Page 47 of Roaring Spell

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

About the almost-kiss. About the way you leaned toward me. About whether I ruined everything by reciting bad poetry.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Just: “The investigation.”

Liar. But I don’t call him on it. We both have things we’re not ready to say aloud.

Anouk waits near the property line, elegant even in practical clothes. She’s surrounded by the tools of magical destruction—crystals in precise patterns, herbs burning in small bowls, a circle of salt glittering with embedded power.

“You’re both here. Good.” No time for pleasantries. “I’ve identified the siphon’s location. Approximately three feet below the surface, beneath that rose bush.”

The rose bush in question has dark red blooms and thorns like daggers. It looks like the kind of plant that has opinions about being disturbed. The kind that might fight back if you bring a shovel.

“The roses are original to the Registry,” Anouk continues, noting my expression. “They’ve been absorbing ambient magic for two centuries. They may object to excavation.”

“Object how?”

“Violently. With thorns. And possibly opinions.” She waves a dismissive hand. “A minor concern compared to the siphon itself.”

“I’ve prepared a counter-spell to neutralize the device.” Anouk hands me a crystal—clear quartz, charged with her magic, warm against my palm. “You’ll anchor the spell. Your elemental sensitivity will help me calibrate the destruction sequence. Torin provides resistance backup.”

“Backup for what?”

“Complications.” Her voice is carefully neutral. “The first siphon was passive. Draining, but not defensive. This one may have additional safeguards. The Preservers learn from their mistakes.”

“Safeguards meaning traps.”

“Potentially. Wards designed to harm anyone attempting destruction. Magical feedback loops. Nasty surprises we won’t know about until we trigger them. I don’t anticipate problems, but we should be prepared for them.”

Torin moves behind me. Not touching, but close enough that I feel his warmth. The solid reassurance of his presence.

“If anything goes wrong,” he says quietly, “get behind me.”

“You’re not a shield.”

“Bears have natural magical resistance. You don’t.” His voice leaves no room for argument. “Get behind me.”

I want to argue. Want to insist I can handle myself, that I don’t need protection, that I’ve been surviving my own disasters for years without anyone volunteering to absorb magical explosions on my behalf.

Instead, I nod.

Anouk begins the incantation.

The spell is beautiful.

Anouk’s voice weaves through syllables older than the town itself. The air thickens. The roses shiver. The ground begins to glow, and the crystal in my hand pulses warm against my palm.

For a long moment, everything works perfectly.

Then the siphon fights back.

The first warning is pressure against my senses—the same wrongness from the warehouse, but sharper. Angrier.

“Anouk—”

“I feel it.” Her voice strains. “The backlash wards are activating⁠—”