting golden light against the wooden walls and catching in the glass bottles behind the bar. It is something else, something quieter and more contained, like the space has shrunk just enough to hold only the people inside it.

The lanterns overhead glow low and soft, their light licking across every surface, turning worn wood into something almost polished, softening the edges of everything until it feels less like a bar and more like a place meant to be stayed in. Shadows stretch lazily behind us, shifting with every movement, every laugh, every careless gesture.

With just a few people, an old room can feel new again.

To think that I was here three seasons ago and I had never met these people before. I didn’t know them and they didn’t know me. But now, familiarity is at the heart of this group.

Time passes without me noticing exactly how.

At some point, Abigail sinks the final shot, the sharp crack of the cue ball echoing briefly before the colored ball disappears cleanly into the pocket. She freezes for half a second, then explodes into motion, jumping back from the table with a triumphant shout, her laughter spilling out loud and unrestrained as she throws her arms into the air.

“Yes!” she yells, spinning once before pointing her cue stick at me like a weapon. “And that is how it’s done.”

I roll my eyes, though I cannot stop the smile that pulls at my lips, pushing myself upright from where I had leaned against the table. “You won by, like, one shot,” I counter, brushing imaginary dust from my sleeve.

“Winning is winning,” she fires back immediately, already bouncing on the balls of her feet, her energy impossible to contain as she circles the table like she has just accomplished something monumental.

“Rematch,” I mutter under my breath.

“In your dreams,” she shoots back, sticking her tongue out at me before dissolving into another fit of laughter.

The music in the Saloon slows slightly in the background, the steady hum of conversation lowering with it, like the night itself is beginning to wind down. Glasses clink softly at the bar, Gus and Emily moving between patrons with quiet efficiency, his presence grounding the space in something steady and familiar while hers is something that breathes life and variety into the old establishment.

I glance over at the couch.

They are all bundled together now, closer than before, the space between them nearly gone. Abigail has wedged herself between Sophia and Alex, her arm thrown lazily across the back of the couch as she leans into Sophia’s side, still grinning from her victory. Sophia sits slightly turned toward her, her expression soft and content, while Alex leans forward just enough to keep himself engaged, his posture looser than it had been earlier.

Haley sits at the edge, but not quite apart.

Not really.

Her shoulder brushes Alex’s arm, her leg tucked slightly beneath her, her attention shifting between him and the rest of us in small, careful glances. She looks more relaxed than she did before, though there is still something held in her posture, something she has not quite let go of.

I swing myself up onto the edge of the billiards table, the wood creaking faintly beneath my weight as I settle there, my boots dangling just slightly off the ground. I glance over my shoulder briefly, checking for Willy out of habit more than fear, before turning back to them.

“So,” Alex says, his voice cutting cleanly through the space, directed at me for the first time in what feels like an hour. His tone is casual, but his eyes are sharper now, more focused. “What are you going to do about Lance and Magnus?”

I groan softly, dragging a hand down my face before dropping it back into my lap. “Can we not—”

“No,” Haley interrupts immediately, sitting up straighter now, her expression lighting with interest like she has been waiting for this exact moment. “You should pick Lance.”

I blink at her.

She gestures with both hands, as if laying out an argument she has already fully constructed in her head.

“For one, he’s, like, way hotter,” she begins, ticking her fingers off one by one, “and has bigger muscles. And in the same vein, he seems more appropriately aged. I mean, he looks kind of the same age as Magnus, but Magnus has been around in the valley for probably the last ten thousand years, which is kind of… creepy.”

Abigail snickers at this while Sophia keeps her lips flat and pursed.

Haley continues, her hand popping out into two fingers held above her head. “Secondly, he didn’t weirdly ghost you for two seasons. I mean, he disappeared, but it wasn’t like after some stupid argument. And thirdly and most importantly, he’s not a complete social outcast.”

“Maybe Magnus isn’t a bad fit for you after all,” Alex cuts in, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he leans back slightly, clearly pleased with himself.

Haley does not hesitate.

Her elbow drives straight into his ribs with enough force to fold him inward, his breath leaving him in a sharp, surprised sound as he clutches his side.

“Sorry,” he wheezes, though he is already half-laughing.

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, waving it off before it can turn into something else. “And I wouldn’t say Lance has bigger muscles—”

The words leave my mouth before my brain catches up. And then, everything stops.

Sophia’s eyes widen instantly, her entire posture snapping upright like she has just been struck with something electric. Haley freezes for half a second before dissolving into laughter, grabbing Alex by the arm and shaking him violently as she tries to get him to react.

Abigail’s eyebrows shoot straight up, her mouth falling open in exaggerated disbelief.

“Seriously!?” Sophia blurts, her voice ringing out far louder than I have ever heard it, before she immediately clamps a hand over her mouth, her face flushing as she shrinks back slightly.

I feel my face burn.

“I— uh—ignore that,” I say quickly, shaking my head as if that might undo the last ten seconds of my life. “That is not what I meant.”

Haley is still laughing. Alex is trying to breathe again. Abigail is staring at me like she has just unlocked a new level of information she was not supposed to have.

“Besides,” I add, weaker now, my voice cracking just slightly despite my best efforts, “it’s not even like that.”

And the worst part is, I am not entirely sure anyone believes me.

Silence hangs for exactly one second too long.

Then—

“Oh my god,” Abigail breathes, her voice dropping into something dangerously delighted, like she has just been handed the most valuable piece of gossip of her entire life. She slowly leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her eyes locked onto me with a kind of intensity that should honestly be illegal. “No, no, no, you don’t get to just say that and then move on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I insist immediately, though the heat climbing up my neck suggests otherwise. I can feel it spreading, creeping up into my cheeks, settling there in a way that refuses to be ignored.

“You absolutely did,” Haley cuts in, still recovering from her laughter, though it lingers in her voice as she wipes at the corner of her eye. She turns toward me fully now, her entire body angled in my direction, completely invested. “You compared them.”

“I did not compare them,” I argue, though it sounds weaker the second it leaves me. “I just— I said—”

“You said muscles,” Alex adds, finally upright again, his voice rough from where the air had been knocked out of him. He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, his expression sharpened with interest now. “That’s a comparison.”

I stare at him. “You weren’t even part of this conversation,” I point out.

“I am now,” he replies simply.

That’s unfortunately valid in this inane conversation.

Sophia lowers her hand slowly from her mouth, her eyes still wide, though now there’s something softer in them too, curiosity, maybe, or something like cautious excitement. “So…” she says gently, like she’s stepping into something fragile, “you’ve seen them both… like that?”

I choke.

“Okay!” I clap my hands together once, a little too loudly, pushing myself off the billiards table as if physically removing myself from the conversation will somehow save me. “New topic. New topic immediately.”

“No,” Abigail says, standing just as quickly, her cue stick abandoned as she follows me like a predator who has already decided she’s won. “Absolutely not. You opened this door, you are not closing it.”

“I didn’t open anything,” I shoot back, backing up a step as she advances, though I’m already smiling despite myself. “You’re all insane.”

“We’re curious,” Haley corrects, though her tone suggests otherwise, her grin sharp as she leans back into the couch, completely at ease now that the attention has shifted away from her. “There’s a difference.”

“Not in the ways that count nor matter,” I mutter.

Haley crosses her arms, tilting her head slightly as she studies me, her expression shifting into something more calculated now, like she’s trying to piece something together instead of just reacting.

“So,” she says slowly, “Magnus and Lance.”

I groan.

“Haley—”

“No, no, hear me out,” she continues, holding up a hand like she’s presenting a formal argument. “You’ve got one guy who is, like, mysterious, brooding, weirdly intense—”

“Rude,” I interject.

“—and another guy who is confident, flirty, and literally gave you his schedule,” she finishes, ignoring me completely. She then lets out a giggle, one that I know she tried her best to contain because of the snort that comes at the end of it. “I guess, maybe Lance might be the same age as Magnus if he’s giving you his schedule like he has one of those rolodexes.” She stills her face as she pinches her fingers together and slides the motion in front of her face. “Still, that is hella romantic in a way.”

“That’s not—”

“That is romantic,” Sophia cuts in, pointing a finger at me like she’s making a legal case. “You don’t give someone your schedule unless you want them to use it.”

“That could mean anything,” I argue, though I don't even sound convinced.

“It doesn’t mean nothing,” Alex points out.

I turn to look at him. He shrugs.

“I’m just saying.”

I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair, my fingers catching slightly on the loose strands as I try to pull myself back together. “You’re all reading way too much into this,” I say. “It’s not like either of them—”

I stop. Too late.

Abigail’s eyes light up again.

“Oh my god,” she says, quieter this time, but somehow more intense. “You don’t even know.”

“I do know,” I insist quickly.

“You hesitated,” Haley points out immediately.

“I did not hesitate.”

“You did,” Sophia says softly, though there’s no accusation in it, just observation. “If you knew which one you wanted, you would have just said their name and not said ‘either’.”

I facepalm and groan loudly. These people were much too smart for their own good. It might be the death of me.

“Okay,” I say, exhaling slowly, trying to regain some kind of control over this conversation. “Even if, and that’s a huge if, there was something there, hypothetically, that doesn’t mean I have to… do anything about it.”

“That’s true,” Alex says.

I blink, shocked by his sudden compassion and empathy.

“Thank you.”

“But you will,” he adds.

I narrow my eyes at him.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He’s right. That’s annoying.

Abigail flops back onto the couch dramatically, throwing an arm over her eyes like she’s exhausted by my refusal to entertain her. “This is painful,” she groans. “You’re in the middle of, like, the most interesting romantic situation this town has seen in years and you’re acting like it’s a math problem.”

“It kind of is a math problem,” I mutter. “There are variables.”

Haley laughs again at that, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” I say, dropping back onto the edge of the table, crossing my arms loosely, “you’re all still here.”

“That’s because this is entertaining,” Abigail replies immediately, peeking out from behind her arm.

I roll my eyes.

But I’m smiling. And for a moment, just a moment, it’s easy.

The warmth of the Saloon settles back in around us, the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the quiet creak of the floor beneath shifting weight. The night feels contained again, like everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be.

“I mean,” Haley says suddenly, her voice cutting through the ease of it, more thoughtful now, less teasing, “you’re going to have to choose eventually.”

I don't answer right away. Because for the first time tonight, I'm not entirely sure what the answer is, and the honesty of that sits somewhere uncomfortable in the middle of my chest.

Sophia mutters something quietly under her breath, barely audible beneath the low hum of the Saloon. All of us turn to look at her at once, and her face erupts into a deep, blotchy red that climbs all the way up to the tips of her ears.

"Forget I said anything!" she cries, immediately pressing both hands flat against her cheeks as if she could physically contain the color spreading across them.

Abigail moves fast. She reaches over and peels Sophia's hands away from her face with a firm but cheerful grip, then leans her forehead directly against Sophia's in the most aggressively affectionate way I have ever witnessed anyone behave. "Tell us everything you know," she says, her voice dropping into something conspiratorial and low, like she is conducting a very important interrogation.

Sophia shakes her head, her eyes wide, but her resolve visibly crumbles the moment Haley raises her signature brow, slow and deliberate, one corner of her mouth tilting upward in a look that has probably leveled stronger people than Sophia.

Sophia exhales in defeat, her shoulders dropping. "I just think," she begins quietly, her fingers twisting together in her lap, "that if you want to know how either of them actually feels, maybe you could try flirting a little, and see how they respond. Not anything too forward. Just something small, and see what comes back."

I immediately pull a face. "I don't even know how to do that."

"Clearly," Alex replies without missing a beat.

I roll my eyes, but a short laugh escapes me despite my best effort to suppress it.

"Okay, but what would I even be looking for?" I press, glancing between them. "Like if I actually did something like that and they responded, how would I know if it meant anything or if they were just being polite?"

Haley tilts her head with a look that suggests she finds the question genuinely charming in its cluelessness. "They're not NPCs," she says easily. "Whatever they say back is something only you're going to be able to read. That's kind of the point."

Abigail drags a hand thoughtfully across her chin, her expression exaggeratedly serious, like she is solving something with real academic weight. "I think the main thing is just that they don't shut it down," she says. "Like, as long as the door doesn't get slammed in your face, you're probably fine. If you walked up to Magnus and said something like, hey, sexy mamas, and he looked at you and went absolutely not, then yeah, you'd have your answer pretty quick."
I stare at her. "I would never say sexy nor mamas to Magnus."

"Obviously," she agrees, waving her hand like this is beside the point. "I'm just illustrating the concept."

Haley nods slowly, as if she is genuinely absorbing this information and cataloguing it somewhere useful. "She's not wrong, though. If the response isn't a shutdown, then you're in the clear enough to keep going. The reaction will tell you more than whatever you actually say."
Sophia nods in quiet agreement, and for a moment, the five of us sit with that.

The fire in the hearth shifts, sending a ripple of warm light across the far wall, and I let myself look around the room without really meaning to. At Abigail, who is already reaching forward to reclaim her abandoned cue stick with the energy of someone who has fully forgotten she ever put it down. At Alex, who has leaned back into the couch cushions, his beer nearly empty, his expression looser and less constructed than it was two hours ago. At Sophia, whose color has finally begun to settle, her hands still folded in her lap but no longer wrung tight. At Haley, who is watching me with something quiet in her expression, something that is not quite teasing anymore, something softer and more patient than I usually associate with her.

I look away first.

"I'll think about it," I say finally, which is neither a yes nor a no, but feels like the most honest thing I have said all night.

Abigail points the cue stick at me. "That means you're going to think about it and then do absolutely nothing."

"It means I'll think about it," I repeat, firm.

She gives me a look that suggests she does not believe me in the slightest, but she lets it go, turning back to the table and lining up a shot she has no real reason to take at this hour of the night except that she clearly cannot help herself.

The crack of the cue ball splits through the quiet of the room, and whatever was left of the tension dissolves cleanly with it, scattered like the balls across the worn green felt. The conversation shifts again after that, drifting into something lighter, easier, with no particular destination, and I let it carry me along without resistance.

The Saloon continues its quiet business around us, Gus moving steadily behind the bar, Emily's voice drifting through from somewhere near the entrance, warm and unhurried. The lanterns overhead have not changed, still low, still amber, still casting everything in that particular kind of light that makes a place feel like it belongs to the people inside it.

At some point, the clock behind the bar ticks past eleven, and nobody moves to leave.
I think, absently, that this is what it feels like when something has quietly become yours without you ever making a deliberate decision about it. Not a farm, not a valley, but something smaller and less tangible than either of those things. A room. A couch. A handful of people who have no real reason to know you as well as they do, and who know you anyway.

I don't think about Magnus. I don't think about Lance.

For now, I just let the warmth of the room settle over me, and I decide that for tonight, this is enough.

Chapter Text

Two letters.

One in the mailbox.

One, tucked carefully between the doorframe and the wood, like it had been placed there deliberately, where I would not miss it. I reach for that one first.

The envelope is darker than the others I usually receive, the paper heavier, more structured, and the handwriting, as perfect as his always is.

“Lorelai,

Meet me at the tower at dusk.

We will begin your training.

—M. Rasmodius”

Something settles low in my chest at that, something I don’t quite want to name, so I don’t. I fold the letter carefully instead, slipping it into my pocket like it might mean something more if I keep it close.

Then I reach for the second, the beige envelope. Lewis. I know it’s him because of the messy cursive ink that spells out my name on the front.

“Dear Lorelai,

It’s come to my attention that you have been spending a lot of time with the Wizard…”

I already feel where this is going.

“…Gunther and I were digging through some old records in the town library and came across a date that I think you would be particularly interested in.”

My eyes slow on the page.

“…the 17th of this season is his birthday.”

Magnus has a birthday. That feels strange. Not impossible. Just unexpected. Every person in the world has a birthday, and yet, I’m shocked that the thought hadn’t even passed my mind.

“…I think it would be nice if you could maybe acknowledge the day for him. Just a suggestion!”

I let out a quiet breath, folding the letter slower this time.

The 17th.

Two days. That is not a lot of time, but it’s manageable.

I zigzag through Cindersap Forest with no real destination, which is exactly the point.

I have nothing to accomplish today besides the one thing I cannot seem to make any progress on: Magnus' birthday. I had checked the calendar earlier that week, turning the page over with the kind of idle curiosity that quickly became something more complicated. Not only was the Night Market arriving tomorrow and the day after, docking its lantern-lit boats along the pier for its annual three-day visit, but Magnus' birthday fell within that window. The overlap felt like either a convenience or a complication, and I had not yet decided which. If I could just settle on a gift, the timing might actually work in my favor. The Night Market brought vendors that didn't exist anywhere else, things that were rare or strange or carefully made, things that might mean something to a man who had probably owned everything ordinary.

But I couldn't settle on a gift if I couldn't settle on a single coherent thought about him, and that was the actual problem.

I always find that walking helps me think. There is something about movement that loosens the knots that sitting still only tightens, and the forest in winter has a particular quality to it that I have come to rely on without meaning to. It is quiet without being empty, still without being dead, the kind of place that asks nothing of you except that you pay attention.

I let my boots find their own pace along the path, my breath coming in soft clouds that dissolve almost immediately in the cold air. What do you give someone like Magnus? The question had been circling me for days without landing anywhere useful. He was not a person who seemed to want things, or at least not things you could purchase or wrap. He had his tower, his books, his carefully maintained distance from most of the world. He had centuries of accumulated knowledge and, presumably, centuries of accumulated possessions. A candle seemed absurd. A book felt presumptuous. Something from the mines felt too impersonal, like handing him a rock and calling it thoughtful.

And yet, every time I tried to think past those options, I kept returning to the same uncomfortable truth, which was that the only thing I actually knew he valued was something I couldn't give him. Answers. Understanding. The slow, deliberate process of figuring out what something meant before deciding what to do with it.

That was not a giftable quality.

I exhale, watching the cloud of my breath disappear, and let myself drift further southwest than I usually do, following the treeline more loosely than any established path. The forest thickens here in a way that feels less managed, less walked-through, the trees pressing slightly closer together and the underbrush growing denser at their roots. I don't come this way often. There is nothing particularly remarkable about this stretch of the forest, or at least, nothing I had ever noticed before.

I am still thinking about Magnus when I almost walk past it.

I stop.

