The parchment trembled in Elara's hands as though it sensed her hesitation. "Form thirty-seven-B," she muttered, squinting at the curling golden script. "Request for temporary charm authorization, subclass four… oh, brilliant." Her voice wobbled between determination and despair. The ink shimmered in disapproval, as if even the form was judging her.
It wasn't that she was bad at magic—she preferred to think of herself as creatively inconsistent. But the Spell Licensing Hall didn't share her optimism. Its marble floors gleamed like disapproving mirrors, and its towering ceilings were etched with runes that hummed every time someone made a bureaucratic mistake. She was on her third hum of the day.
Elara bit her lip, hunched over the desk, and filled in another line. Her handwriting looked like it had been chased across the page by a startled squirrel. "Purpose of Spell," she read aloud, carefully writing, attention enhancement, meant to subtly draw customers to a small bakery in the south market.
Then her quill hiccupped—a tiny magical sputter—and a drop of ink plopped neatly over the second t. She gasped. The word blurred, twisted, and when she leaned closer, it read affection enhancement.
"Oh no, no, no," she whispered, dabbing it with her sleeve, which only smeared the ink further. "I can't resubmit again; the queue will eat me alive." She glanced at the line of mages snaking across the hall, each holding armfuls of forms and vials. The air shimmered with spell dust and frustration. Somewhere near the front, a man argued with a floating quill over the correct spelling of his own name.
"Next applicant!" barked the registrar—a stern woman with spectacles that glowed faintly red whenever someone lied. Elara tucked the parchment close to her chest and stepped forward.
The registrar didn't look up. "Name."
"Elara Mirefield," she said, trying for confidence and managing only nervous politeness.
"Apprenticeship rank?"
"Level three, under Master Dorrin of the Verdant Quarter."
The registrar finally looked up, squinting. "Dorrin? The one who accidentally flooded the east wing with pumpkin custard last year?"
Elara winced. "It was… a seasonal mishap."
"Hmm." The registrar stamped the form with a glowing seal. "Spell Request Pending. You'll need an auditor's review before authorization. Take it to Room Twelve."
"Room Twelve?" Elara echoed. "But that's—"
"Yes," the registrar said dryly, "his office."
Elara groaned inwardly. Him meant Cael Thornwright—the kingdom's youngest spell auditor and most notorious perfectionist. He had a reputation for dissecting magical applications with surgical precision and an even sharper tongue.
She found his office down a dim corridor where dust motes danced in streaks of sunlight. The brass plaque on the door gleamed: Cael Thornwright, Spell Auditor, Department of Magical Compliance. Underneath, someone had scratched, Abandon hope, all ye who apply here.
Elara knocked softly.
"Enter," came a calm, clipped voice.
Inside, Cael sat behind a desk covered in tidy stacks of parchment. His robes were immaculate, silver-trimmed and unwrinkled. A single enchanted quill hovered near his shoulder, jotting notes in perfect alignment. His expression was one of perpetual patience—like a man who had seen every variety of magical incompetence and learned to remain unimpressed.
"Elara Mirefield, is it?" he said without glancing up.
"Yes, sir."
"You're applying for subclass four charm authorization."
"Yes, sir."
He finally looked at her, eyes the color of frost under morning light. "For what purpose?"
She hesitated. "For a… small business promotion. Local bakery. Very modest charm, harmless really."
He held out his hand, and she passed the parchment with a hopeful smile. He read it silently, then paused.
"Affection enhancement," he read aloud. His voice was so calm it terrified her. "To encourage… what, exactly? Romantic urges toward bread?"
Elara's face flamed. "No! That's a mistake! It was supposed to say attention enhancement! I—I must've—"
Cael arched an eyebrow. "Miss Mirefield, form thirty-seven-B is enchanted to prevent transcription errors. The text reflects your magical intent. Are you suggesting the form is lying?"
"I'm suggesting the form is mean!" she blurted before she could stop herself.
Cael blinked once. Slowly. Then set the parchment down. "Explain."
Elara floundered for words. "It's my quill! It's… temperamental. It sometimes adds unnecessary emotional flourish. I didn't mean affection. I meant attention. Entirely different spells. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
She swallowed. "They both technically influence emotional response, but the—"
"—intent defines the outcome," Cael finished for her, tone cool and precise. "If your subconscious leaned toward affection, then your magic did too."
Elara opened her mouth, then closed it. "That's unfair."
"Magic," he said, "rarely concerns itself with fairness."
He rose from his chair, moving to a shelf lined with glass vials. "As protocol demands, I'll conduct a provisional review. We'll test the charm under controlled conditions."
Elara's pulse quickened. "Now?"
"Now," he confirmed, selecting a crystal sphere and setting it on the desk. "You will cast the requested charm exactly as written."
She stared at the parchment again. The words shimmered faintly: affection enhancement.
"Oh dear," she murmured.
Cael gestured. "Proceed."
Elara lifted her wand—a crooked piece of ash wood bound with copper wire—and muttered the incantation. Soft pink light swirled around the crystal sphere. It pulsed once, twice, then sent a gentle shimmer across the room.
Nothing exploded. That was promising.
