Velmorra glows at night.
Not because of lanterns.
Because every spell woven into the streets aches.
Magic always takes something from the caster.
A pulse of energy from muscle.
A bite from stamina.
A slice of focus.
Years shaved from life if you push too far.
Magic is beautiful.
Magic is devastating.
Magic is never free.
That is why it is regulated.
Measured.
Documented.
Feared.
Which is exactly why the boy terrifies me.
Because something about him doesn't fit the rules.
And rules are what keep people alive.
My name is Seris Valen.
Arcane Investigator.
Division Three.
Graduate of the Velmorra Academy of Thaumaturgic Science.
My job description tonight?
Shadow a boy who doesn't know how to walk quietly
and his dignified floating nightmare of a fae tutor.
Normally that sentence would already be a reportable concern.
Tonight it was only the beginning.
I found him in the marketplace first.
He raised his hand and summoned flame.
A cantrip.
Clean formation.
Controlled burn.
Stable flame core.
I waited for the cost.
There it was:
— the slight tightening of breath
— a fractional drain in his aura
— the very human, very real physical toll of magic
Good.
He respected limits.
Then he performed a breath-warmth charm.
A soft wave of controlled heat rippled outward.
He blinked.
Centered himself.
Recovered.
Cost acknowledged, absorbed, managed.
Legal magic.
Disciplined use.
Measured cost.
That reassured me.
He knew restraint.
He wasn't reckless.
He trained.
The fae beside him corrected his posture once.
Adjusted his grip.
Guided, not indulged.
That was… rare.
And then suddenly…
everything stopped making sense again.
The bakery incident should have been simple.
He layered warmth.
Comfort.
Scent carry.
He paid the cost for those spells.
I saw the breath hitch.
The micro fatigue.
The subtle wearing on the body.
Magic.
Fair trade.
Then people started coming.
Not because of spell compulsion.
Not because of influence.
Not because of emotional enchantment.
They came because they wanted to.
They stayed because something inside them decided to.
No energy signature.
No coercion.
No psychic pressure.
Just… voluntary alignment with outcome.
Magic strains the caster.
Magic burns fuel.
Magic hurts.
This did none of that.
He wasn't bleeding himself dry.
And yet the world listened anyway.
The tavern gambler broke probability.
He cast minor probability tilting magic.
That normally costs:
— cognitive fog
— headache strain
— reaction delay
He did experience mild drain.
Reasonable.
Then the gambler's fortune snapped upward far more than the spell could justify.
No counterforce slammed back.
No backlash.
No balance correction.
He influenced.
And fate… cooperated.
Not because of magic.
Magic does not "like" people.
This wasn't a spell bending fate.
This was fate choosing him back.
That is not comforting.
Then came the alley.
The starving child.
The kind that society politely pretends not to see because acknowledging him hurts too much.
The boy helped him steal.
He used distraction magic.
Cost paid.
Breath slightly shorter.
Hands faintly trembling.
Then the world simply allowed it.
No karmic backlash.
No universe correction.
No arcane recoil.
Magic demands pain.
Magic demands toll.
Magic takes something every time.
This didn't.
And that terrified me.
Because if this wasn't magic…
then I didn't know what the hell it was.
I followed longer than protocol recommends.
He helped people.
He laughed.
He cast harmless cantrips and paid their price like any trained mage would.
But every time something truly impossible happened…
every time the city bent just a fraction closer to better…
it didn't hurt him.
No exhaustion.
No aura tearing.
No spell fatigue.
And I swear the world breathed easier where he walked.
Magic shouldn't allow that.
Magic always leaves scars.
This power left nothing.
Which meant it wasn't magic.
Which meant it was worse.
Because magic has rules.
This thing?
Had intent.
I watched them from a rooftop at sunset.
The fae instructor was not normal fae.
He carried the gravity of someone extremely old.
Someone educated.
Someone who dealt in things far larger than mortal spell theory.
He spoke softly to the boy.
The boy smiled like someone who still believed tomorrow might be kind.
That was cruel of the world, honestly.
Because the world does not allow anomalies like him to exist peacefully.
Not for long.
The sky rune-board glitched.
Exploded in blinding radiant letters.
MARRY ME, LENA!!!
Fireworks.
Magic hearts.
People screaming.
People crying.
Emotion cascaded across Velmorra not through spell influence…
…but because courage spread.
Momentum spread.
Human desire ignited other human desire.
That is not magic.
Magic burns the caster.
This lit the city.
With no cost.
With no drain.
With no consequence.
I exhaled slowly.
This boy was using magic correctly.
Paying for it correctly.
Accepting the suffering that accompanies spellcraft.
And yet… he also did things that didn't cost him a damn thing
and changed the world anyway.
That makes him dangerous.
Not because he's cruel.
Not because he's malicious.
But because he is possible
in a way nothing should be.
And possibility with no personal price?
That makes civilizations afraid.
I pulled back into the shadows.
I wasn't done watching him.
I can't be.
Because one day something is going to break.
And when it does,
someone will ask:
"Who saw this coming?"
I refuse to answer,
"I didn't look."
So I watch.
And I wait.
And I pray I am wrong.
Because if I am right,
one day I will have to decide whether I am protecting the city from that boy…
or protecting that boy from the city.
And I already hate that I don't know which it will be.