It is set into the ground at the base of a tree where the snow has thinned slightly, as if the cold had pulled back from this particular patch of earth without any clear reason to. At first I think it is simply a stone, the kind the valley has scattered everywhere in various states of burial, corners and edges poking up through soil and snow without ceremony. But as I look more closely, I realize it is flat in a way that stones are not usually flat, deliberately so, and its surface is not rough or irregular but carved. The lines etched into it are precise and deeply cut, running in patterns that repeat and intersect with a symmetry that has nothing to do with erosion or accident.

I crouch down slowly, brushing the dusting of snow from its surface with my gloved fingers.

The markings are not anything I recognize. They are not Dwarvish, which I have seen enough of in the mines to identify on sight, and they are not decorative in the way of something meant to mark a grave or a boundary. They are dense, layered, each line feeding into the next in a way that suggests purpose rather than ornamentation. The stone hums faintly beneath my fingers through my gloves, or perhaps that is my imagination, but when I press my palm flat against its surface to brush away the last of the snow, I feel something.

Warmth. Coming from below the stone, not above it.

I frown, pulling my hand back. The warmth disappears with the contact, leaving behind only the cold texture of my glove and the faint impression of something that should not have been there.
I stand slowly. The stone sits in the ground, perfectly still, waiting.

I look around the forest. The trees are the same. The snow is the same. Nothing has moved. No sound has shifted.

I look back down at the stone.

I step onto it.

The world does not disappear. It does not shatter or fold or go dark in the way of something dramatic. What happens instead is quieter and, somehow, more disorienting for its subtlety. The sound goes first, the distant creak of branches and the faint press of wind through needles simply ceasing, replaced by a silence so complete it feels like pressure against my ears. Then the light shifts, not dimming but changing quality, losing the particular gray-white flatness of a winter afternoon and becoming something richer, more layered, like light that has passed through something alive before reaching me.

Then the cold is gone.

Not gradually. All at once. Between one breath and the next, the bite at the tips of my fingers and the ache along my cheekbones simply no longer exist, replaced by an air that feels temperate in a way that has nothing to do with season or weather. It is not warm the way a fire is warm. It is warm the way something living is warm, like standing beside a thing that breathes and generates heat simply by existing.

I look up.

The first thing I notice is the color.

It is green in a way that feels wrong for this time of year, too full, too saturated, as if life has not thinned out with the cold but instead deepened into something richer and more concentrated. The leaves are not dulled by frost or edged with the pale decay of late autumn. The ground beneath the remaining snow breathes with color, patches of living green pressing through where winter should have claimed everything without argument. It does not look like something surviving the season. It looks like something the season cannot touch.

At first, I try to convince myself I simply blacked out and took a wrong turn in Cindersap Forest. It takes me a few circles around the area to understand that I am nowhere near where I thought I was. In fact, I might be somewhere no one even knows about at all. I stuff my fear down and try to continue.

The trees grow denser as I move further southwest, their branches twisting inward in a way that feels less like natural growth and more like intention, like they have been reaching toward one another for long enough that the habit has become permanent. The snow between my boots softens underfoot, compressing into something quieter as green grass replaces the frozen ground beneath it, the sound of my footsteps muffling in a way that suggests the earth here is absorbing rather than reflecting. The cold at my cheeks and fingertips does not deepen the way it should as the canopy thickens above me. If anything, it recedes.

I slow down.

The air feels warmer here, but not in a way that makes any seasonal sense. It is not heat the way fire or sunlight produces heat. It is presence, the particular warmth of something living that has settled into a space and decided to remain there, filling it the way a person fills a room even before they speak.

And then I take one more step forward, and the path disappears entirely.

What opens in front of me is not a clearing. It is a series of narrow passages hedged in by dense growth that rises too high and presses too close to see beyond, the walls formed not by scattered trees and undergrowth but by something structured, deliberate, unmistakably arranged. The trees and brush do not grow randomly here. They form corridors. Dead ends. Turns that reveal only more turns. I take another step forward and feel the shift of it settle around me with a quiet, irrevocable certainty.

I turn slowly, my eyes tracing the openings available to me. None of them look particularly distinct from one another. Each passage is just wide enough to invite me forward and just narrow enough to make me hesitate before I do.

"Okay," I murmur, the word barely carrying past my own lips.

I choose the left path and follow it inward.

Snow does not exist here, which means in some practical sense, neither does winter. The walls of the maze close in quickly as I move deeper, the space narrowing until the brush on either side feels uncomfortably close, though the branches do not catch at my sleeves or drag against my coat. They simply exist around me, still and attentive in a way that has nothing to do with wind.

I am beginning to understand that I will not find my way out by guessing.

I am considering turning back and retracing my steps when I notice the sign. It is small, half-swallowed by the undergrowth at the base of the hedge wall, the post tilted slightly as if something had knocked it long ago and it had simply stayed that way. The wood is warped with age and damp, its surface darkened where moisture has worked itself into the grain over what must have been a very long time, but the carving cut into it is still legible if I lean close enough to make it out.

Follow the mushrooms.

The letters are uneven, shaped with something that feels less like a tool and more like a will, like whatever had made this mark had not needed to press particularly hard to leave something permanent. I straighten and look at the ground around me, and find that I do not know how I had missed them before.

Small caps of red push up through the green in a line that curves gently along the left wall of the passage, each one white-dotted, each one spaced with a deliberateness that no natural dispersal pattern could produce. Amanita muscaria. The name surfaces without effort, pulled from somewhere between lecture notes and late nights spent memorizing classifications that feel entirely too small for what I am looking at now. They should not be growing like this, not in this density, not in this kind of arrangement, and certainly not here in the middle of winter when the ground should be far too cold to support anything this fragile or this precise.

These are not random. They are placed.

I look at the sign once more, then back at the mushrooms, and begin to follow them. The trail holds steady until it reaches the end of the passage, where it curves unhurriedly to the right and continues on without any particular concern for whether I find this convenient.

Of course it does.

I follow it.

Another turn. Then another. The deeper I go, the more the forest changes, the red capped mushrooms being the only constant in this puzzle. The colors shift subtly, the greens deeper, the shadows darker, the light filtering through in uneven patches that make it difficult to tell where the sun actually is.

And then, I see something that shouldn’t be here.

A stone, half-buried in the earth, worn smooth with age, carved with symbols I don’t recognize at first glance. I kneel slightly, brushing snow away with my gloved hand, revealing more of the surface.

There are three sets of markings. One I recognize faintly, the sharp curvatures of Dwarvish language. The second one I believe is Elvish, if I my memories of one of Magnus’ books was accurate. The third is something I don’t recognize at all.

The shapes are unfamiliar, the lines sharper, more angular, like they belong to something older than either of the others. The three languages sit side by side, carved into the same stone like they were meant to be read together. Or remembered together.

A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold. I stand slowly. This place is not just hidden. It is old. I move forward again, more carefully now.

The maze does not make itself easy. Paths double back on themselves, openings that seem promising narrow into dead ends, forcing me to turn, to retrace, to try again. There is no clear direction, no obvious center. It feels like the maze is testing something. Patience, maybe. Or intent.

And then, I hear a soft sound. Not quite a voice, but also not quite movement.

I follow it. The path widens slightly, the walls of the maze opening just enough that I can see further ahead, and when I step through—

I stop.

Junimos.

They move between the trees like they belong here in a way nothing else does, their small forms bright against the muted colors of the forest. Their colors are much brighter than the ones I’ve ever seen before. While the Community Center’s Junimos had a diverse set of colors, they were muted, as if they were naturally dyed from the earth itself. Some carry small bundles, others drift from one place to another, their movements purposeful but unhurried, like they exist outside of time entirely.

They don’t react to me. At least not immediately. I take a step closer.

One of them pauses, turns, and looks at me. There is no fear in it. No surprise. Just recognition.

Like I am not supposed to be here. But I am not unwelcome either. I don’t think they’re the same Junimos that inhabited the Community Center.

Behind them, I notice more ruins. Stone structures, broken and overgrown, their edges softened by time but not erased. Bits of metal catch the light where they have been left behind, old weapons, rusted but still intact, some shaped in ways that don’t match anything I’ve seen in the mines.

Dwarvish and Elvish together.

The same as the stone. The same as the grave.

My chest tightens slightly. This was something important, and now it’s hidden. Protected. Or forgotten. I don’t know which is worse.

One of the Junimos moves closer, just slightly, its small form tilting as if observing me the same way I am observing it.

You came? This Junimo is a peculiar color, a dark orchid purple, in comparison to the muted natural colors that seem to come from the earth itself.

I tilt my head slightly. “Was I invited?”

Of course. The Junimo Woods calls to all who walk between the boundaries of life. The dark purple pushes itself in front of the other Junimos

“Are you not the same Junimos as the ones in the Community Center?”

Another one hops up to me, this one a bright yellow now.

No. They are here somewhere. They must rest now.

I feel it then. That thread. That faint, but real, connection. Just there. Like the forest is acknowledging me. Like it is deciding something.

I exhale slowly.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” I murmur.

The little Junimo's expression doesn’t change, just responds quietly.

Yes. You are.

But I know the truth.

I turn carefully and begin to find my way back out. The maze does not let me leave as easily as it let me enter.

At first, I think I am simply retracing my steps, turning where I remember turning, following the same narrow corridors between the hedges and trees that had led me inward. But something is wrong. The turns do not align the way they should. Paths that felt straight now curve. Openings that had been there before are gone, replaced by dense growth that presses inward like it has always existed that way.

I stop. The silence deepens.

Not empty. Listening.

The air shifts again, warmer now, but not in a comforting way. It feels closer, like it is wrapping around me rather than passing through me, settling against my skin with a quiet insistence.

“…Okay,” I murmur, softer this time.

My fingers flex at my sides, instinct pulling at something deeper than thought. I don’t know what I’m doing when I reach out, not consciously, but my hand lifts anyway, hovering just slightly above the edge of the hedge beside me.

The leaves tremble. Not from the wind. From me.

I inhale sharply, my breath catching in my chest as I focus on that sensation, on the faint thread that runs from my palm into the living thing in front of me. It is subtle, fragile, but it is there, like a pulse just beneath the surface.

The hedge shifts, just enough for an apparent change.

Branches pull back slightly, opening a space that hadn’t been there before, the path widening by inches, then more, until there is a gap where there had only been a wall.

I stare at it. “…That’s new.”

The opening is not part of the maze. I know that immediately.

It doesn’t feel like the rest of it.

The maze is structured, deliberate, almost defensive in the way it moves and blocks and redirects. This feels like an invitation.

Or a test.

The mushrooms begin to cluster more tightly the deeper I go, no longer scattered but guiding, curving gently with the turns of the maze as if they are tracing something I am meant to follow. They gather at corners, linger at forks in the path, and when I hesitate, I realize they always lean in the direction I am supposed to take. It does not feel like I am solving the maze anymore. It feels like something has already decided the path for me.

I hesitate, then step through. The difference is immediate. The maze quiets behind me, the tension in the air loosening just slightly as I move forward, the space opening in a way that feels less constrained, less controlled. The ground here is softer, the snow thinner, patches of earth visible beneath it in dark, damp stretches that should not exist in the middle of winter.

The deeper I go, the warmer it becomes. Not hot, not even comfortable, just alive.

And then I see it.

The tree.

It rises from the center of the clearing like it has always been there, like everything else has grown around it instead of the other way around. Its trunk is wide, ancient, the bark etched with age in deep, spiraling lines that seem almost intentional. Its branches stretch outward in long, sweeping arcs, heavy with blossoms.

Cherry blossoms. Soft pink, full, and blooming. In the middle of winter.

I stop dead in my tracks.

The sight of it steals whatever breath I had left, my chest tightening as I take it in, the petals shifting gently in a breeze I cannot feel, falling slowly to the ground in delicate spirals that never quite seem to touch the snow.

The tree should not exist. Cherry blossoms require cycles, with cold dormancy followed by warmth, a precise sequence of environmental triggers that coax them into bloom at exactly the right time. Without that rhythm, they do not flower, and certainly not like this, not in full, endless bloom with no sign of bud or decay. This tree has no cycle. It is not responding to the world around it. It is sustaining itself.

It is not like the trees on my farm. Not like the ones that produce fruit and follow seasons and grow because they are planted.

And yet, not only does this tree exist, but it breathes life into this clearing in a way I cannot understand or describe. It does not follow the rules. It makes them. Everything else is built to live around this tree, rather than the other way around.

I step closer, my boots sinking slightly into the softer earth beneath me, my hand lifting again without thought, drawn toward the trunk like something in me recognizes it.

The moment my fingers hover near the bark the world shifts. Not visibly or dramatically, but I feel it. The same thread as before. It runs through the ground, through the roots beneath my feet, through the air itself, connecting everything in a way that makes the rest of the world feel distant, muted, less real.

My hand presses lightly against the tree.

And something answers.

It is not a voice. Not at first. It is a presence. Familiar… too familiar.

“You found your way back.”

The voice is soft. Warm. And behind me.

I turn slowly.

She stands at the edge of the clearing like she has always been there, like she has been watching me the entire time without needing to move. The same woman from before. The same impossible beauty, the same agelessness that makes it difficult to place her in any one moment of time.

Her hair falls around her in loose waves, catching the faint light filtering through the branches, her dress moving like it is part of the forest rather than separate from it. Her feet are bare against the ground, untouched by the cold, untouched by anything at all.

She does not approach. She does not need to.

“You…” I start, then stop, unsure of what to call her, what she is, what she could be.

Her close-lipped smile is small but all too knowing.

“You feel it now,” she says instead.

I swallow, my hand still resting against the tree.

“…What is this place?”

Her gaze shifts briefly to the tree, then back to me.

“A memory,” she says.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only one you need right now.”

That is frustrating. But I don’t argue. Not this time.

My fingers press slightly more firmly into the bark, grounding myself in something tangible as I try to make sense of the way everything feels different here, sharper and softer at the same time.

“It reacted to me,” I say.

“Yes.”

The certainty in her voice makes my chest tighten.

“Why?”

She tilts her head slightly, studying me in a way that feels less like curiosity and more like recognition.

“Because you are not separate from it,” she says.

“I am,” I counter, my voice quieter now. “I’m human.”

She smiles again. Not dismissive. Just patient. “For now.”

A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It will.”

She takes a step closer then, her movement slow, deliberate, the space between us closing just enough that I can feel her presence more clearly now, like standing near a current I cannot see but know is there.

“This place remembers what the world has forgotten,” she continues, her voice softer now, more intimate. “The wars. The roots of what was broken. The things that were buried so they could not grow again.”

The graves. The ruins. The weapons.

I glance back toward the maze instinctively, though I cannot see it from here.

“And me?” I ask.

Her gaze sharpens slightly. “You are something that was never meant to be lost.”

The words settle into me in a way that feels dangerous. Like they mean more than I understand. Like they will matter later.

I take a small step back, my hand slipping from the tree as the connection fades just slightly, enough to remind me where I end and everything else begins.

“I don’t understand,” I admit.

“I know,” she says gently. There is something almost like sympathy in her expression. “But you will.”

The petals continue to fall around us, soft and endless, the tree unmoving despite it all, constant in a way that feels impossible.

I look at it one more time. Then back at her.

“…Am I supposed to come back here?”

She smiles wider at me. It’s not unnerving. If anything, I find it strangely comforting, like a face I used to know.

“Yes. When you and I are both ready.”

Her grin lingers in a way that feels deliberate, like it is meant to stay with me long after she is gone, as if it belongs more to the place than to her. The petals continue to fall from the branches above us, drifting downward in slow, spiraling motions that never quite seem to follow gravity correctly, as though the air itself is holding them for just a moment longer than it should. The tree does not move beneath them, does not sway or shift, standing completely still as if it exists outside of time rather than within it.

The warmth begins to recede, but it does so gradually, like something withdrawing its attention rather than disappearing outright. I feel it slipping away from my skin, from my chest, from the strange thread that had connected me to everything around me, leaving behind something quieter and more distant in its place. The absence is not empty, but it is noticeable, like stepping out of a room where someone had been speaking softly and realizing only afterward how much you had been listening.

I take a step back, and the ground beneath me feels colder immediately, the snow firmer, more solid, as if I have returned to something that follows rules again. My hand falls away from the tree, and the faint hum that had been running through my fingertips disappears with it, leaving behind only the rough texture of bark that no longer feels alive in the same way. The clearing feels larger now, less contained, and I suddenly become aware of how exposed I am within it.

I turn toward where she had been standing, expecting to find her still there, watching, waiting, but there is nothing. The space she occupied looks no different from the rest of the clearing, untouched and undisturbed, as if she had never existed within it at all. The absence is not dramatic, not marked by any shift in the air or sound, but it unsettles me more for that very reason, because it feels natural in a way that it should not.

The petals continue to fall. The tree continues to bloom.

But whatever had been watching me is gone.

I draw in a slow breath, the air cooler now, thinner, less layered with whatever warmth had wrapped itself around me before. The ruins at the edges of the clearing sit in quiet stillness, their broken shapes softened by time but not erased, their presence heavy in a way that suggests they have not been forgotten so much as left behind. The weapons scattered among them catch faint light from above, their surfaces dulled but still intact, remnants of something that had once required strength, conflict, intention.

I feel out of place here.

Not unwelcome. Strangely, I felt like I moved a bit too naturally in this space. But, still, I was not meant to stay. Perhaps, this place was something that was meant to acknowledge and then return to. Not a place to linger until an answer comes, an answer that I am not ready for.

“…Okay,” I say quietly, though the word feels insufficient against everything I cannot name.

The path behind me opens without resistance, and I know without needing to look that it is waiting for me to take it. I turn slowly, my movements more careful now, more aware, as if the space itself is still observing me even in her absence. The moment I step back into the maze, the structure returns immediately, the hedges closing in, the corridors narrowing, the sense of direction becoming uncertain again.

The maze does not resist me anymore. It guides me.

The turns come more easily now, the paths unfolding in front of me with a quiet certainty that feels almost intentional, as though the maze has already decided where I am meant to go. The walls do not shift to block me, the openings do not vanish, and for the first time since I entered, I feel like I am moving through it rather than being tested by it.

