Page 10 of Roaring Spell

I can’t.

The pen feels too small in my hand. It always does.

I write anyway.

The words are terrible. Simple and clumsy and nothing like the poetry I read in the books that line my walls. Real poets use metaphors, imagery, sophisticated techniques.

Dawn is creeping through my windows by the time I stop.

My hand cramps from gripping the pen too tight.

Two hours of sleep. Cold coffee. A bear who won’t stop rumbling about her.

I make it through my morning duties on autopilot. Settle the property dispute between Garrick and his neighbor—a simple misunderstanding about boundary lines that should have been resolved weeks ago. Help repair the eastern wall of the Sleuth Hall. Accept three separate casseroles from bears who’ve decided I don’t feed myself properly.

The casseroles join the others in my cold storage. Bears show love through food. My entire community has been trying to love me for years.

She could fill it.

I shove the thought aside. Return to Moonthread Square as the afternoon light turns golden.

Monitoring. Assessment. Doing my job.

The curtains of Radiant Aura Studio are open. I see her inside, arranging crystals on a shelf, talking to them with animated gestures that make her silver-streaked hair swing.

She doesn’t see me. I stay in the shadows near the apothecary, watching without approaching.

Her aura shifts as I watch. Tension creeping into her shoulders. A small cloud forming near the ceiling again. She’s struggling—emotion, magic, both intertwined.

A pixie darts past her window, trailing sparkles. She startles, knocks over a display, and the cloud overhead releases a brief shower of rain.

She catches the falling crystals. Sets them right. Wipes rain from her face with frustrated efficiency.

She’s beautiful.

The thought ambushes me. I’ve noticed attractive people before—acknowledged beauty the way you’d acknowledge a sunset or a well-made building. Pleasant. Irrelevant.

This is different.

It’s not just that she’s beautiful. It’s the way she moves—quick and emphatic, like she’s having an ongoing argument with the world and winning. The way she talks to her crystals like they’re stubborn children.

And then, from somewhere below thought, the bear stops pacing.

He goes absolutely still.

Mate.

The word crashes through me. My heart stops. Actually stops, a full beat skipped, my entire body seizing with something ancient and undeniable. The world narrows to a single point—this small, storm-making witch who argues with crystals and rains on her own furniture.

Ours.

My human brain scrambled to catch up. My bear had already decided.

I can’t breathe. My bear, who has been restless for weeks without knowing why, settles into the certainty of it like a bear finding its den. Not triumph. Not urgency. Just absolute, irrefutable recognition.

This is what he’s been waiting for.

My human brain is considerably less sure.