Page 32 of Roaring Spell

My cabin is quiet when I finally get back to it. I pour myself two fingers of nothing in particular and sit with the journal open on my knee, pen uncapped, and write down the things I noticed today because that’s what I do with things that matter. Document them. Make them real by writing them down.

She laughed twice today. Once on purpose, once by accident. The accidental one was better.

She still doesn’t trust the shelving I built her. Checks it every morning like it might have changed its mind overnight.

She said maybe I am too.

I underline that last one. Twice. My bear, unbothered by subtlety, wants me to underline it a third time and then go stand outside her window until morning. I don’t do that. I have some restraint left.

Some.

I think about Caius’s reports. Threat patterns, containment protocols, the careful language of a man who assigns bodyguards and calls it duty. None of that language fits what’s actually happening here.

What’s actually happening is I found someone worth the wait, and now I have to be patient enough to earn her instead of just wanting her, which is a different kind of work than anything the Network trains for.

I bank the fire. Close the journal.

Tomorrow I’ll bring coffee, same as always, and pretend the ordinary hour before her shop opens isn’t the best part of my day.

I sleep better than I have in weeks.

SEVEN

SAKURA

The map is starting to look less like paranoia and more like evidence.

Three red pins mark the wall above my desk.

The warehouse district. Near the Familiar Registry. And here, in my own studio.

The first two throb with the same wrongness Anouk taught me to recognize—an active source, close enough to touch. The studio pin is fainter. More like an echo than a source. But an echo has to be echoing something.

I’ve drawn lines between them. Measured distances. Cross-referenced timing with my mood journal, my client schedule, even the moon phases in case that mattered.

It doesn’t. The pattern isn’t lunar or emotional.

The pattern is geographic.

Your magic isn’t broken. It’s responding to external distortion.

Anouk’s words from girls’ night echo in my head as I study the pins. External distortion. Not me. An outside force triggering responses I couldn’t understand because I was looking for the wrong cause.

The bell chimes.

I don’t turn around. The shift in the air tells me exactly who it is—that particular quality of warmth and steadiness that announces Torin’s presence before I see him.

“You’re early.” I keep my focus on the map. “Coffee usually comes at nine.”

“I had a feeling.” His footsteps are surprisingly quiet for his size. I feel him approach rather than hear him—a warmth at my back, close enough to touch if I leaned back. “Bad night?”

“Productive night.” I tap the map. “I’ve been tracking my episodes. The real ones—the surges, not the minor weather stuff.”

He moves to stand beside me, studying the pins with focused attention. His shoulder nearly brushes mine. I’m acutely aware of the heat radiating from him, the scent of cedar and cold air that clings to him—faintly sweet, edged with resin.

“Three locations. All within the same sector.”

“All facing the Registry.” I trace the lines I drew. “The warehouse sits northwest. My studio faces the square directly. And last week’s episode happened while walking to Berry’s shop.”