I pass the stone marker again, the one carved with three languages that sit uneasily beside one another. The Dwarvish lines remain sharp and deliberate, the Elvish curves more fluid, more ornate, and the third language still unfamiliar, still unreadable in a way that unsettles me more now than it had before. I do not stop to study it this time, but I feel its presence as I move past it, like something ancient acknowledging my passage without interfering.

The light changes as I walk. It does not fade gradually, nor does it shift in a way that matches the movement of the sun. Instead, it seems to dim unevenly, the brightness thinning in patches until it disappears entirely, replaced by something colder and more distant. I notice it without fully understanding it at first, my attention still caught in the memory of the clearing, the tree, her voice.

Then I take one final step forward and the forest opens.

The transition is immediate and complete, with no gradual blending between the two spaces. The maze disappears behind me as if it had never existed, replaced by the familiar arrangement of trees and snow that make up the edge of Cindersap Forest. The ground beneath my boots that was once soft green grass now crunches sharply again, the sound loud and clear in the quiet of the night.

The night.

I stop.

Slowly, I lift my head, my gaze tracing upward through the branches until it reaches the sky. It is dark, fully and undeniably, the deep blue of evening long since passed, replaced by a spread of cold stars that stretch endlessly above me. The moon hangs low, casting a pale, steady light across the snow, illuminating the landscape in a way that feels too still, too complete.

My stomach drops.

“That’s not—” I begin, but the words don’t finish.

I turn in a slow circle, scanning the forest around me as if I might find some explanation hidden in its edges, something that will correct what I am seeing. The trees remain unchanged, the snow undisturbed, the air cold and sharp against my lungs. There is nothing here that suggests time has moved incorrectly.

And yet it has.

I bring my hands up slightly, looking at them as if they might show some sign of what has happened, but they are the same as they were before. My sleeves are unchanged, my coat still dusted lightly with snow, my breath still visible in the air with every exhale. There is no evidence of the hours that must have passed.

It did not feel like hours. It felt contained. Like time had paused instead of moved.

I swallow, the unease settling deeper into my chest as I try to make sense of it, but there is nothing to grasp onto, nothing to anchor the experience in something logical.

“…Okay,” I say again, quieter this time, though the word feels hollow.

Then I remember the letter.

Magnus.

I reach into my pocket quickly, pulling the folded paper free with slightly stiff fingers, unfolding it just enough to read the line that matters.

“Meet me at the tower at dusk.”

My eyes flick back up to the sky. Dusk is long gone.

A sharp breath leaves me as I refold the letter, pushing it back into my coat with more urgency than before.

“Shit.”

I start moving. The path to the tower stretches out in front of me, familiar in shape but altered by the darkness in a way that makes it feel longer than it ever has during the day. The trees loom taller, their branches casting long, uneven shadows across the snow, and every sound carries further in the quiet of the night. My boots press into the ground with quick, deliberate steps, the rhythm of them steady but faster than before.

The cold feels sharper now, biting at my cheeks, slipping through the gaps in my layers as I move, but I barely register it. My thoughts are too occupied, circling back again and again to the woods, to the tree, to the way the world had felt when I touched it.

You are not separate from it.

The words settle heavily in my mind, repeating without permission, threading through everything else I try to think about.

I shake my head slightly as I walk, trying to push it aside, trying to focus on something more immediate, something grounded. The path curves upward gradually, the terrain shifting as I move further from the main stretch of the forest and closer to the tower’s domain.

It comes into view slowly, rising above the treeline in a way that feels both distant and immediate at the same time. The structure is dark against the sky, its shape sharp and unmistakable, the stone walls catching faint light from the moon. A warm glow filters through the windows, steady and contained, a stark contrast to the cold stillness of everything around it.

It feels unchanged.

Grounded in a way that nothing else tonight has been.

Chapter Text

I step forward and knock.

The door opens faster than it should. Not violently, not thrown wide in panic, but with a kind of immediacy that does not belong to him, like the decision to open it had been made long before I knocked. The warm light from inside the tower spills out around him, soft and golden, catching along the edges of his silhouette and breaking against the cold blue of the night.

Magnus stands there, already looking at me. Already searching. For a moment, I forget whatever I was going to say.

He looks different even if it’s only been a day. Not in a way that I can name immediately, not something as simple as a change in clothing or posture, but something quieter, something that sits beneath the surface and alters everything else around it. His hair is slightly longer than I remember, just enough that a few pieces fall more deliberately across his forehead, catching in the low light. There is stubble along his jaw now, faint but intentional, softening the sharpness of his features in a way that makes him look less untouchable and somehow more dangerous at the same time.

He’s wearing more casual clothes than I’ve grown accustomed to seeing him in. He wears a light blue tunic with its sleeves pushed up to his elbows, much too tight on his chest and arms, but pool above his loose black trousers. I try to keep my eyes away from the muscles that seem much too defined beneath his clothes.

The structure is still there, still precise, still unmistakably him, but the fabric sits differently on his body, less like armor and more like something worn. The pale blue has faded in places where the material has been handled more often, the edges softened, the sleeves pushed back just slightly as if he had been working before I arrived.

His eyes do not look past me this time, staying on my face for some time. And then he moves.

There is no hesitation in it, no careful calculation of distance or propriety. He steps forward and closes the space between us in one motion, his hand catching my arm, then my shoulder, and then pulling me fully into him before I have time to react.

The warmth hits me first. Then the weight of him.

His arms wrap around me completely, firm and certain, his hand pressing lightly between my shoulder blades like he is grounding something, like he is making sure I am real and not something that will disappear if he loosens his grip.

“Where were you?” he asks, his voice low and tight in a way that feels pulled from somewhere deeper than usual.

I blink against his shoulder, the fabric of his clothes softer than I remember, warmer too, carrying the faint scent of herbs and smoke and something distinctly his that I had not realized I had missed until it was suddenly everywhere.

“I— I was just walking,” I say, though the words feel thin against the way he is holding me.

“That is not an answer,” he replies immediately, but there is no bite in it, no sharp correction. There is only concern.

“I know,” I admit quietly.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands still resting on my arms, his gaze moving over my face like he is taking inventory of something he cannot quite name. His thumb brushes lightly against the fabric of my sleeve without thinking, a small, absent motion that betrays more than anything else he has done so far.

“I could not sense you,” he says.

That makes my chest tighten.

“I think I was in the Junimo Woods,” I tell him.

Understanding settles into his expression almost immediately, replacing the uncertainty with something more focused, more grounded.

“The Hidden Realm,” he says quietly.

I nod.

“It opened after the Community Center was restored,” I add, watching him carefully. “I didn’t mean to find it. I just… did.”

He exhales slowly, his hands falling from my arms, though the space he creates between us is smaller than it used to be, like he has forgotten how much distance he normally insists on keeping.

“That would be consistent,” he says. “The Junimos do not simply repair what is visible. They restore connections. Old ones. Buried ones.”

I step inside.

The tower feels different the moment I cross the threshold. Not rearranged. Not entirely. But lived in.

The air is warmer than I remember, not just from the fire that burns steadily along the far wall, but from something else, something that lingers in the space like it has been occupied more fully in my absence. The sharp, sterile precision that once defined every surface has softened, not into disorganization, but into use.

Books are still stacked neatly, but some are open now, marked, pages turned down in corners that would have once been left untouched. Glass vials catch the light along the worktable, their contents shifting in soft, glowing hues, but there are more of them than before, some left closer to the edge as if they had been set down quickly and not immediately returned.

The room feels active. Like things have been happening here. Not as sterile as it once was, it now feels alive and touched.

My gaze drifts across the space slowly, taking it in piece by piece, until something catches my eye near the center of the room.

At first, I don’t recognize it.

It sits among the rest of his work, subtle enough to blend in, but placed just slightly apart, just enough to suggest intention. A small stand of dark metal holds it upright, angled toward the light in a way that allows it to catch and reflect it fully.

Amethyst.

The stone glows softly in the firelight, its surface deep and rich, the purple shifting with every flicker of flame that passes over it. It has been polished since I last saw it, not drastically, but enough that its edges feel more defined, more deliberate.

It is not stored away. It is not tucked into a drawer or lost among the rest of his materials.

It is displayed, not prominently, but purposefully. Like something he reaches for without needing to look.

My chest tightens slightly. I don’t say anything about it, mainly because I don’t think I can.

Magnus moves past me then, returning to his worktable with that same controlled precision, though there is still something softened about the way he carries himself, something that has not quite reset back into the version of him I am used to.

“I have prepared something for you,” he says.

I lean slightly against the edge of the table, my eyes flicking once more toward the amethyst before settling back on him.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is not,” he replies. “It is necessary.”

Magnus does not immediately turn back to his work.

There is a moment where he stands still, his back partially angled toward me, his hand hovering just above the table as if he has forgotten what he meant to reach for. The firelight catches along the edges of his profile, tracing the line of his jaw, the slight tension that has not yet left it, the quiet restraint he is already trying to rebuild after letting it slip at the door.

“I saw someone,” I say.

The words leave me before I can measure them, settling into the room with a weight that shifts everything around them.

Magnus stills completely.

He turns then, fully this time, his attention snapping back to me in a way that feels immediate and total, like whatever he had been about to say or do has been erased entirely.

“Describe them,” he says. There is no hesitation in his voice now.

I swallow, my fingers curling slightly against the edge of the table as I try to put it into something that sounds real outside of my head.

“A woman,” I say slowly. “Older, but not… aged. She didn’t look like she belonged to any one time. She was barefoot, and the ground didn’t touch her the way it should have. And she knew me. Or at least—she acted like she did.”

Magnus’s expression shifts, not into confusion, but into something far more precise.

“Did she touch you?” he asks.

“No.”

“Did she approach you?”

“Yes. But not close enough to—” I stop, searching for the right words. “It didn’t feel threatening.”

“That is not reassuring,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t say it was.”

He studies me carefully, his gaze moving across my face again, slower this time, more deliberate, like he is comparing what he sees now to something he already knows.

“What did she say to you?” he asks.

I hesitate. Not because I want to hide it, but because saying it out loud makes it feel more permanent.

“She said I wasn’t separate from it,” I admit. “From the forest. From… whatever that place is.”

Magnus exhales slowly, but the sound is not calming. “And you felt it,” he says.

It is not a question.

I nod.

“The maze responded to me,” I continue, the words coming easier now that I’ve started. “The branches moved when I reached out. The path opened when it shouldn’t have. And there was a tree—Magnus, it didn’t make sense. It was blooming. Fully. In the middle of winter, and it wasn’t reacting to anything. It just… existed like that.”

His eyes close briefly. Not in frustration, but in recognition. When he opens them again, something has shifted.

“You were not simply in the Junimo Woods,” he says. “You were in a locus.”

I blink.

“A what?”

“A convergence point,” he explains. “A place where the natural world and the hidden realm overlap so completely that they cannot be separated. Those locations are not accessible to most practitioners. They require… alignment.”

My stomach tightens.

“Alignment with what?”

His gaze sharpens.

“With the thing that governs it.”

The words settle heavily between us.

I feel it before he says it. But I don’t say it. He does.

“You encountered a dryad.”

“That’s… what she is?” I ask.

“Yes,” he replies. “Or something very close to it. A dryad is not simply a spirit. It is an embodiment of a living system. The forest does not just speak through them. It exists through them. They are not practicing nature magic. They are the source of it.”

I feel something in my chest tighten.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I say. “Because I—”

“Because you can do it,” he finishes.

His voice is quieter now.

More careful.

“Yes.”

I nod.

Magnus takes a step closer, his attention narrowing in a way that feels less like observation and more like realization unfolding in real time.

“A nature practitioner channels external forces,” he says. “They learn patterns, disciplines, techniques that allow them to influence the natural world. Their power is learned. Structured. Limited by their ability to maintain control.”

I listen.

Because I know this is about to matter.

“A dryad,” he continues, “does not channel anything. The forest responds to them because it recognizes them as itself. There is no separation. No translation. No effort.”

My breath catches slightly.

“And me?” I ask.

He watches me for a long moment.

Long enough that I almost regret asking.

“You are not a dryad,” he says carefully.

Relief flickers before it disappears.

“But you are not merely a practitioner either.”

“You felt the maze respond to you without instruction,” he continues. “You altered the structure of it without understanding the mechanism. You accessed a locus that should not have been accessible to you at all.”

His voice lowers slightly.

“That is not learned behavior.”

I feel very still.

“So what does that make me?” I ask.

Magnus does not answer immediately.

He studies me instead, his gaze moving slowly, deliberately, like he is piecing something together that he had not allowed himself to fully consider before.

“It suggests,” he says finally, “that your connection to nature is not external.”

My chest tightens.

“It suggests that it is inherited.”

“From who?” I ask, even though I already feel like I know the answer.

He does not hesitate this time. “Ilana.”

“My grandmother? As in, my grandfather Jakob’s wife, Ilana?” I ask, my mind still trying to catch up even if I know this truth deeper than I realize.

The name echoes in my mind, heavier now, sharper.

“She was not simply a practitioner,” Magnus continues. “I suspected that before, but I did not have confirmation. If what you are describing is accurate—”

“It is.”

“I believe she was something more.”

My pulse picks up.

“A dryad?” I ask.

Magnus’s expression tightens slightly.

“No,” he says. “If she had been, she would not have been able to leave her domain. Dryads are bound to their ecosystems. They do not… live among humans.”

A pause.

“But she may have been something adjacent to it.”

My throat feels dry. “What does that mean for me?”

Magnus exhales slowly, the weight of the answer settling into his posture before he even speaks. “It means you are likely part-nymph.”

The word feels strange. Old. Important.

“Not fully,” he adds quickly. “You are not bound to the forest in the way a true dryad would be. You are not immortal. You are not anchored to a single locus.”

That word again.

“But your magic is not learned,” he continues. “It is instinctual. Reactive. It will grow whether you intend it to or not.”

I swallow. The word inherited seems to be ringing in my head.

“My grandmother,” I repeat quietly, my voice catching slightly as I look back at him. “How do you know that?”

Magnus does not answer immediately.

He does not look surprised by the question, but something in his expression changes, something that pulls his focus inward for just a moment, like he is reaching back into something he does not often allow himself to revisit. The firelight moves across his face as he turns slightly, his gaze lowering toward the floor before returning to me with a steadier, more deliberate calm.

“I knew her,” he says.

The simplicity of it lands harder than I expect.

“You—knew her?” I ask, stepping forward slightly without realizing it, my attention narrowing completely on him now.

“Yes,” he replies. “Ilana was… not a distant figure in the valley. Not to those who could perceive what she was.”

There is a pause, but this time it is not empty. It is full of something unspoken, something he is choosing not to say outright.

“She was not a secret,” he continues. “Not entirely. Most people saw only what they were capable of seeing, so not many people saw her at all. But the people who could, saw a woman who moved through the forest more easily than others. Someone who appeared when needed and disappeared just as quickly. But to those with any understanding of magic… she was unmistakable.”

I swallow.

“You knew she was a dryad.”

“I knew she was bound to the forest in a way that no practitioner could replicate,” he says carefully. “Whether you choose to call that a dryad or something adjacent to it is… a matter of definition. But yes. I understood what she was.”

Something in his tone shifts slightly at that, like the distinction matters more to him than he is letting on.

“And my grandfather?” I ask. “Jakob?”

Magnus exhales quietly, and this time there is something almost like restrained amusement in the sound, though it does not quite reach his expression.

“He was persistent,” Magnus says.

That feels accurate.

“He came to the tower more than once,” he continues. “Not successfully, at first. The wards are not designed to allow entry to those without intent or understanding, and he had neither in the beginning. But persistence has a way of becoming its own form of intent.”

I can almost picture it.

Jakob, standing outside this tower, probably knocking like I did, probably talking through the door like Magnus would actually answer.

“He managed to enter once,” Magnus adds.

“Once?” I echo.

“Yes.”

“And what did he say?”

Magnus’s gaze flicks toward me briefly, then away again, like he is watching the memory rather than me.

“He asked for my assistance,” he says. “He believed that if Ilana would not remain in one place long enough for him to find her, then I might be able to… guide him.”

My chest tightens. “And did you?”

“No.”

The answer is immediate. Firm.

“I told him that some things are not meant to be pursued in that way,” Magnus continues. “That if she wished to be found, she would allow it. And if she did not… then forcing the matter would only cause harm.”

“That sounds like something you would say,” I mutter.

Magnus’s lips press together slightly, though he does not respond to that. “He did not agree,” Magnus adds.

“I can imagine.”

“He returned to the forest instead,” Magnus says. “And eventually… she stopped leaving.”

The words settle quietly. I feel something shift in my chest at that, something that feels like the beginning of a story I have never been told.

“What happened to her?” I ask softly.

Magnus does not answer right away.

This time, the silence is heavier.

He turns slightly, moving closer to the table, though his attention remains on something far beyond it. His hand rests lightly against the edge of the wood, his fingers still, his posture composed in a way that feels practiced rather than natural.

“For a long time,” he says, “I believed she had left the valley.”

I blink.

“What?”

“I could no longer sense her,” he explains. “Not faintly. Not distantly. There was nothing. Her presence did not diminish. It did not weaken. It simply… ceased.”

That sounds wrong.

“Dryads do not disappear,” he continues. “They are bound. If the forest remains, so do they.”

My stomach tightens.

“So you thought—”

“I thought she had done something unprecedented,” he says. “That she had severed herself from the system entirely. Or that something had taken her from it.”

His voice remains controlled, but there is something underneath it now, something sharper, something that has not fully dulled with time.

“How long?” I ask.

“Years,” he says.

The word lands quietly, but it carries weight.

“I did not search for her,” he adds. “There was nothing to search for. No trace. No echo. It was as though she had never existed within the magical structure of the valley at all.”

That doesn’t sound like a normal disappearance.

“And then?” I press.

Magnus’s jaw tightens slightly, just enough that I notice it.

“I saw her,” he says.

My breath catches.

“When?”

“Approximately a decade later,” he replies. “Not in the forest. Not at the edge of a locus. But within the town itself.”

I stare at him.

“She was walking,” he continues. “Among the others. Carrying something. Speaking. Laughing.”

The image forms in my mind before I can stop it.

Ilana.

Both human and un-human. Impossibly possible.

“I did not recognize her immediately,” Magnus says. “There was no presence to recognize. No signal. No… connection.”

