Page 1 of Roaring Spell

ONE

SAKURA

The crystals are crooked.

I’ve adjusted the rose quartz display seventeen times this morning. Maybe eighteen. At some point, counting became less important than achieving the impossible—perfect alignment in a universe that clearly has other plans.

“You’re fine.” I nudge the largest piece, a pale pink chunk that keeps tilting left no matter what I do. “You’re beautiful and powerful and today is going to be amazing.”

The crystal doesn’t respond. Obviously. I’m not that far gone.

Yet.

My studio—Radiant Aura, because I’m nothing if not optimistically on-brand—occupies a converted greenhouse on the eastern edge of Moonthread Square. Glass walls and ceiling, enchanted for privacy during sessions. Living vines climbing the framework outside, their leaves catching the morning light. Wind chimes by the door that I definitely did not spend three hours selecting.

Everything is ready. Salt room pristine, the walls glittering with embedded crystals that took me two full days to arrange. Treatment spaces organized with geometric precision. The air smells of sage and lavender and desperate, terrified hope.

Three weeks of preparation, stacked on top of the months it took just to feel steady enough to try.

This is it. Today it’s real—not the quiet, half-open version I’ve been running since I got here, but the actual thing. The fresh start I’ve been chasing across the magical world for two years.

Mistvale will be different.

It has to be.

The mist curling past my windows seems to agree, soft and golden in the morning light. In the months since I crossed Mistvale’s border, I’ve learned that the mist has moods. Everyone talks about it like it’s sentient—temperamental, opinionated, occasionally dramatic.

Right now, it feels welcoming. Warm. The kind of acceptance I’ve been chasing my entire life.

Don’t get attached.

You said that about the last four places too.

I ignore it. I’m excellent at ignoring practical thoughts. It’s one of my finest qualities, right up there with accidentally creating weather events during emotional moments and talking to inanimate objects.

The bell above my door chimes, and I spin around with my most professional smile already plastered in place.

And immediately encounter the oldest woman I’ve ever seen, carrying a covered dish and wearing an expression of profound amusement.

“You’re the weather witch.” She doesn’t phrase it as a question. Just walks past me into my studio like she owns the place, sets her dish on my reception desk, and turns those too-bright eyes on me with unsettling directness. “Grandmother Peach. I brought cobbler.”

“I—thank you?” The scent hits me—warm peaches, brown sugar, buttery crust. Unfairly good. “I wasn’t expecting customers yet. Or cobbler.”

“I’m not a customer, dear. I’m the matchmaker. Just stopping by to welcome you to the neighborhood.” She pats my arm with a hand that’s warmer than it should be, given her age. “The mist told me you were here. Also, I saw the moving boxes. Mostly the boxes.”

“The matchmaker.” Because that’s clearly the detail to focus on. Not the bit about mist being chatty.

“Mmm. When witches and familiars need finding, I help them find each other.” She studies me with those sharp eyes, and I resist the urge to fidget like a child caught stealing cookies. “You don’t have a familiar.”

“No.” The word comes out flat. Defensive. A sore spot I really don’t want to poke at today of all days. “I don’t.”

“Interesting.”

Silence stretches between us. She stands in my studio, radiating cryptic energy, while I try to figure out if this is a normal Mistvale welcome or some kind of test I’m already failing.

“Is it?” The question escapes before I can stop it.

“Very.” Grandmother Peach smiles, and it’s both warm and unsettling in equal measure. “You have interesting weather, dear. Try not to flood the square.”