Page 44 of Roaring Spell

“You’re lying.”

“Absolutely.”

Her grin widens. “I want to read one.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Just one.” She leans toward me, eyes dancing. “I promise to be kind.”

“You will definitely not be kind. You will mock mercilessly.”

“I’ll mock with compassion.”

“No.”

“I’ll make it rain in your cabin.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” She raises a hand, and the air grows humid, heavy with gathering moisture. “I can be very persistent when properly motivated.”

“This is blackmail.”

“This is negotiation.” She’s close now. Too close. I can see the individual strands of silver in her hair, the way her lips curve at the corners. “One poem. That’s all.”

I should refuse. Should maintain some dignity.

“Her storms could level cities,” I hear myself say. “I would let them. I would stand in the rain she makes and call it sunshine.”

Silence.

Her face changes—surprise, understanding, vulnerability—softening into something that makes it hard to breathe.

“That’s about me.”

“Yes.”

“You write about me.”

“I write about a lot of things. You happen to be most of them lately.”

She laughs again, but it’s different this time. Watery. Close to breaking.

“No one’s ever written about me before.”

“Then no one’s been paying attention.”

The air grows heavy again—not with moisture. With possibility. With the weight of words that have been circling for weeks.

She leans toward me. Just slightly. Just enough.

Her wards flare.

The shock of magic ripples through the studio, breaking the moment. Sakura jerks back, eyes widening, power crackling to life.

“Someone’s outside.”

I’m already moving. Through the door. Into the square. The mist churns with agitation, disturbed by a presence it doesn’t recognize.