He looks at me then.

“But I knew,” he adds quietly. “Eventually.”

“How?” I ask.

“Because nothing else made sense,” he says.

That answer feels very him.

“She had aged,” he continues. “Not drastically, but enough. Her appearance aligned with time in a way it never had before. And she was not alone.”

My chest tightens.

“My mom,” I say.

“Yes,” he confirms.

“And my grandfather.”

“Yes.”

The word sits heavier this time.

“They were… happy,” Magnus says.

It is the first time his voice shifts in a way that is unmistakable.

“I did not approach her,” he continues.

“Why not?” I ask immediately.

Magnus holds my gaze for a moment, and there is something in it that feels almost too open, too unguarded for him. “Because I understood what she had done,” he says at last.

My breath stills. “You did?”

“I understood enough,” he corrects. “She had chosen to remove herself from what she was. Entirely. That is not a process that occurs accidentally.”

No. It isn’t.

“And if I had approached her,” he continues, “if I had questioned her, or reminded her of what she had been, I would have risked undoing that choice.”

The words land slowly and carefully.

“She had constructed a life that required separation from that identity,” he says. “And I had no right to interfere with it.”

There is something deeply final in the way he says that.

“So you just… left her alone?” I ask.

“Yes.” A small sigh comes from him as he pushes his hair back. “I did not speak to her again,” he adds.

The fire crackles softly in the background, filling the space where neither of us speaks for a moment, the weight of what he has just said settling into the room alongside everything else.

“And now?” I ask quietly.

Magnus’s gaze shifts slightly, not away from me, but deeper, like he is looking at something beyond the surface again.

“Now,” he says, “I am beginning to understand that her disappearance was not an absence.”

My chest tightens.

“It was a transfer.”

There it is. Not fully understood. But close. And that is where the danger begins.

“And the woman?” I ask. “The one in the woods?”

Magnus’s expression darkens slightly. “If there is an active dryad in the valley now,” he says, “then the system has already chosen a guardian.”

Something about that feels wrong. I don’t know why. But it does.

“And that’s a problem?” I press.

“It is… unusual,” he says carefully. “Two entities with that level of connection should not exist within the same domain without conflict or imbalance.”

Conflict. The word lingers. I shift slightly, my thoughts moving faster now, circling something I cannot quite reach.

“And Lance?” I ask suddenly.

Magnus’s gaze sharpens immediately. “What about him?”

“He can’t know about this,” I say. The answer comes faster than I expect. More certain.

Magnus nods once. “No,” he agrees. “He cannot.”

“Why?”

“Because this,” he says, gesturing subtly toward me, “is not a known classification. The Society monitors anomalies. Anything that does not fit within established magical disciplines becomes… of interest.”

My stomach drops.

“And Lance works for them,” I say.

“He works near them,” Magnus corrects. “Close enough that information flows through him whether he intends it to or not.”

That is worse.

“If they knew what you were,” he continues, his voice quieter now, more controlled, “they would not allow you to remain unstudied.”

I don’t like the way he says that.

“Studied,” I repeat.

“Or contained.”

That is worse.

The room feels smaller now. The warmth from before tightening instead of softening. Magnus steps back slightly, forcing the conversation to shift before it settles too deeply into something heavier.

“We will not address that tonight,” he says.

I blink.

“What?”

“We will prepare you first,” he continues. “Control must come before understanding. Otherwise, you will become visible in ways we cannot manage.”

That makes sense. Even if I don’t like it.

He reaches for the vial again, holding it between us, the liquid inside catching the firelight in shifting colors.

“You are entering the third tier of magic,” he says. “And now, more than ever, you will need to learn how to anchor yourself before the world begins to notice what you are becoming.”

He hands me the vial, his eyes fixed on my face as he gives me a commanding nod. I tip my head back.

Chapter Text

I take the vial slowly. This time it feels heavier. And so does everything else. The bitter taste stays on my tongue even after I’ve swallowed, somewhere between pickles and coffee. It is not an appetizing arrangement of flavor.

“What now? I feel kind of funny, is this going to be as bad as the forest juice you gave me?”

He rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t forest juice, and no, it won’t have any similar effects such as that. You might feel a bit of a different connection and perception to your surroundings, but you will adjust.”

“What exactly was this potion for? I realize I didn’t even ask.” I start to feel a bit humored by the situation, how I had fought him viciously over drinking a little vial that sent me hurdling through a twelve hour psychedelic trip, and I’ve gotten to a place where I’ll just drink anything he’ll give me.

He’s right, the world does feel a bit different now. I suddenly feel a bit… slower, and the air feels thicker, but not impermeable. My legs wobble a bit, but I tense my muscles to keep from slipping down. The feeling begins to recede, but only by a bit.

“Oh, I forgot to mention that. Good for you for following orders.”

Saying something like that, triggers an evil thought in my head. The thought that I could perhaps twist those words and use them against him in some kind of way, just to see him get all flustered the way my friends at the Saloon had suggested last night. But I brush the thought aside. Maybe later when I wasn’t near collapse.

“The vial you just swallowed is an elixir I have created to allow you to tap further into your magical potential, and allow you, if it is a success, to create warp runes. Now we will begin training at once.”

“What time is it?” I blurt out, my eyes dipping down to my watch. It’s a few minutes past seven.

His brow creases, clearly in a state of vexation as usual. “Is there something you need to attend to? I gave you ample time today before our meeting.”

I shake my head, but then cease the motion. “Well, I have things to do tomorrow, I can’t be up all night.”

“We won’t be up all night unless you want to,” Magnus responds curtly.

Did he just? No… He didn’t just say that.

His eyes now scan a book that is sitting on a table near his bubbling cauldron. He glances up and notices my reddened face and quickly adds, “I meant for training, of course!”

I chuckle at his bashfulness despite the fact that I have yet to stifle mine. “So, this won’t take too long tonight, then?”

He pauses for a moment, and it’s almost like he’s looking right through me, with a faint pink still kissing the rose buds of his cheeks. He’s calculating something. “That depends entirely on how quickly you can understand the material.”

Magnus snaps the book shut, the sound of it almost echoing and bouncing against the old ceiling. He walks over to his cobbled square where his intricate chalk-drawn circle lies, which I’ve now come to understand is where he does most of his magic tricks. Typically, I’ve seen him draw chalk on the ground to perform his different acts, occasionally he will speak words instead of chalk, and very rarely, have I seen him do it with just simple concentration.

“A demonstration I think is needed,” Magnus says, his feet finding their place just outside of the chalk-lined circle. He scrunches his eyes closed and takes a deep breath in, raising his hands above his head. It would have looked silly if it weren’t for what happened next.

PEOW!

I flinch at the sound that emits from somewhere I cannot locate, but my eyes widen at what appears in front of him. A warp rune. Not unlike what I had fallen into earlier today, flat and deliberate and carved into the air itself, glowing faintly along each of its precise edges.

I step forward, drawn to it before I've made any conscious decision to move. It hovers just above the cobbled stone of the circle, casting a dim bluish light that catches the edges of nearby vials and makes the chalk lines glow softly around it. It looks structural, like something ancient and architectural had been condensed into a single object and held still long enough for me to look at it.

"That's it?" I ask.

"That is it," he confirms. His voice has shifted into something more settled, more patient, like he has stepped into a different register now that we have moved past conversation and into work. "A warp rune is not simply a symbol. It is an anchor. A fixed point of magical attention. When created correctly, it establishes a tether between two locations, and anything that passes through it is carried along that tether rather than moved through ordinary space."

I circle it slowly, my hands clasped behind my back to resist the urge to touch it. "Like a door," I say.

"A door implies two sides that already exist," he corrects. "A warp rune creates the connection itself. Without the rune, there is no passage. The locations exist separately, with no relationship to one another. The rune is what makes them continuous."

I glance up at him. "And how is it made?"

He steps back from the circle slightly, his posture opening in a way that I've come to recognize as a teaching gesture, a slight shift in weight, a deliberateness in his hands. "There are three components. Intention, material, and location."

"Intention I understand," I say. "Or I think I do."

"Intention is not simply wanting something to happen," he says immediately, like he anticipated the assumption. "A warp rune requires that you hold a specific destination clearly in the mind. Not a general direction. Not a feeling. The place itself. Its soil, its air, its particular quality of light. The magic does not translate abstract wishes. It responds to precision."

That sounds like something I should have expected. "And material?"

He reaches toward the small table beside him and lifts a glass bottle no larger than my thumb, the liquid inside a deep amber that does not quite catch the firelight the way ordinary liquid should. "A warp rune requires that something from the destination be present in the making of it," he explains. "An object created within a location, gathered there, or deeply associated with it. The rune is not connecting a name to a name. It is connecting one material reality to another. The physical substance is what bridges them."

I frown slightly. "So I can't just... will myself somewhere?"

"You could attempt it," he says, not unkindly. "And if your potential is what I suspect it may be, you might even succeed, in a limited and rather dangerous way. But a properly made warp rune is reliable. Repeatable. Safe." He pauses just briefly on that last word. "That is the point of the discipline. Not the act, but the stability of it."

“So how are you able to travel without warp runes?”

Magnus thinks on how to answer this in his most measured way. “It took me a century to master it. Most wizards never get there at all. You have to understand, Lorelai, that the magic I was taught was much more… formal than the one that is so commonly understood now. It has more structure to it, more discipline.” His eyes narrow as if he was thinking about a particular instance, or a particular someone. “Magic at will, what I call this new magic, can be efficient, but it has its drawbacks. It is nowhere near as powerful as structured magic, but I must admit, it is more helpful in the heat of the moment. It helps to not have to spend centuries memorizing a million spells when you are faced with a formidable opponent.”

My mind goes back to the topic at hand, and I think about the rune in the forest. The one I had stepped on without understanding, without intention, without any material component I had contributed to. And yet it had worked.

"So, location then?" I ask.

"The third component is perhaps the most important for your particular case," he continues. "A warp rune does not function equally everywhere. It requires a place with sufficient magical concentration for the connection to hold. A location where the boundary between ordinary space and magical space is already thin." His gaze shifts to the rune still floating between us, studying it with a familiar attention. "In this tower, the concentration is high. In most of the valley, it is adequate. In places entirely removed from magical influence, a rune will dissolve before it can be fixed."

I look at the rune again. The light from it has not changed, steady and even, the symbol holding its form without any visible effort.

"It doesn't look like it's doing anything," I observe. "It's just... hovering."

"It is waiting," he replies. "A rune without a paired destination is incomplete. It holds its form until it is either connected or dismissed." He lifts one hand slightly, a small and almost casual movement, and the rune dissolves, the light pulling inward before vanishing entirely, leaving the air looking ordinary again. "That was a demonstration only. A rune tied to nothing."

The room feels slightly dimmer without it.

I look back at Magnus. "And my magic," I say slowly. "How is this different from what you do?"
He considers the question with more care than I expected, turning it over before he answers, like he is making sure the distinction is accurate rather than simply convenient.

"My magic is learned," he says. "Built over centuries from study, discipline, and accumulated understanding. When I perform a working, I am drawing on frameworks I have constructed deliberately. Systems I understand from the inside." He pauses. "What you do is not that."

"What is it, then?"

"Instinct," he says. "Yours is not a practiced resonance with magical structure. It is something closer to a natural one. The maze responded to you today not because you knew how to ask it, but because something in you and something in it recognized one another." A pause. "That is not a small distinction."

I sit down on the edge of his worktable, not gracefully, but he doesn't comment on it. "Then why do I need to learn this at all? If it just... happens?"

"Because things that happen without control do not stay small," he says quietly. "And because instinct without understanding has limits that discipline does not." He moves back toward his circle. "What you are capable of doing naturally, you cannot yet do reliably. You cannot do it at distance. You cannot do it under pressure. And you cannot, yet, do it with enough precision to anchor a rune that will hold."

He pauses.

"That is what the elixir is for. It does not give you the ability. You already have that. It clarifies the channel. It quiets the interference between your instinct and the structure of the working, so that for a time, your intention and the magic can move without translation error."

I sit with that for a moment. "Like removing static from a signal."

Something in his expression softens, just slightly. "Yes," he says. "Precisely like that."

He gestures toward the circle then, a clear and uncomplicated invitation. "Come here."

I slide off the table and walk to the edge of the chalk lines, stopping just outside them.

"You will not draw the chalk," he says. "Not yet. What you will do is hold this." He presses the small amber vial from before into my palm, his fingers brushing mine in the exchange, brief and matter-of-fact. "This was created here, in this tower. It is associated with this location. It will serve as your material anchor."

I look down at it. "And my intention?"

"Here," he says simply. "This room. The weight of the stone. The way the smoke moves above the cauldron. The particular quality of the light near the shelves. Hold it."

I close my eyes. The tower comes to me more easily than I expect. Not as a picture, but as a feeling, the faint pressure of old stone around me, the warmth carried by lamplight rather than sun, the low persistent smell of herbs and something metallic and something else I still cannot name. The slight unevenness of the floor under my boots. The way sound behaves differently here, quieter on the high end, more resonant on the low.

I hold it.

"Now," Magnus says, "let the connection form."

I don't entirely know what that means, but I don't ask, because asking would break the concentration, and the concentration feels like the only thing I currently have. I let the feeling of the room expand slightly, pressing outward from the palm of my hand, from the amber vial that is warm against my skin in a way that glass should not be.

Something pulls.

Not unpleasantly. More like a thread drawing taut, like someone has taken both ends of a string and gently increased the tension without snapping it. I feel the room arrange itself around that thread, like it is agreeing to something.

Then the sound.

Not PEOW, not exactly, but something quieter and more interior, a note rather than a crack, and I open my eyes to find a warp rune suspended in front of me, smaller than the one Magnus had made, less symmetrical, the lines slightly uneven along one edge, but glowing with a warmth that his had not quite had.

I stare at it.

"Oh," I say.

Magnus is quiet for a moment that feels longer than it is.

"Yes," he says. "Oh."

I look at him then. He is not looking at the rune. He is looking at me, with something in his expression that sits between careful and undone, like he had been expecting progress and had received something more than that.

"It's crooked," I say.

"It is," he agrees. "The symmetry will improve with repetition. But the form is correct and the anchor is sound." He steps closer, studying the rune with that precise attention he applies to everything, one hand rising slightly as though about to touch it, then lowering again. "The warmth in it is yours. Practitioners' runes tend toward a cooler light. Yours carries heat because you are not conducting borrowed structure. You are making it from something inside you."

I don't entirely know how to receive that.

"Is that good?" I ask.

"It is remarkable," he says, and the flatness of his delivery makes it more believable than if he'd said it with any warmth.

I dismiss the rune the way I had seen him dismiss his, instinctively, and it dissolves without resistance, the warmth pulling back into my hand before vanishing entirely.

We work for the better part of two hours after that.

Magnus is not a patient teacher in the way that patience usually implies, with softness and encouragement and generous allowances for error. He is patient in a different way entirely, thorough and precise and entirely unwilling to move forward until a thing has been understood rather than simply performed. He corrects me when my intention drifts. He redirects me when I begin to rely on feeling alone rather than structure. He asks me to explain what I am doing as I do it, which is both infuriating and clarifying in equal measure, because trying to translate instinct into language forces me to understand it.

The runes improve. The symmetry comes together. The warmth stays.

At some point, the fire shifts behind us, and I become aware of how much time has passed in the way you become aware of things at the edges of attention, not suddenly, just gradually, like something that was always true beginning to be felt.

The runes improve over the next hour. The symmetry comes together. The warmth stays.

At some point I become aware that Magnus has repositioned himself to the far edge of the chalk circle, further back than he needs to be for observation, further back than he has stood at any other point during the evening. It is not inattention. His focus has not changed, still precise, still tracking every small adjustment I make. But there is something careful about the distance itself, something that feels chosen rather than incidental, the way a person stands just outside a doorway rather than through it. I file it away without saying anything, turning it over quietly while I work.

And then, without entirely deciding to, I decide to say something.

"You can come closer," I say, without looking up from the rune I am holding steady between my palms. "I'm not going to bite you."

Something in his expression has shifted, just slightly, in a way I cannot immediately classify.
The idea arrives before I can stop it, quiet and a little dangerous, the same instinct that had been sitting in the back of my head since last night at the Saloon. My friends' voices surface briefly. As long as you don't get shut down, you're pretty much in the clear.

"Unless," I add, keeping my voice very even, "you wanted me to."

The silence that follows is a different kind than the ones I am used to from him.

Magnus moves closer. Slowly, deliberately, with the particular quality of intention that he applies to everything, until he is standing just inside the edge of the chalk circle, close enough that I am very aware of exactly how tall he is.

"Is that so," he says. It is not quite a question.

I hold very still.

"Well." His voice has dropped into something quieter, something that does not have the usual instructional cadence to it at all. His head slowly dips down, his mouth now positioned just above my ear. "What if I wanted to bite you instead?"

Several things happen at once inside my chest, none of which I am going to examine closely right now. Magnus’ head snaps up to gaze down at me once again, his expression unreadable, but his eyes seem to flicker with some kind of sense of amusement.

"I— well, then I would—" I start, and immediately lose the sentence somewhere in the middle of it. I try again. "That would be— I mean, you could—"

The corner of his mouth moves. It is a very small movement. A small suggestion of some kind of smirk. Was he gathering some kind of enjoyment from my failure?

“I could? You’re saying you would let me, or are you saying you would want me to?”

I tremble without meaning to, my legs feeling more than just a bit wombly. I continue to keep my eyes on him, not letting myself drop them for a moment. Even if I can’t speak, I don’t want to move either.

"And what would you say," he continues, in the same quiet register, with the precise, unhurried delivery of someone who has decided to be very patient about this, "if I did?"

I look him directly in the eye and say, with complete and total confidence, "I would say you're tripping on forest juice."

The silence that follows that particular sentence is the loudest one I have experienced in this tower.

And then Magnus laughs. Part of it feels intimate to see him do such a rare thing, another part feels like he’s laughing at my naivete in flirtation, but a small bit feels like he genuinely enjoyed my attempt to fluster him. I like the latter feeling the least. It makes me feel childish.

I turn back to the chalk circle and crouch down to examine the rune at my feet with tremendous focus.