Cael studied the sphere. "Magical resonance stable. Emotional output…" He frowned. "Elevated."
He looked up—and the moment their eyes met, Elara felt something strange tug at her chest. Her heart skipped. His expression softened imperceptibly, like a frost line melting.
"Oh no," she whispered.
"Oh yes," he said, voice flat. "You have successfully cast an affection enhancement spell. On me."
Elara's stomach dropped. "I can fix it! I just need a reversal charm—"
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Miss Mirefield, reversing an emotional enchantment requires clearance level five. You're level three."
"I can file for temporary clearance!" she said, already fumbling for a fresh form.
"Which takes three weeks," he reminded her.
She froze. "So you're saying…"
"I'm saying that, until the spell dissipates naturally," he said evenly, "you are legally required to remain under supervision to prevent emotional interference in further magical work."
Her jaw fell open. "You mean you're my supervisor?"
"Until further notice."
The universe, she decided, had a terrible sense of humor.
Over the next few hours, Cael attempted to continue his auditing work as if nothing were amiss. But the charm's effects were subtle and persistent. Every time he glanced at her, his professional detachment wavered—just slightly, like ink smudged on a clean page. His quill occasionally wrote Elara instead of the correct spell code. Once, he caught himself smiling for no reason.
Elara sat across the desk, trying to look inconspicuous while pretending to fill out more forms. "It'll wear off soon," she said, half to herself. "Emotional spells fade faster than bureaucratic ones."
"Provided the caster doesn't reinforce them," Cael murmured, still writing.
"I won't!" she said quickly. "I'd never!"
"Good. I prefer my emotions unlicensed."
Despite her mortification, she almost laughed. The tiniest smile escaped her before she could stop it. He noticed, and for a fleeting second, something flickered between them—warm, ridiculous, impossible.
The quill hovering over his shoulder abruptly doodled a heart in the margin of his notes. Cael snapped his fingers, and the heart vanished in a puff of smoke.
"I'm so sorry," she said again, though this time her apology trembled between sincerity and a laugh she dared not release.
"Miss Mirefield," he said, composing himself, "this charm must be contained. We'll perform a neutralization attempt at sundown. Until then, stay within fifty feet of me."
Her brows shot up. "Fifty feet? Isn't that a bit much?"
"It's protocol," he replied. "Emotional enchantments are proximity-sensitive. If you wander off, the spell may… intensify."
"So the closer I am, the safer you are?"
"In theory."
She tilted her head. "That sounds backward."
"Magic often is."
They left the office together at dusk, stepping into the golden light filtering through stained-glass windows. The city outside hummed with evening bustle—vendors calling, carts rumbling, lanterns flickering to life. Cael walked with precise steps, hands clasped behind his back, while Elara trailed beside him, trying to ignore the faint warmth in her chest whenever she looked at him.
"So," she said, attempting conversation, "how did you become an auditor? You don't seem like the… form-filling type."
He gave her a sideways glance. "And you don't seem like the rule-following type."
"That's fair."
He sighed. "After years studying spell theory, one learns to appreciate order. Chaos makes poor company."
Elara smiled faintly. "Maybe chaos just needs better company."
He didn't respond immediately, but she noticed his mouth twitch like he was suppressing another smile.
They reached the outer courtyard, where fountains glimmered under soft enchantments. Cael set the crystal sphere on the edge of one fountain and drew a circle in the air. "We'll channel the ambient magic to neutralize emotional resonance," he said, his tone all business again. "When I give the signal, release your focus."
She nodded, gripping her wand. The air thrummed, gentle ripples spreading across the water. Light coiled around the sphere, pulsing brighter.
"Now," he said.
Elara exhaled and released her focus. The pink shimmer around the sphere brightened—and then burst into a flurry of sparkles that rained down like confetti.
She blinked. "Did it work?"
Cael looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, very calmly, "No."
The fountain behind them erupted into a chorus of heart-shaped bubbles.
"Oh dear," she said again.
"Oh dear, indeed," he echoed.
They stood amid the floating bubbles, both too stunned to move. One landed on Elara's shoulder and popped with a faint ping that smelled like roses. Another drifted toward Cael, who watched it with a grim expression until it burst on his sleeve, leaving a faint shimmer of pink glitter.
He brushed it off with excruciating dignity. "Miss Mirefield," he said, "I believe we have escalated the problem."
Elara bit back a laugh. "So… that's a no on the neutralization?"
He gave her a long-suffering look. "That's an emphatic no."
As they trudged back inside, glowing heart bubbles trailing after them like curious fireflies, Elara dared a sideways glance at him. "For what it's worth," she said softly, "I really was just trying to help a bakery."
Cael sighed. "Then I suppose this is proof that good intentions are the most dangerous magic of all."
She smiled despite everything. "At least it's a memorable day."
He gave her a long, measured look. "Miss Mirefield," he said at last, "if this continues, we may both need psychological clearance forms."
"Do those come in triplicate?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
Her laughter echoed down the corridor, bright and unguarde
d. And though he didn't admit it, Cael found himself smiling again, faintly, helplessly—just as another bubble drifted by and burst between them with a sparkle that refused to fade.
End of Chapter 1