I can feel Magnus composing himself back into whatever arrangement he usually occupies, the small sounds of it, a breath, a shift of weight, the familiar quiet that follows when he is deciding how to proceed. I do not look up.

What I am privately doing is conducting a rapid and deeply unflattering review of the last ninety seconds of my life.

Abigail had made it sound simple. As long as they don't shut it down, you're pretty much in the clear. She had not accounted for the possibility that I would be the one to shut it down, that I would stand in front of a man who had just said something that made my entire nervous system go offline and respond with the words forest juice. I had been handed an open door and walked directly into the doorframe.

I adjust the rune in front of me with slightly more force than necessary.

To his credit, Magnus does not comment on any of this. He simply walks back toward the worktable, his composure apparently fully restored, as though nothing has happened, which is somehow both a relief and its own specific kind of infuriating. The laugh had been real. I knew it had been real. And now it was just gone, tucked away behind that same careful arrangement of features, and I was crouching on the floor of his chalk circle having a small private crisis about the words forest juice.

I am sitting cross-legged on the floor of the chalk circle by now, something I don't think anyone has done before based on the mildly startled look Magnus gave me when I lowered myself down without asking. He is in the chair near the worktable, one leg crossed, the old tome open across his knee though he has not looked at it in some time. The room has settled back into something comfortable, easy even, the kind of quiet that doesn't need to be filled.

I tell myself I am not still thinking about it.

I am a little bit still thinking about it.

"Can I ask you something?" I say.

"You routinely do so without asking," Magnus replies with a voice that seems more controlled than it had been in the exchange we had just a few moments before. His eyes remain glued to a page that he doesn’t look very focused on.

"The Junimo Woods," I start.

He looks up.

"I stumbled into it," I continue. "And it took me hours to find my way out. I'd done it once, but doing it again, deliberately, from the farm, would take me the better part of a day just getting there and back." I look at my hands in my lap, where the faint memory of the amber vial's warmth still lingers in my palm. "If I'm going to be working between the tower and the farm and whatever else is out there, I need something more reliable than walking."

Magnus is quiet for a long enough moment that I look up at him.

He has closed the book. He is watching me with that same quality of attention from earlier, the one that is not quite observation and not quite recognition but sits somewhere between them.

"You are thinking about the Nexus," he says.

"I'm thinking about the fact that my legs are tired and the valley is large," I say. "But yes, if that's what you call it."

He sets the book aside and rises from the chair in one motion, moving toward the worktable with a purposefulness that tells me the conversation has shifted into something else.

"A Nexus," he begins, his hands moving across the table as he speaks, sorting through small vials and folded papers with the efficiency of someone who knows exactly where everything is, "is not simply a collection of warp runes. A warp rune moves you from one point to another. A Nexus is the infrastructure that makes many such movements possible without requiring that each one be re-established every time." He lifts a small bottle from the back of the table, the contents a deep blue that shimmers faintly even in low light. "It requires a fixed anchor point. A place where the magical concentration is high enough to support multiple active connections simultaneously, and where the tethers can be maintained without constant renewal."

"And such a place exists," I say.

"Yes," he replies. "North of your farm, above the cliffside along the Backwoods path. There is a grove. The mana concentration there is among the highest I have measured in this valley. And because of that, time within it behaves differently." He turns toward me, the bottle in his hand. "In that grove, the seasons do not pass. The weather does not change. It exists outside the ordinary rhythm of the valley entirely."

I think of the cherry tree in the Junimo Woods, blooming in the middle of winter, untouched by cold or season.

"I've seen something like that," I say quietly.

"Yes," he says. "The principle is the same. These places are not frozen. They simply do not participate in the passage of time the way the rest of the world does. They run on a different current." He pauses. "What we will do is anchor the grove further. Seal it from ordinary observation. And use it as the center of a network of warp connections that will allow you to move between key locations in the valley without the cost of time or distance."

"We," I repeat.

He looks at me.

"You said we will do it,” I clarify, feeling a bit awkward as I stumble over my words.

A brief pause. "The working requires two practitioners," he says, which is probably true and also probably not the only reason. "The grove responds to combined magical attention more readily than singular. And yours, specifically, will make the sealing more complete than anything I could do alone."

I try not to read into that too hard. I don't entirely succeed.

"When?" I ask.

"Tonight," he says. "There is no particular reason to delay."

I look toward the tower's small high windows. The sky beyond them is fully dark, the winter stars visible in the gaps between clouds.

"Now?" I ask.

"After I explain what you will need to do," he says, which is perhaps the most reasonable thing he has said all evening. He holds the blue bottle out toward me. "This was made here, in this tower, which is the material component it carries. When we arrive at the grove, we will first work together to alter the flow of time within it. I will manage the structural element of that. You will provide the natural anchor. The grove responds to the same kind of magic you carry."

"Because I'm not fully human," I say.

"Because you carry something adjacent to that," he corrects, in a tone that suggests he is not going to let that imprecision go unchallenged regardless of how many times I test it. "The grove is a living system. Your connection to living systems is not mediated. When you make the intention, the grove will hear it the same way the maze heard you today."

"And what intention should I hold?"

He considers this for a moment. "That it is safe," he says. "That it is separate. That what happens within it stays within it." Something in his voice quiets slightly. "That it belongs only to those who are meant to be there."

The simplicity of that settles into me more deeply than I expected.

"And then the Nexus itself?" I ask.

"Then I will show you how to place the first warp point," he says. "Using the bottle. Using this tower as the destination. When it is fixed and working, we will have the beginning of something that can be expanded." He looks at me steadily. "Over time, as you encounter new locations, you will add to it. A warp point requires only that you have been somewhere, that you understand it, and that you carry something from within it. Then the connection can be made."

I sit with that for a moment. The scale of what he is describing becomes clearer the longer I look at it.

"And you," I say. "You'll be able to use it?"

"I can travel without a Nexus," he says, which is probably true and possibly also a deflection.

"That's not what I asked."

He looks at me for a long moment.

"If I choose to use it," he says finally, "yes."

I nod. "Good."

Something in his expression shifts, very slightly, in a way he does not seem to notice or intend.

"Get your coat," he says.

The Backwoods at night in winter is a different landscape entirely.

During the day, the path north of the farm is familiar enough, the trees dense but navigable, the snow broken by the occasional track of an animal moving through it in the early hours. At night, with winter pressing the dark down into everything, it becomes something else. The cold is sharper here, more deliberate, the kind that does not simply touch the skin but settles into it. My breath clouds and dissolves. My boots crunch through the frozen surface of the snow in a rhythm that sounds too loud against the silence.

Magnus walks beside me, close enough that the edges of our coats nearly touch when the path narrows. He carries a single lantern, its light amber and steady, casting a circle of warmth around us that doesn't reach very far.

"You've been here before," I say. Not a question.

"Many times," he replies. "Though not recently."

"Why not?"

"Because I had no reason to," he says. Then, after a pause: "Until now."

I look at him sidelong. He is watching the path ahead, his expression composed in the way it usually is, but there is something easier about it tonight, something that the lantern light reveals in the slight looseness around his eyes, the way he is not quite holding himself to the same careful distance he usually maintains.

I don't say anything else. The path does the rest.

We reach the cliffside where the Backwoods dead-ends, and I am about to say something practical about there being nowhere to go when the stairway appears.

Not dramatically. Not with any sound or light. It simply becomes visible, the stone steps rising from the base of the cliff in a series of broad, even cuts, as though they had always been there and the dark had simply made them difficult to see. Magnus lifts the lantern, its light catching each step as it ascends the face of the rock.

"They weren't there before," I say.

"They were waiting," he replies, which is an answer that has started to feel completely normal, which is perhaps the strangest thing about the last several months of my life.

He takes the first step. I follow.

The climb is not long but it feels significant, the way certain kinds of movement do, like crossing a threshold rather than simply covering distance. The cold drops away as we ascend, not suddenly, not warmly, but with the same gradual certainty as the maze's air, the sense that something above is different in kind rather than simply in temperature.

When we step up onto the top of the cliff, I stop.

The grove opens around us in the way the maze did not, without walls or corridors or paths to navigate. It simply exists, wide and quiet and entirely itself, the snow gone from its floor, replaced by the kind of deep green that does not belong to winter at all. The trees here are older than the ones below, their trunks wider, their branches arching overhead in long sweeping lines that filter the starlight into something softer and more diffuse.

In the center, a tree. Larger than the others. Not a cherry tree this time, but something older, something that does not have an obvious name, its bark dark and deeply grooved, its branches bare in a way that feels deliberate rather than seasonal. It stands like the fact of the place, the thing around which everything else has arranged itself.

Magnus steps forward without hesitation, moving toward the center of the grove with a kind of ease that tells me he has been here before in a way that is less about familiarity and more about belonging.

"Here," he says, turning back to me. "Stand here."

I walk to where he indicates, a few feet from the base of the large tree, the ground beneath me slightly softer than the surrounding earth. The moment I settle my weight into it, I feel it. The thread, faint but present, running from the soles of my feet into the root system below, connecting me to something that is not soil and not stone but something older and less named.

"You feel it," Magnus says.

"Yes."

"Good." He steps slightly to my left, angling himself so that we are both facing the tree. "Then follow my lead on the structure. The intention is yours alone."

I nod once.

He begins to work. Not loudly, not with the chalk or the PEOW of a formal casting, but quietly, his hands moving through small and deliberate shapes in the air, tracing lines I cannot follow but can feel in the periphery of my attention, like something being drawn around us rather than at us.
I let the intention form the way he told me to earlier. Safe. Separate. Belonging only to those meant to be there.

The grove responds.

It is not dramatic. It is the opposite of dramatic. The air simply settles into itself more completely, the kind of stillness that is not absence but presence, the sense of something sealing around us like a door closing softly. The tree does not move. The branches do not shift. But something in the grove acknowledges what has been done, a quality in the air, a depth in the dark between the branches, a quiet that feels chosen rather than accidental.

Magnus lowers his hands.

We stand there for a moment in the middle of it, the lantern light warm between us.

"It held," he says.

"It held," I agree.

He looks at me then, and the lantern catches the line of his jaw, the faint exhale that is not quite a smile but sits close to one, the particular expression he sometimes has when something has happened that he did not entirely expect, though he would not say so directly.

"The first warp point," he says, after a moment, turning back toward the tree. "Place the bottle at the base."

I take the deep blue bottle from my coat pocket and crouch down, setting it carefully at the root of the tree, where the bark curves out from the earth in a broad and steady arc. The bottle catches no light at this angle, its contents dark and still.

"Now," Magnus says from behind me, "the rune. Hold the tower. Hold this bottle. Hold the distance between them."

I close my eyes. The tower comes, solid and immediate, the stone walls and the amber light and the smoke above the cauldron. I hold it. I hold the bottle below my hands. And then, for the first time, I try to hold the space between two things at once, the feeling of both ends of a thread pulled taut.

The tension builds differently this time. Longer. More resistant. The distance between two real and specific locations is not the same as the distance between intention and a single fixed point. It takes longer to find, longer to stabilize, the connection wanting to slip before it settles.

But it settles.

The rune forms at the base of the tree, larger than the ones I had made in the tower, its lines more precise than I expected given how much harder it had been to make, glowing with the same warmth, the same interior light that Magnus had noted earlier.

I stand up slowly.

"Step on it," he says.

I look at it. I think about the rune in the forest. The drop into somewhere else, the total absence of familiar ground.

"Will it work?" I ask.

"There is only one way to find out," he replies.

I step onto it.

The grove disappears.

What arrives instead is not the tower room I had been holding in my mind.

It is larger. Warmer. The smell hits me first, the same herbs and old paper and faint metallic undertone of the tower, but deeper here, more layered, like the scent has had longer to settle into the walls. The light is amber and low, cast by lanterns set at intervals along the shelving, and there is shelving everywhere, floor to ceiling on every wall I can see, packed so densely with books and bottles that the wood itself has disappeared behind them. The carpet beneath my boots is a deep red, worn soft with age, and it runs the full length of the room in a way that feels deliberate, like something that had been chosen rather than simply placed.

I stumble slightly on the landing, catching my balance before I tip forward, my breath unsteady from the translation.

Then Magnus steps out of nothing beside me, unhurried, composed, as though he had simply walked through a door.

I look around.

The room resolves itself slowly as my eyes adjust, detail arriving in layers. Directly ahead, the upper portion of the library opens into a sitting area, a couch the color of faded violet angled toward a low table, an armchair beside it, a red oval rug between them that has been walked around enough times to leave the pile slightly flattened in a path along its edges. Display cases hold things I cannot immediately name, stones and objects and small curiosities arranged with the kind of precision that suggests they have meaning rather than simply decoration. Plants occupy the corners that books do not, their leaves catching the lamplight in small bright patches of green against all the warm red and amber of everything else.

Above the sitting area, mounted high on the far wall, is the skull of something large. A bull, maybe, or something adjacent to one, its horns wide and curved, an amber glow burning behind the eye sockets in a way that should have been unsettling and instead just looked like everything else in this room, old and deliberate and entirely at home with itself.

I turn slowly.

Behind me, the lower portion of the room extends into a long corridor lined on both sides with the warp runes, identical white circles set into the floor at measured intervals, each one glowing with a soft and steady light, each framed by small potted plants and a lantern mounted above it on the wall. The corridor is quiet, the runes burning without urgency, waiting the way the single rune in the tower had waited, patiently and without any particular concern for whether anyone used them.

I count seven of them. Eight, maybe, depending on where the corridor ends.

"This is your library," I say.

"Yes," Magnus replies.

"You have a warp hall."

"Yes."

“But I’ve been here before… was this always here?”

“Yes.”

I look at the rune I had just stepped off of, now sitting among the others like it had always been there, its warmth slightly different from the rest, slightly warmer, the lines holding a quality that I am beginning to recognize as mine.

"It fits," I say, which is not quite what I mean but is the closest I can get to it quickly.

Magnus moves past me into the upper room, his attention already shifting toward the shelves in the way it does when he is checking something rather than simply moving through a space. He runs two fingers lightly along the spine of a book without taking it down, a habit more than an action.

"The connection is clean," he says, without turning. "The translation was complete. The Nexus point in the grove is stable." He pauses, his hand stilling on the shelf. "You have done well tonight."

I lean against the nearest bookcase, my legs tired in a way that feels earned rather than exhausted.

"High praise from you," I say.

"It is accurate praise," he corrects, but the corner of his mouth moves, just slightly, in the way it sometimes does when he is choosing not to say something that would give too much away.
I look at him for a moment longer than I need to, and he holds it without retreating, without finding something else to look at, without the careful recalibration into distance that used to come so automatically.

The lanterns burn low and steady. The library holds its quiet.

"The grove is only the first point," he says eventually, his voice returning to the steadiness of instruction, though something underneath it has not quite followed. "Other locations will need to be added. The connections will need to be tested and maintained. And there is something I must tell you, before you begin seeking them out."

Something in his tone shifts. Not into alarm, but into a caution that is specific rather than general.

"A colleague of mine will be visiting the valley," Magnus states, albeit a bit nervously.

I straighten up slightly. "When?"

"Soon," he replies. "I cannot tell you exactly. She does not announce herself in advance."

"Is that a problem?"

Magnus is quiet for a moment that is just long enough to mean something.

"It is a complication," he says carefully. "She is perceptive. More perceptive than most, and less restrained in what she does with that perception." A pause. "She will notice what you are. I would prefer that she notice as little as possible."

The word from earlier returns. Studied. Contained.

"More Society?" I ask.

"Adjacent," he says. "Not formally. But not entirely separate either." He looks at me steadily. "I am telling you now so that you have time to prepare, not to alarm you. You will be ready."

"You sound very certain," I say.

"I am," he replies. "Because I will make certain of it."

The directness of that lands somewhere in my chest that I don't have an immediate name for. I look at the floor for a moment, then back at him.

"Okay," I say.

"Okay," he repeats, like he is filing the agreement away somewhere.

I reach for my coat and pull it on, my fingers still faintly warm from the last rune, the sensation already beginning to fade.

I am halfway through buttoning it when something lands.

His birthday is in three days. The Night Market arrives tomorrow.

I stand there for a moment with one button undone, running the math in my head. The Night Market ran through Winter 17, which was exactly his birthday, or close enough to it that the overlap had been what tangled my thinking in the first place. Three days. Three days in which vendors I had never seen before would dock their boats along the pier with things I could not find anywhere else in the valley.

I look at Magnus. He has moved to a worktable, already reorganizing the vials from the evening's work with that quiet and methodical precision, putting everything back the way it belongs.

I think about what he had said about the Nexus, about expanding it over time, seeking out locations, building connections. I think about the stone in the Junimo Woods carved with three languages, one of which neither of us had been able to name. I think about the tree in the grove tonight, the way the light had moved over his face when the working held.

I have no idea what to get him. That part hasn't changed.

But I have three days and a market full of strange things, and I know him slightly better tonight than I did this morning, which feels like something to work with.

"I'll see you soon," I say.

He glances up briefly from the table. "The next session will follow after the Night Market has passed," he says. "You should rest."

"I know how to rest, Magnus."

I cross back to the warp hall, my boots quiet on the red carpet, and stop at the rune I had come through. Its warmth is immediately recognizable, something distinct from the others, less neutral, more mine.

I turn back to look at him. He has his attention on the worktable, hands moving through the familiar motions of putting things in order, but there is something slightly too deliberate about the way he is not looking at me, something that reminds me of the careful distance he had put between us earlier in the evening before I called him out on it.

Something warm and a little wicked stirs in my chest.

"Goodnight," I say, letting the word stretch just slightly, soft and unhurried, nothing like my usual exits.

He looks up then, the way you look up when something catches you off guard, his eyes finding mine across the length of the warp hall.

I smile at him, slow and entirely on purpose, and watch something shift in his expression that he does not quite manage to settle before I see it.

"Sleep tight," I add. Then, because I cannot help myself, and because Abigail would be proud, and because the forest juice line still owes me something: "I'll try not to let the bed bugs bite."

I step onto the rune before he can answer.

The library disappears.

Behind me, in a room I can no longer see, Magnus stands very still at his worktable for a long moment, his hands no longer moving, a vial held loosely in one hand that he has entirely forgotten about.

He sets it down with slightly more care than it requires.

Chapter Text

The warp rune goes dark.

I stand at the worktable for a long moment. The vial is still in my hand. I am not sure when I picked it up again.

She said that.

She looked at me like that, with that smile, slow and deliberate and aimed directly at me, and then she stepped onto the rune and left, and now I am standing alone in my library holding a vial I have already set down three times, and the room feels considerably larger than it did ten minutes ago.

I put the vial down. I walk to the armchair in the sitting area and lower myself into it with the careful movements of a man who is pretending he is not affected by anything, for an audience of nobody, in an empty room. I press my fingers against my mouth and look at the ceiling.

She said that.

The evening replays itself whether I ask it to or not, which is the particular cruelty of a memory that has been trained to retain everything. It does not spare me. It holds each moment with complete and unhelpful clarity, beginning with the chalk circle and the careful distance I had put between us, the distance I had needed and maintained right up until she looked up from the rune she was holding and said, with that light and completely unself-conscious delivery, you can come closer, I'm not going to bite you.

And then the pause. That pause, where something behind her eyes shifted into something warmer and more deliberate, where I watched the thought arrive and watched her decide to say it anyway.

Unless you wanted me to.

I had moved closer. There is no version of that moment in which I do not move closer, which is information about myself I am still in the process of absorbing. I had closed the distance across the chalk circle without any of the careful calculation I had been applying to my own proximity all evening, and I had looked at her, and she had looked back at me, and the tension between us had been so present and so specific that it had felt like a third thing in the room, something with weight and warmth and its own particular quality of attention.

Assuming that I am not entirely lost in my own vast wilderness of delusions, this tension has existed between us since the very beginning. Since the first observations, the first research, the first careful and clinical language I had applied to something that was never clinical and I had known it even then, which makes the language seem all the more absurd in retrospect. To call it tension is almost insufficient. It was more like two forces that had been placed in proximity to one another without adequate consideration for what proximity would do to them. Two live wires, each carrying a current the other recognized, lunging perpetually toward contact and stopped not by any physical barrier but by the combined and continuous effort of two people choosing not to acknowledge what was already plainly there. That was the invisible force. That was what kept the distance. Not indifference. Not absence of feeling. The deliberate and exhausting work of pretending that the feeling was not the size that it was.

And she was the one who looked the beast in the eye first. She walked up to it and named it, however imperfectly, however tangled in forest juice and nervous laughter, and I had stood there on the other side of the chalk circle holding the weight of seven centuries of careful management and felt it become, for a moment, entirely insufficient.

And she is beautiful. That is the part I keep returning to, the part I keep trying to set aside and cannot. Not in the way of something I have simply noticed and catalogued and filed away, the way I notice and catalogue most things. In the way that has been quietly accumulating since the first evening she sat cross-legged on the floor of my chalk circle without asking permission, since the afternoon she fell asleep in the chair by the fire while I was working and I spent twenty minutes pretending not to notice. The way her expression moves when she is thinking, open and quick, giving everything away before she decides what to say. The way she had looked tonight, standing in the grove with her eyes closed and her hands outstretched and the rune forming between her palms with a warmth that no practitioner's magic has ever carried, like something lit from somewhere interior, and I had stood there watching her and felt something I had not expected to feel with the force that I felt it.

The way she had looked at me when I played into her little game, those eyes wide in something that was between terror and curiosity. Like a sheep that was curious about its slaughterhouse. And what I wholly understand now is that she is going to break down those doors regardless of what clearly laid out before her, because that is entirely and completely who she is, and I am beginning to understand that there is nothing I can do about that, and further beginning to suspect that I do not particularly want to.

I became some sort of feral animal at that moment. If she had pushed it any further, I don’t know if I could have been on any better behavior without having to warp myself away.

And then she had said forest juice.

I close my eyes briefly.

The forest juice incident is its own separate thing that I need to think about carefully. She had fumbled it. That much is obvious, the way she had lost the sentence halfway through it, the way her composure had come apart just long enough to show that she had not entirely planned for the conversation to go the direction it went. Which means she had not been entirely in control of it.

Which means it had been at least partially genuine.

But then she had pivoted to the Nexus with the energy of someone who had made a decision to pretend the previous ninety seconds had not occurred, and she had sat on the floor of my chalk circle and not looked at me for a considerable stretch of time, and I had thought, with a sinking clarity, that I had pushed too far. That I had matched her tone too readily, stepped too close, said something that had unsettled her in a way she did not want.

I had spent the remainder of the training session being very careful.

And then she had stood at the warp rune with the lamplight catching her hair and that expression on her face, the one that is specifically hers, warm and a little dangerous and fully aware of exactly what it is doing, and she had said goodnight in that voice, soft and unhurried, nothing like any of her previous exits, and looked at me across the length of the room like she was watching to see what I would do.

And I had looked back at her like an absolute fool. But how could I not look at her? One face, a mortal face at that, and centuries of discipline and attempts at asceticism shattered every time it was near my own.

Sleep tight. I'll try not to let the bed bugs bite.

And then she was gone.

I sit forward in the armchair, elbows on my knees, and look at the dark rune at the end of the corridor where she had been standing thirty seconds ago.

Did she know what she was doing? That is the question I cannot answer and cannot stop asking. Because if she had known, if that had been intentional from beginning to end including the forest juice which had been so perfectly mistimed that it had disarmed me more thoroughly than anything polished could have, then she is considerably more dangerous than I have been accounting for, and I am in a great deal of trouble.

And if she had not known. If it had been genuine and impulsive and slightly chaotic, which is entirely consistent with every other thing she has done since she walked into this tower in the spring and looked at my cauldron like she was cataloguing it for a biology report, then she had stood at the rune and aimed that smile at me and left, and she has no idea.

She has no idea what she left behind her.

She has no idea that I am sitting in my own armchair in my own library at an unreasonable hour of the night, completely unable to put a single vial away, thinking about the way she looked in the grove with her hands pressed against the root of the tree and her face tipped slightly upward, the rune glowing warm between us, and the entirely inconvenient fact that I have not wanted to close a distance that badly in a very long time.

The library is very quiet.

The Night Market begins tomorrow.

Three days, I think, and I am not entirely sure whether that feels like a relief or the opposite.

I get up. I put the vial away. I put several other vials away with perhaps more focus than the task requires.

Outside the tower, somewhere across the valley, she is walking home through the Backwoods in the dark, probably already thinking about something else entirely. Perhaps she’s already in bed, sound asleep with Onyx by her side for protection. Maybe she’s dreaming of different ways to torture me, but most likely, is not dreaming at all.

I very much doubt I will be sleeping.

Chapter Text

There’s a letter sitting on my breakfast table in the early morning, when the cold is so sharp that I feel my joints groan when I eventually force myself out of bed.

I stare at it for a long moment, my brain still too slow to process the implications of that before I finally step closer, picking it up carefully like it might explain itself if I give it enough time.

It doesn’t.

You should come by the Adventurer’s Guild when you have a chance today.
– The hottest guy you’ve ever seen

I blink. Once. Twice.

“…Unbelievable,” I mutter.

So not only has Lance somehow found a way to ruin my day before it has even properly started, he has also found a way into my house.

Without breaking anything. Without waking me up. Without any visible effort at all.

I glance toward the door. Still locked. The windows are unchanged, too. I narrow my eyes at the note like it might confess.

“Great,” I mumble, tossing it back onto the table. “Love that for me.”

Haley’s vote is not doing well in this imaginary competition.

I drag on another layer, then another, then another, until I resemble something closer to a walking pile of fabric than a person, and push the door open, immediately hit with a blast of cold that steals whatever warmth I had left.

The world outside is sharp and bright, winter sunlight bouncing off snow in a way that almost hurts to look at. My boots crunch against the ground as I make my way to the mailbox, more out of habit than expectation, my breath visible in small clouds that vanish just as quickly as they appear.

“I should probably see what he wants,” I mutter to myself, already regretting it.

By the time I finish my chores, the sun has climbed just high enough to give the illusion of warmth, though the cold still clings stubbornly to everything it touches. I take my time getting ready anyway, adjusting layers, reworking my braid from the night before, smoothing down the frizz where I can even though I know it will not hold for long.

If Lance expects urgency from me, he is going to be disappointed.

I walk. Not quickly. Not slowly. Just enough to feel like I am choosing the pace, even if I am not entirely convinced that I am in control of anything else.

The path to the Adventurer’s Guild stretches ahead in familiar lines, the trees thinning as I move higher, the air growing colder and quieter with every step. The ground here feels different, more solid, less forgiving, like it belongs to something older than the town below.

The Guild appears gradually, rising out of the landscape like it has always been part of it, its structure dark against the brightness of the snow, its presence steady and unmoving.

And then, I notice something I have never paid attention to before.

The river just south of the building cuts through the land in a narrow, quiet path, its surface partially frozen, the water beneath moving just enough to keep it from stillness. A small dock juts out from its edge, uneven and worn, the wood weathered in a way that suggests it has been there longer than I have noticed.

And tied to it is a boat.

I slow slightly, my brow furrowing as I take it in, trying to recall if it has always been there, if I have simply overlooked it. I cannot remember. That bothers me more than it should.

I file it away for later, my attention shifting back to the Guild as I approach the door.

And it swings open. Fast enough that I have to step back quickly to avoid getting hit.

“Oh, Kane! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there!”

Marlon stands in the doorway, already laughing, his voice warm and steady in a way that feels grounding after everything else this morning has thrown at me. He steps aside, holding the door open with one hand, his posture relaxed, familiar.

“I’m starting to think you all are trying to take me out one by one,” I mutter, brushing past him into the Guild.

Marlon chuckles. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have made it out of the mines,” he replies.

“That’s comforting,” I say dryly.

The Guild is dimmer than the world outside, the shift in light immediate and noticeable as I step fully inside. The fire along the far wall crackles softly, its warmth spreading unevenly through the room, leaving the corners in shadow. Weapons line the walls in careful rows, their metal catching what little light there is, reflecting it in dull glints that shift with every movement.

The scent of wood, steel, and something faintly metallic lingers in the air.

“You took your time.”

His voice comes from behind me, smooth and unmistakably amused, settling into the space like it has always belonged there.

I sigh, obviously annoyed already, before turning.

Lance leans against the far wall near the fire, one boot braced casually behind him, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. The firelight flickers across him, catching on the edges of his armor, softer here than before but no less intentional, the shadows shifting across his expression in a way that makes it difficult to fully read.

His gaze drifts over me slowly, taking in every detail, the layers, the braid, the way I stand, before returning to my face.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he says.

I cross my arms immediately. “I almost didn’t.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, not quite a smile, but something close enough to feel like one. “And yet,” he says, pushing himself off the wall and stepping forward just enough to close the space between us, “here you are.”

I glare at him. “You broke into my house.”

“The note did, not me,” he corrects smoothly.

“You still invaded my property.” Although, it is definitely better that he himself didn’t crawl into my house at Yoba knows what hour, but that’s a bare minimum at best.

“That’s semantics.”

Marlon snorts behind me, clearly enjoying this more than he should.

Lance’s attention flicks toward him briefly before returning to me, sharper now, more focused. “So,” he says, tilting his head slightly, his voice lowering just enough to feel more intentional, “are you here because you’re curious…” He pauses, the edges of his mouth curving even more. “…or because you missed me?”

I blink at him, the question hanging in the air longer than it should. Then I roll my eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I mutter, though the words come out softer than I intend, the edge of them dulled by the fact that I am still standing exactly where I shouldn’t be.

I don’t step back. Which he notices immediately.

Lance shifts forward without hesitation, closing the already small distance between us until I am forced to tilt my head slightly upward just to keep his gaze. It is not an aggressive movement, not quite, but it is deliberate enough that it feels like a choice rather than an accident. The heat from the fire behind him spills forward, catching along the edges of his armor and the line of his jaw, making everything about him feel sharper, more defined.

“You ready for today?” he asks.

His voice lowers just slightly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that it lands differently.

I shrug, folding my arms across my chest in an attempt to regain some kind of control over the space between us, even though I am the one who allowed it to close in the first place.

“You tell me, teacher.”

The word hangs there longer than it should.

Lance lets out a low chuckle, deeper than I expect, the sound settling into the room instead of bouncing off it. It does something strange to my stomach, something I immediately choose to ignore.

“You know,” he says, tilting his head just slightly, his eyes dragging over me in a way that feels far too aware, “that’s kind of hot.”

“Don’t you think everything is kind of hot?” I shoot back, though I can’t stop the slight pull of a smile at the corner of my mouth, betraying me in a way I don’t appreciate.

He shrugs, completely unbothered, like this is the easiest thing in the world for him.

“I guess when it has to do with you,” he says, “yeah, it does.”

Gus’s voice cuts across the Guild before I can respond, loud enough to snap the moment clean in half.

“No sexual tension in the Guild building!” he calls. “Take it outside, youngsters!”

My face burns instantly, heat rushing up my neck and settling hard across my cheeks as I step back this time, putting actual distance between us whether I want to or not.

“That was not—” I start, already mortified.

Lance doesn’t even try to defend it. He just grins.

“Come on,” he says, turning toward the door like nothing happened. “Let’s not get banned before you even start training.”

Marlon is still chuckling under his breath as we pass him, shaking his head like he has seen this exact situation play out a hundred times before. “Try not to die,” he adds casually.

“No promises,” Lance replies over his shoulder, now gripping both of my shoulders as he continues to push me out of the building.

“That’s not reassuring,” I mutter, pulling my coat tighter around me as we step outside.

The cold hits harder this time. Not because it is any worse than before, but because the warmth of the Guild lingers just long enough to make the contrast sharper. The air feels thinner out here, the wind cutting across the open space in quick, biting bursts that slip through every layer I am wearing.

Lance doesn’t slow. He moves with a kind of easy familiarity, like this path belongs to him, like every step has already been taken before and he is just repeating something he knows by heart.

“Where are we actually going?” I call after him, my boots crunching against the frozen ground as I follow.

“You’ll see,” he replies.

I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it.

“I hate when people say that.”

“I know, sweetheart.” he says, not turning around.

That is annoying.

We move past the Guild quickly, the structure fading behind us as the terrain begins to shift again, the path sloping downward toward the river I noticed earlier. The trees thin slightly here, their branches bare and sharp against the sky, casting long, uneven shadows across the snow.

And then the dock. Up close, it looks worse than it did from a distance.

The wood is uneven, weathered in a way that suggests it has been here far longer than it should still be standing, the edges worn down by water and time. The river beside it moves steadily, dark beneath the thin layer of ice that clings to its edges, the current strong enough to keep it from freezing completely.

And tied to the dock is the boat. It rocks gently with the movement of the water, the rope holding it in place pulled taut just enough to keep it from drifting.

The boat is smaller than I expect.

“You coming,” he asks, “or are you planning to stare at it until it explains itself?”

I narrow my eyes at him but step forward anyway, careful with my footing as I climb in. The cold from the water seems sharper here, rising up through the planks beneath my boots, settling into the air in a way that feels different from the snow.

More alive. Less still.

“I don’t like that you have access to this,” I mutter, gripping the edge briefly as the boat shifts beneath me.

“You don’t like a lot of things about me,” he replies easily, pushing us off from the dock with a practiced motion.

The boat glides forward almost immediately, the current catching us just enough that Lance doesn’t need to force it, only guide it. The river widens gradually as we move, the trees thinning along the edges until the valley behind us begins to feel… distant.

I glance back once. Pelican Town is already disappearing behind the slope, the familiar shapes of it fading into something softer, something less defined.

“Comforting, isn’t it,” Lance says, not looking at me.

“What is?”

“The way everything you know disappears the second you leave it.”

I look back at him with a disbelieving expression. “That’s not comforting.”

He smirks slightly. “Give it time.”

I cross my arms, settling back just slightly as the boat continues forward, the water shifting from narrow river to something broader, deeper, the current less predictable now.

“So,” I say after a moment, forcing my attention back to something tangible, “you’re going to tell me where we’re going, right?”

“The Highlands,” he replies.

“I gathered that.”

“Did you,” he says, glancing at me briefly, “or did you just decide to trust me blindly for once?”

“I’m not trusting you,” I snap quickly.

“Sure.”

I exhale sharply through my nose.

“Start talking.”

That earns me a small, approving look.

“The Highlands sit on the northern edge of the Ferngill Republic,” he begins, his tone shifting slightly, less teasing now, more deliberate. “Technically within its borders. Functionally… not part of it.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“It means,” he says, adjusting the boat’s direction slightly as the current shifts beneath us, “that the Republic doesn’t know it exists.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to,” he replies back. “It just has to work.”

I stare at him. “That’s not an explanation.”

He sighs, like I’m making this more difficult than it needs to be.

“Magic in the Republic operates on a need-to-know basis,” he says. “You’ve already heard that, I assume.”

“From Magnus,” I confirm.

“Of course you have.”

There’s something in his tone when he says that, something I quickly learned a while ago to ignore.

“We conceal what needs to be concealed,” he continues. “Places, creatures, events. Anything that would disrupt the illusion that the Republic is… normal.”

“And the Highlands fall into that category.”

“Yes.”

He gestures vaguely ahead of us, toward something I still can’t fully see.

“It’s not just dangerous,” he adds. “It’s unstable.”

“How?”

Lance leans back slightly, one hand still resting loosely on the side of the boat, completely at ease despite the fact that we are moving into something I do not understand.

“The boundary between the physical world and the hidden realm is thinner there,” he says. “Much thinner than in the valley.”

That is what I’ve heard before.

“In the mines,” I say slowly, “the monsters stay contained because—”

“Because your Wizard put them there,” Lance finishes.

My jaw tightens slightly. “Because Magnus maintains a barrier,” I correct, my voice sounding more defensive than I would like.

Lance’s mouth tilts.

“Call it whatever you want.”

I ignore that.

“So the Highlands don’t have that?”

“No,” he says simply.

“And no one’s tried?”

He looks at me then. Really looks at me.

“That would require control over something that doesn’t want to be controlled,” he says. “The mines are structured. Contained. Predictable. The Highlands aren’t.”

The boat shifts slightly as we move further out, the water darker now, deeper, reflecting less light and more shadow.

“Monsters there don’t stay in one place,” he continues. “They don’t retreat. They don’t follow a pattern you can rely on.”

“Because of the hidden realm?”

“Because of everything,” he says. He gestures again, more pointed this time.

“There are caverns there. Deep ones. Old ones. Filled with shadow creatures and things that have been left alone for too long. Ruins that still hold… remnants of whatever used to live there.”

I frown. “Remnants?”

“Dark magic,” he says simply. “Corruption. Life that doesn’t behave the way it should anymore.”

That sits with me. Uncomfortably.

“And it’s close to the Crimson Badlands,” he adds.

I look at him sharply. “You mentioned that before.”

“You should be paying more attention when I talk,” he replies.

“I am paying attention,” I growl. “I just don’t like the way you explain things.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

I glare at him.

He smiles. “Point is,” he continues, “things don’t stay where they’re supposed to up there. They move. They spread. And no one in the Republic knows, because if they did, they’d have to do something about it.”

“And they don’t want to.”

“They can’t,” Lance corrects. “Not without exposing everything else.”

That makes sense in a way I don’t like.

The boat falls into a quieter rhythm after that.

The water stretches out around us, the world behind us gone now, replaced with something more open, more uncertain. The wind shifts slightly, colder here, carrying something faint I can’t quite place.

Not salt. Not earth. Something… sharper.

Lance doesn’t speak for a while. Neither do I.

And for a moment, it’s just the sound of the water, the quiet creak of the boat, the steady pull of something ahead that I cannot see yet but can already feel.

The Highlands don’t emerges slowly. The shoreline shifts first, the trees growing taller, denser, their branches twisting in ways that feel less natural, less shaped by time and more by something else entirely. The ground rises unevenly, jagged in places, the earth darker here, less forgiving.

And then, the monsters. Not hidden beneath levels of stone. Not distant and miles away from my home. They are entirely present. And rampant, too. I see movement first, something shifting between the trees, too large to be mistaken for anything else. Then another, further up the slope, its form catching the light just long enough to make my stomach tighten.

“They’re just… out,” I say, my voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” Lance replies.

“No caves. No barriers.”

“Nope.”

“They don’t go anywhere?”

“They don’t need to.”

The boat slows as we approach the dock, smaller than the one we left behind, rougher, less maintained.

“This is where they belong,” he says.

I don’t like that answer.

I step out carefully, my boots hitting frozen ground with a dull and solid thud, the earth beneath me harder than anything I have walked on in the valley, packed down by cold that feels older and less forgiving than the winter I left behind. The dock behind us creaks once as the boat settles, the sound sharp in the quiet.

I pull my coat tighter without thinking about it.

I had dressed for movement this morning rather than farming, thermal layers beneath a fitted dark jacket, thick-knit leggings tucked into my heaviest boots, a scarf looped twice around my neck that I was already grateful for. My braid had held through the boat ride, mostly, a few strands escaping at my temples in the way they always did when the wind got involved. I had not dressed for whatever this was, but I had dressed closer to it than I usually managed.

The cold here is different from the valley's cold. Not sharper, exactly, but denser, like it has settled deeper into everything it touches, into the ground and the bark of the trees and the stone of the ruins visible through the treeline. The valley's winter feels seasonal, like something that will pass. This feels like something that has decided to stay.

I glance around, more carefully this time.

Snow covers the Highlands in an uneven layer, thick in the open spaces, thinner where the trees grow dense enough to block it, their branches weighted down with frost that catches what little light the overcast sky offers. The ground rises unevenly from the dock, jagged in places where stone breaks through the snow, the earth beneath it darker than it should be, less forgiving.

And then the monsters. Not hidden beneath levels of stone. Not contained behind a barrier I have been told exists and simply accepted. They are here, fully and completely present, moving between the frost-heavy trees with a steadiness that suggests they are not hunting so much as existing, inhabiting this place the way animals inhabit territory they have never been challenged for.

"This isn't like the valley," I say, my breath clouding in front of me.

"No," Lance agrees, stepping up beside me. "That's the point."

I exhale slowly, my fingers flexing inside my gloves as I take it all in. The monsters. The land. The feeling of something just slightly wrong sitting underneath everything, beneath the snow and the stone and the frost-heavy air, like the ground itself is operating on a different set of rules. For the first time since stepping off the boat, I understand why Magnus didn't want me here. And why Lance brought me anyway.

"So is this some kind of experiment on me? You want to see how I'll react on some kind of different soil and then throw me to the wolves?"

Lance, who was striding forward in front of me with only one foot on the first wooden step that led up into the Highlands, stops dead in his tracks. He turns around, his face more stoic than I've ever seen it before.

"Lorelai, it's very important to me that you know this about me before moving forward. I would never even think of putting you in harm's way just for an experiment. Believe it or not, I didn't just bring you around because I thought I could learn something new."

Something lingers in his eyes as the words leave his mouth, but he purses his lips and turns away from me to continue his climb without finishing the thought.

So if Lance didn't want me around to observe me, then what the hell were we doing out here?
In the middle of nowhere with no way to communicate with anyone without having to depend on a strange man I don't even know. Completely alone. Besides the monsters moving through the frost-heavy trees in every direction I looked.

Suddenly I wanted to crawl out of my skin and die of stupidity. Was this how I was going to go out? Was I going to get reported to the Society and then get magic blasted by a hundred mages at once?

As if my thoughts had been poured out loud through a megaphone, Lance mutters something quietly under his breath, just enough that I could hear him, but no one walking by could, which, out here, was no one.

"And I wouldn't ever give you up to someone else either." Lance pauses and coughs, his face still turned away from mine. "Just because I thought you were dangerous, that is."

"So this really is just for training?"

We're at the top of the first flight of steps now, and I look up to see the stairway continuing, broader stone steps flanked by low walls with torches set into them at intervals, their flames burning steadier than the wind moving through everything else up here should allow. Snow has settled into the crevices between the stones, packed hard, and my boots find purchase carefully on each step. I try not to groan at how far up we are still going. I didn't think that Highlands meant climbing.

Lance turns to give me a strange look. "What else would it be for?"

I shrug wordlessly, only because I have no response I can think of.

We keep climbing until the stairway levels out onto a wide stone platform, and the view opens up around me so suddenly that I stop walking without meaning to, my breath leaving me in a short visible cloud that disappears into the cold air.

The Highlands spread out in every direction, vast and contradictory and blanketed in winter in a way that makes them look almost beautiful from up here if you don't think too carefully about what is moving through them.

To the west and north, the land rolls outward in broad open sweeps, the snow covering everything in an uneven white that is broken by the dark trunks of trees growing too wide and too tall, their bare branches reaching upward in directions that don't quite follow the wind, laced with frost that glints faintly in the flat winter light. Ruins sit among them in quiet clusters, half-buried under snowfall, their broken stone edges softened and rounded by accumulation, grave markers rising at irregular intervals from the white ground like the land is keeping count of something. The open expanse has a stillness to it that is not peaceful so much as watchful, the kind of quiet that exists because things have learned to move carefully through it.

To the northeast, the white ends.

It does not fade or taper. It stops, hard and absolute, at the edge of something that the snow does not appear to touch. The dark zone sits against the winter landscape like a bruise, a deep and spreading wrongness that makes the frost-covered trees at its border look pale and diminished by comparison. No snow accumulates within it that I can see. No frost catches the light along its edges. It simply exists as its own thing, dense and lightless, and within it shapes move with a steadiness that makes my stomach tighten even at this distance.

I stare at it longer than I should.

"The edge of the Crimson Badlands," Lance says beside me, without me asking. "What bleeds over from it looks like that."

I pull my attention away from it and look at what sits directly in front of me instead.

The outpost is not what I expected from a man like Lance.

It is compact and deliberate, built from dark grey stone that looks older than the stairway leading up to it, the blocks fitted together with a precision that suggests someone who knew exactly what they needed and built it without excess. Two lanterns flank the wooden door on either side, their warmth almost aggressively normal against the grey of the sky and the frost of everything surrounding them. A wooden watchtower rises from the left, its structure slightly rougher than the stonework, added after, by the look of it, practical rather than planned. Snow has settled on every flat surface, the top of the low wall, the overhang above the door, the watchtower's narrow railing, sitting undisturbed in a way that suggests no one has been up here recently enough to knock it loose.

It is small. Unassuming in a way I would not have associated with him until I saw it.

"This is yours?" I ask.

Lance pushes the door open without ceremony, a brief exhale of warmer air escaping into the cold as he steps inside. "Home away from home," he says.

The inside is cool rather than warm, the stone walls not quite holding enough heat to fully push back the winter outside, but enough that the biting edge of the cold dulls the moment I step through the door. Blue-green light filters from small sconces set into the walls at irregular heights, their glow practical and slightly strange, casting the room in something that sits between functional and eerie. The upper floor is sparse in a way that feels deliberate, a small and worn out bed pushed against the left wall, a small chest at its foot, weapon racks mounted along the center wall holding instruments I cannot immediately classify, their metal surfaces catching the sconce light in flat, dull glints. A ladder in the corner leads upward to a hatch that opens onto the roof. Another, set into the floor on the opposite side, leads down.

There is no clutter here. Nothing that does not need to be here is here. No accumulated years of objects, no overlapping histories of interest and study pressing in from every surface. It is as different from Magnus' tower as a space can be while still belonging to someone who does serious work inside it. Where the tower feels like it has grown around its occupant over centuries, folding him into its walls, this place feels like it could be vacated in under an hour. Like the person who uses it has made a specific and ongoing choice not to leave too much of himself in any one place.

I look around while Lance moves to the weapon rack with the focused efficiency of someone who knows exactly what he came for.

"There's a lower level," he says, not looking at me, his hands moving across the rack with practiced ease. "You can look if you want. Just don't touch anything labeled."

I find the hatch in the floor, pull it open, and climb down.

The lower level is longer than the outpost's footprint should allow, which I file away as something to ask about later and probably won't. The ceiling is lower here, the walls closer together, the lighting warmer, amber rather than blue-green, emanating from sources I cannot immediately locate. The walls are lined with shelving, rougher and more utilitarian than anything in the tower, their contents organized by function rather than any visible preference. Specimen jars with things suspended in liquid that has not frozen despite the cold of the stone around them. Maps rolled flat and pinned at their corners with smooth river stones. Notebooks stacked horizontally, spines facing inward. A large worktable dominates the center of the space, its surface scarred and deeply stained in ways that speak to varied and heavy use over a long period of time, though nothing on it is decorative and nothing appears to have been left out for any reason other than that it was most recently needed.

It is messy, but not the way Magnus' tower is messy. That mess has depth and history, decades of accumulated interest pressing in from every direction, each object placed and replaced until it found the position it would occupy for the next fifty years. This mess is active. Transient. The kind left behind by someone who is always in the middle of something and has not yet finished it.

It does not feel like a place someone lives. It feels like a place someone works until they can't anymore and then leaves.

I climb back up.

Lance has what he came for, a worn leather case about the length of my forearm, its surface dark with age and use, buckled shut. He is already near the door, checking something on the outside of the case with a quick and practiced eye.

"Seen enough?" he asks, without looking up.

"Your downstairs looks like it belongs to a different person," I say.

That earns me a brief glance. Something behind it that lasts exactly long enough to register before it is gone. "It kind of does," he replies, and leaves it there.

He pushes the door open and we step back out onto the platform, the cold reasserting itself immediately, the wind sharper up here than it had been on the stairs. My scarf shifts and I tuck it back into place, my breath clouding steadily in front of me as I look back out over the Highlands.
The view is the same as before and no easier to absorb for the second look. The white expanse to the west and north, the ruins and the grave markers half-swallowed by snow. The dark zone to the northeast sitting against the winter landscape like something that has refused every season that was ever offered to it.

Lance steps up beside me, the leather case in hand, and turns not toward the darkness but toward the open snow-covered expanse to the west where the land runs long and the trees grow in dense frost-heavy clusters between the ruins.

"The training today is straightforward," he says. He opens the leather case and tilts it so I can see the contents without yet explaining them. A row of small instruments, compasses or measuring tools of some kind, their faces marked with gradations I cannot read from this angle. Beneath them, three objects wrapped in cloth, their shapes suggestive but unclear. "You already know what you can do in the valley. You've been working in a contained system, with someone who has spent centuries making that system predictable."

He closes the case.

"The Highlands won't do that," he says. "It doesn't know you. It doesn't respond to you. It doesn't have anything underneath it, softening what you interact with." He looks at me then, direct and level, the easy manner from the Guild still present but quieter now, set behind something more serious. "We're going to find out what you actually do when the environment stops cooperating."
I look out at the snow-covered expanse. At the ruins sitting silent and half-buried. At the treeline where shapes move between the frost-laden branches with a steadiness that suggests they have never had reason to hurry.

"And the monsters?" I ask.

Lance snaps the leather case shut, his breath a brief cloud in the cold air.

"Are part of the environment," he says.

"And the monsters?" I ask.

Lance snaps the leather case shut, his breath a brief cloud in the cold air.

"Are part of the environment," he says.

He steps off the platform and starts down toward the forest to the left of the outpost without waiting for me to respond, which I am beginning to understand is just how he moves through the world. Like the decision has already been made and the only question is whether you're keeping up.

I keep up.

The snow is deeper here than it looked from the platform, dense and unpacked, swallowing my boots past the ankle with every step. I reach back and check the sword at my hip without thinking about it, the way I have started doing whenever the terrain changes, a habit I had not noticed developing until it was already there. The galaxy sword sits in its sheath with a weight that still surprises me sometimes, not heavy exactly, but present, like it has a quality of attention that most objects don't. I had not understood what I was holding when Marlon handed it to me. I understand it better now.

The trees begin almost immediately once we leave the outpost's stone path, their trunks wide and frost-covered, their bare winter branches interlocking overhead in a canopy that filters the flat grey light into something dimmer and more uneven. The cold between the trees has a different quality than the cold in the open, stiller, more contained, like the forest is keeping it in rather than the wind pushing it through.

"Walk closer to me," Lance says, without turning around.

"I'm fine," I say automatically.

"I know you are," he replies. "Walk closer anyway."

I close the gap between us by about half, which seems to satisfy him because he doesn't comment further. His hand has moved to the side of his coat in a way I now recognize as habitual, close to whatever he keeps there, not drawn, just ready. His eyes move differently out here than they do in the Guild or on the boat, less focused on any single point and more distributed across the whole of the space around us, tracking the treeline and the distance and the ground in a way that looks like instinct and probably is.

The first slime appears before I hear it.

It drops from somewhere in the frost-heavy undergrowth to our left, landing in the snow with a wet, dense sound that sends a spray of white into the air, and sits there for a half second before it orients toward us. It is large and deeply black, its surface absorbing the winter light rather than reflecting it, no transparency to it at all, nothing like the green slimes I have encountered in the mines. This one looks older. Denser. Like something that has been here long enough to take on the color of what surrounds it after dark.

I take a step back before I fully decide to.

"Stay where you are," Lance says, quiet and level, not a reprimand, just information. He has already moved two steps to the right, angling himself between me and the slime with a casualness that suggests this is not a significant threat and also that he has thought about where I am standing relative to it.

He doesn't ask the slime to wait. His sword is out and through it before I have fully processed the motion, a single clean arc that wastes nothing, the kind of movement that only looks effortless because it has been made ten thousand times before. The slime shudders and splits, its mass separating before dissolving into the snow, leaving behind a small dark residue and, sitting in the depression where it fell, something that looks like a seed casing, roughly spherical, its surface faintly translucent.

Lance crouches down and picks it up without ceremony, turning it once between his fingers before tucking it into the leather case.

"Slime seed," he says, standing. "Spring crop. Grows into slime berries."

I stare at him. "The monster dropped a seed."

"They usually do, up here." He glances at me. "That's actually part of why we're out here today. But we'll get to that."

Before I can ask what he means, a second sound comes from further into the trees. Lower this time, more resonant, the kind of sound you feel in your sternum before you fully process it as noise.

The Wilderness Golem moves out of the treeline slowly, which is somehow worse than if it had moved quickly. It is large, considerably larger than anything I have encountered in the mines, its body assembled from what looks like compacted earth and frost-covered stone, its surface rough and irregular, patches of dead vegetation frozen into it like it has been collecting the Highlands' debris for years. Its eyes, or what function as eyes, are dim amber points set deep into a face that has no other readable features, tracking us with a steadiness that suggests patience rather than aggression.

It does not hurry.

"That one's yours," Lance says.

I turn to look at him.

He is watching me with an expression that is entirely calm and completely serious and slightly infuriating. "You heard me," he says.

"I've never fought something that size outside of a structured mine floor," I say.

"I know." He tilts his head slightly toward the golem. "It's not going to wait for you to feel ready, Kane."

I turn back to the golem.

It has closed about half the distance between us while we were talking, its movement unhurried and heavy, each step pressing deep into the snow. Up close, I can see the frost patterns on its surface, intricate and geometric, the kind that form slowly over time on something that has been standing still in freezing air long enough for the cold to find every surface.

I draw the galaxy sword.

Even out here, in flat winter light with no fire or lamp to catch it, the blade holds a faint prismatic quality along its edge, something that shifts between colors without settling on any single one, purple bleeding into blue bleeding into something that doesn't have a name. The first time I had drawn it I hadn't known what to make of it. Now it just feels like mine.

I think about what Lance said on the platform. The Highlands won't soften what you interact with. It doesn't know you.

I reach for what I know. Not the chalk-circle precision of Magnus' training, not the careful three-part structure of intention and material and location. Something older than that, something that had moved the branches in the maze without asking me first, that had felt the root system of the grove through the soles of my boots. I let it surface rather than directing it, the way you let a muscle relax rather than forcing it.

The ground responds.

Not dramatically. Not with the sudden violence of something unleashed. The frost beneath the golem's next step shifts, just slightly, the earth below it softening in a way that interrupts its balance, and for a half second the golem's weight distributes wrong, its massive form tilting as one foot sinks deeper than it intended.

That half second is enough.

I move forward without entirely deciding to, and the golem is still recovering its footing when I reach it. The sword comes up in the same motion, the blade connecting with the joint between two of its largest stone components, and I feel the impact travel all the way up my arm to my shoulder, solid and real and considerably more resistance than the mines had prepared me for. It doesn't cut through so much as wedge, pressing along the fracture line that the cold has already created in the stone.

I push both palms against its chest with my free hand and let the intention go fully, the same one from the grove, safe, separate, belonging only to those meant to be there, but inverted, wrong for this, not a seal but a release, and the frost binding its components together cracks through in a series of sharp splitting sounds like ice breaking on a lake, the geometric patterns fracturing along their lines outward from where I am touching it.

The golem comes apart slowly, its mass separating at the seams where the frost had held it, settling into the snow in heavy pieces that lose their amber light as they fall.

In the depression where it stood, half-buried in disturbed snow, sits a seed casing. Larger than the slime's, its surface fibrous, pale against the dark earth beneath it.

I stand there for a moment, breathing harder than I expected, the sword still in my hand.

Lance picks up the seed from behind me, appearing at my shoulder without making any particular noise about having gotten there. He turns it over in his hand.

"Stalk seed," he says. "Summer crop." A pause. "That was not what I expected you to do."

"Did it work?" I say.

"Yes," he says.

"Then it doesn't matter what you expected."

Something in his expression shifts. Not quite a smile, but something adjacent to one, something that arrives and then gets put away before it fully forms. "No," he agrees, after a moment. "I suppose it doesn't."

We work through the forest for the better part of the morning.

Lance is a different person out here than he is anywhere else, and I mean that in a way that has nothing to do with the combat, though he is extraordinary at that too, moving through the frost-heavy undergrowth with a precision that makes everything look considered rather than instinctive even when it clearly is both. What changes is the way he talks. Or rather, the way he stops performing while he does it.

In the Guild, everything Lance says has a layer to it, the teasing, the angle, the carefully maintained ease of someone who has decided exactly what impression he wants to make and is very good at making it. Out here, between one monster and the next, with his attention split between the treeline and whatever he is explaining, that layer goes thin in places. Not gone. Just thinner.

"You're not holding your left side," he says, appearing at my shoulder after I've dealt with a second golem less cleanly than the first, the cold having stiffened my fingers inside my gloves more than I realized. "If something comes at you from the left while you're occupied, you'll feel it."

"I know," I mutter, flexing my hand.

"Do you?" He steps around me and takes my left wrist, not hard, just firm, repositioning my arm slightly. "There. That's where it needs to be when you're using the sword on something else." He releases my wrist. "It's not instinct yet. It will be."

He says it as a fact rather than an encouragement, which lands differently than encouragement would have.

We stop at a section of the forest where the trees thin slightly, a small natural clearing in the frost, the snow deeper here, undisturbed except for the tracks of something large that crossed it sometime before we arrived. Lance opens the leather case and takes one of the cloth-wrapped objects from beneath the instruments, unfolding the cloth to reveal something that looks like a compass but isn't, its face marked with gradations in a script that resembles Dwarvish but isn't quite that either.

"What is that?" I ask.

"Readings tool," he says. "Measures magical pressure in the environment. How much of the hidden realm is bleeding through at any given point." He holds it flat on his palm, and the needle swings once, settles. "The valley reads around four to six on this scale, depending on where you are. Magnus' tower reads closer to nine. The Junimo Woods, when I've managed to get a reading near the entrance, reads off the top of the scale."

I watch the needle. "What does the Highlands read?"

"Eleven, twelve on average. Higher near the Cavern." He looks at me. "That's why your magic behaves differently out here. There's more of whatever it's drawing from. More pressure in the environment. More to work with, and less containment around it."

"Is that dangerous?" I ask.

"For most practitioners, yes," he says. "For you?" He tilts his head slightly, watching me with that quality of attention that is less casual than it looks. "That's what today is for."

I look at the compass. "You've been studying this."

"For years," he says. Simply. Without the usual angle to it.

Something in the way he says it makes me glance up at him. He is looking at the needle rather than at me, his expression quieter than I usually see it, the practiced ease of it set aside for something more unguarded.

"You grew up with this," I say. Not quite a question.

He is quiet for just long enough that I think he is not going to answer. Then: "My parents were practitioners. Both of them. Good ones." He refolds the cloth around the compass with the same practiced motion he applies to everything. "Too good, maybe. They had access to things that most people in the Society never get near, and they weren't particularly careful about what they did with that access."

I wait.

He tucks the compass back into the case. "They're not dead," he adds, before I can arrive at the obvious conclusion. "Just contained. The Society has its own way of handling people who know too much and make too many decisions with that knowledge." Something in his voice is flat now, not bitter exactly, just factual, the tone of someone who has processed something past the point of acute feeling and is now simply reporting it. "I was young. Old enough to understand what had happened, young enough that the Society decided I wasn't worth the same treatment." He glances at me briefly. "Marlon took me in. Trained me. And I decided that if I was going to be around these things for the rest of my life anyway, I was going to actually understand them."

He closes the leather case.

"Hence the downstairs," I say quietly.

"Hence the downstairs," he confirms.

The clearing settles into quiet around us, the frost-heavy branches overhead moving just slightly in the cold wind, dislodging small curtains of snow that fall without sound. I think about the lower level of the outpost, the notebooks with their spines turned inward, the maps pinned flat under river stones, the specimen jars holding things that hadn't frozen. The mess of someone who has been in the middle of the same question for a very long time.

"I'm sorry," I say. "About your parents."

Lance looks at me.

Not the look he usually gives me, the one that has a response already assembled behind it. This one is unguarded in a way that lasts a full second before he puts something easier back over it.

"Don't be," he says. "It made me better at this than I would have been otherwise." He picks up the leather case and stands, scanning the treeline with that distributed attention. "Come on. There are ruins to the east where the dust sprites accumulate. You haven't dealt with air-type resistance yet and I want to see how you handle it."

He starts walking.

I fall into step beside him, which he allows without comment, not ahead of me this time, actually beside me, close enough that our arms nearly brush when the path narrows between two frost-covered boulders.

We are halfway to the ruins when the shadow brutes find us.

There are three of them, which is two more than I have ever dealt with at once, and they do not announce themselves the way the golems had. They are simply there, emerging from the treeline on three sides with the particular density of things that carry too much of the hidden realm in their composition, their forms indistinct at the edges, their attention fixed with the cold patience of creatures that have learned to wait for the right moment and have decided this is it.

Lance moves immediately, putting himself between me and the largest one, and the sound of his sword clearing its sheath is the sharpest thing in the forest. "Left and center," he says. "I've got right."

I have the galaxy sword out before he finishes the sentence.

The left one reaches me first, faster than the golems had been, and I meet it with the blade angled the way Lance had corrected me earlier, the left side covered, the impact traveling up my arm and into my shoulder with a force that pushes me back two steps through the snow. The sword bites into it and the shadow creature destabilizes at the contact point, its form scattering where the blade's prismatic edge finds it, but it doesn't dissolve, it reforms two feet to my right and comes at me again before I have fully reset my footing.

The center one hits me from behind.

Not hard enough to take me down, but hard enough to send me forward into the snow on one knee, my gloved hand catching me, the sword still in the other. Cold floods through my knee and up my thigh and I push back up without thinking, turning to find both of them converging, the left one reformed and the center one already closing the distance, and Lance is fully occupied with the right one which is considerably larger than the other two and making that very clear.

Something in me goes very quiet.

Not calm. Not calculated. Just quiet, the way a room goes quiet when all the sound leaves it at once.

I plant both feet and stop moving backward.

The magic comes up the way water comes up through cracked ground, not summoned, not directed, simply finding the path of least resistance with a force that I have not felt before, not in the tower's chalk circle, not in the grove. The Highlands presses in from every direction, eleven, twelve on the scale, Lance had said, and I had not understood until this moment what that actually meant, the sheer weight of magical pressure available in the environment, waiting, and whatever I am that is not a practitioner is drawing on all of it without asking me first.

I raise both hands.

The frost in the air between me and the two shadow brutes pulls together, not gradually, not like the careful slow shift I had used on the golem's feet, but all at once, snapping inward from every surface around us, every frost-covered branch and snow-packed trunk and frozen patch of ground giving up what the cold had built there over the entire winter, and it hits both shadow creatures simultaneously, encasing them in something that is more than cold, something that finds the hidden-realm component of what they are and freezes that too, the part that makes them indistinct at the edges, the part that lets them reform.

They don't reform.

They come apart in two sharp simultaneous implosions of scattered dark mass that fall into the snow and do not move again.

The forest is very quiet.

I stand there with both arms still raised and my breath coming fast and shallow, and the world slowly reassembles itself around me, the cold returning to my fingers and my knee and the wet snow soaking through the fabric at my shoulder where the first impact had pushed me down. The galaxy sword is still in my right hand. My left hand is shaking, slightly, in a way that has nothing to do with cold.

Lance appears at my side.

He is looking at me with an expression I have not seen on him before. Not the steady assessment from the clearing or the unguarded stillness when he talked about his parents. Something more immediate than either. He looks from me to the two depressions in the snow where the shadow brutes had been, and back to me, and the thing in his expression does not go away.

"I've never done that before," I say.

"I know," he says.

"I don't know how I did that."

"I know that too." He reaches out and, very deliberately, closes his hand around my still-raised left wrist and lowers my arm for me, the gesture practical and careful and not casual at all. He holds my wrist for a moment after, two fingers pressed lightly against my pulse point, checking something. Then he releases it. "Are you hurt?"

"No," I say. Then: "My shoulder."

"Let me see."

He turns me slightly by that same shoulder, his hand finding the point of impact through the layers of my coat, pressing with enough precision to identify the damage without making it worse. I hiss through my teeth.

"Not dislocated," he says. "Bruised. You'll feel it tomorrow." He releases me and steps back, though not as far back as he usually goes, and looks at me again with that same expression, the one that has not settled into anything I recognize from him. "Kane."

"Yeah," I say, which covers a multitude of possible responses.

"That was extraordinary," he says, which is not what I expected him to say, and not in the tone I expected it, flat and factual the way Magnus had said remarkable, with the particular weight of someone who does not use the word carelessly.

I look at him. At the careful distance he has re-established between us that is smaller than his usual distance. At the way the flat winter light falls across his jaw and the slight tension still present in his shoulders from the shadow brute he had dealt with, the one that had evidently been considerably more trouble than the other two, given that he has what looks like a new cut along the back of his hand that he has not mentioned.

Abigail's voice surfaces in my memory, unhelpfully timed.

As long as they don't shut it down.

I look at Lance. At the cut on his hand and the expression that has not quite gone away and the fact that he is still standing closer than he needs to be.

"So," I say, keeping my voice at the same easy pitch it has been all morning, though easy is doing a lot of work right now. "Is this the part where you tell me you brought me all the way out here just to show off?"

Lance glances at me sideways, his eyes that playful gleam I’ve grown so accustomed to. "I don't need to bring anyone anywhere to show off, Kane."

"Mm." I tilt my head slightly. "You sure about that? Because you've been very conveniently impressive all morning."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Conveniently impressive," he repeats.

"The swordsmanship." I gesture vaguely, holding his gaze. "The compass. The way you took my wrist back there. It's a very curated morning."

"You sure that's not just how I always am?" he says, something easy sliding back into his voice, though it sits slightly differently than it usually does, less automatic. "Maybe you're just seeing me in a different light." His eyes catch mine with a glint that is both teasing and something underneath the teasing. "I'd hate to think it was just delirium from starvation. I'll get you some food when we're back on the boat."

I take a step closer to him.

Not a large step. Just enough that he notices it, which he does, something shifting almost imperceptibly in the way he holds himself.

"It's not how you usually are," I say, keeping my voice level. "Usually you prance around and talk a big game and flirt and tease and make sure everyone in the room knows exactly what you're doing." I tilt my head slightly. "Out here you're different. Quieter. More real." I hold his gaze. "I think maybe you're the one having signs of delirium. Or something else."

Something flickers in his expression. He opens his mouth, and I can see the response assembling itself, the angle, the deflection wrapped in something charming, and then his eyes drop to my face in a way that suggests the assembled response is not quite what comes out.

"Careful, sweetheart," he says, low and unhurried, and the word lands with a warmth that is not quite as casual as he makes it sound. Still, in a way it feels like a warning.

I take another step.

I am close enough now that I have to tip my chin up to hold his gaze properly, and I do it anyway, holding the eye contact while I lean up just slightly, just enough, until my mouth is level with his jaw and I say, quiet enough that only he could possibly hear it, "You call me that like it means something and then act like it doesn't. That's a very interesting habit for someone who claims to be such an open book."

Lance does not move.

For exactly one second, Lance, who moves through every situation with the ease of someone who has never once been caught off guard, does not move and does not speak, and the tips of his ears go very slightly pink in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

Then he exhales, short and slightly unsteady, and says, "Are you—" and stops, and tries again. "Is that— are you flirting with me right now?"

I step back, crossing my arms, and arrange my expression into something reasonable. "Maybe," I start slowly. "But only because you make it look so easy. I'm starting to think you're not actually qualified to be my teacher."

Lance recovers. Visibly, deliberately, the ease resettling over him like he is putting on a coat. "Is that right," he says, and there is the angle again, the smart reply assembling itself behind his eyes.

He doesn't get to deliver it.

My boot finds a root buried under the snow, invisible and perfectly positioned, and my weight goes the wrong direction entirely, my arms coming up uselessly as the ground tilts toward me with a speed that offers no time to correct for it.

Lance catches me.

His arm comes around my waist with the same reflexive efficiency he applies to everything physical, pulling me back upright against him before I have finished falling, and for a moment I am very aware of exactly how solid he is and exactly how close we are and the fact that his hand is still at my waist, not moving.

He looks down at me.

"Maybe you do need a teacher," Lance says, his voice low and dry and very close. "Someone who could teach you not to trip over tree roots." His eyes drop, just briefly, just long enough to be deliberate, to my mouth, and then back up. "Among other things."

The winter air between us is not cold at all.

Then he sets me back on my feet with the same careful precision he has applied to every physical correction all morning, his hand leaving my waist with a steadiness that looks like a choice, and steps back, one full step, putting distance between us that feels larger than it is.

He looks out at the treeline, jaw set, and clears his throat once.

"Dust sprites up ahead," he says.

"Right.”

Neither of us moves for exactly one beat too long.

Then he starts walking, and I follow, and the frost-heavy forest closes around us again, and I say nothing, because there is nothing that would improve on what just happened.

My breath catches slightly.

He steps back, the warmth going with him, the winter reasserting itself immediately.

For a moment he does nothing, just looks at the middle distance past my shoulder with the particular quality of someone who has made a decision and is checking whether it was the right one. His jaw has set into something more careful than before. Then his eyes drop to the leather case in his hand, and he opens it, and closes it again, and opens it a second time, looking at the seed casings inside with an attention they do not require.

"We should keep moving," he says, to the seed casings. "The light's going faster than I thought."

I look at the sky. The light has not changed in the last ten minutes.

"Sure," I reply, feeling more uneasy than before.

He snaps the case shut and looks back at me, and whatever had been in his expression a moment ago has been replaced with something easier, something I recognize as the layer he wears in the Guild, assembled back into place with a speed that suggests considerable practice.

"There's a shadow brute behind you," he says.

I spin around.

There is, in fact, a shadow brute behind me. Large, patient, its attention fixed entirely on me with the unhurried certainty of something that has been waiting for the right moment. My sword is up before I have fully processed turning, and Lance hits it from the other side at almost the same instant, the two of us moving in the same rhythm without discussing it, the shadow creature scattering between us and dissolving into the cold air.

I turn back.

Lance is already looking at me, his expression resettled into something easier, the layer back in place but thinner now, and I can see straight through it to the thing underneath that is not performing anything at all.

"You good?" he asks.

"I'm good," I tell him.

He nods once, like something has been filed away somewhere it will keep, and turns back toward the ruins.

"Monsters don't wait," he says.

I follow him, my face warmer than the winter air has any right to explain.

We work through the ruins for another hour, the dust sprites proving considerably more difficult than the golems, their movement patterns erratic in a way that resists steady intention and requires something faster and less structured that Lance coaches me through with a patience that has nothing soft about it, precise and direct and occasionally sardonic in a way that helps more than it should. I use the sword more and the magic less, learning where each belongs, which combinations work and which ones get in each other's way. Lance does not comment on the shadow brute sequence again. Neither do I. But I notice that he does not return to his usual distance for the remainder of the afternoon.

By the time the flat winter light has shifted from grey to the particular amber of late afternoon, my gloves are damp at the knuckles and my braid has given up entirely, and the leather case is considerably heavier than it was this morning.

We stop at the edge of the ruins where the treeline thins enough to show the outpost above us on the platform, its lanterns already lit against the coming dark.

Lance opens the case and looks at what we've collected. Slime seeds, stalk seeds, fungus seeds from the dust sprites, their casings ranged in a row, each one slightly different in texture and color and density.

"There's one more type," he says. "Void seeds. They come from a different kind of creature and I'm not putting you near those today." He closes the case. "But I need all four eventually. Spring, summer, fall, and the void roots don't follow a season, which is its own problem." He looks at me. "I want to grow them. Study what they produce, how the properties translate from monster to crop, whether the magical component survives the cultivation process or gets bred out of it."

I look at the case. "You want to grow monster crops."

"On your farm. If you're willing. You've got the land and I've got the seeds. And frankly, Kane, whatever you're doing with the soil on that farm, things grow better there than they have any agricultural right to."

I think about that. About the roots that had come loose too easily on my first day. About Demetrius and his accelerated root release and his standard models.

"How did you know about my soil?" I ask.

Lance's mouth curves, just slightly. "I pay attention," he says.

I look at him for a moment.

"Fine," I concede. "But I want to know what you find out."

"Obviously," he replies, like this was never in question.

He picks up the leather case and starts up toward the outpost, and I fall into step beside him, my shoulder aching in the particular way that means it will be considerably worse tomorrow, the galaxy sword solid and familiar at my hip.

"Lance.”

He glances at me.

"The dust sprites," I say. “Were they actually there?"

He looks forward again, and the corner of his mouth moves in a way that could mean anything and probably means something specific.

"Does it matter?" he asks.

I stare at the side of his face for a long moment.

"You are unbelievable," I say.

"So I've been told," he replies, entirely unbothered, and takes the outpost steps two at a time while I follow behind him into the amber warmth of the lantern light, and the Highlands settle into their winter dark around us, and in the frost-heavy trees below, something that has been waiting for the light to change begins, quietly, to move.