The aftermath of the Sublimino incident left Mega-Mall-Opolis quieter than usual. Ben, Gwen, Fred, and Max spent two blissful days exploring arcades, testing every ride, and catching the latest films. Their laughter echoed off neon arcade cabinets, and Gwen's squeals of delight punctuated the thrill of the indoor roller coaster. Only once did they glimpse a flash of law enforcement vehicles in the lot—no more disturbances followed.
On the third morning, the rust bucket cruised into Salem, its engines humming over cobblestone streets and red-brick storefronts. Max turned in his seat, eyes gleaming with nostalgia. "How about we don some old‐school pilgrim outfits—recreate the early days?" He nodded toward a shop rental sign: "Colonial Costumes & Curios."
Ben's shoulders slumped. "Do I have to? I look like a dweeb in historical cosplay." He kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk as Max led them inside.
Max chuckled. "Every hero needs a holiday. Besides, you'll fit right in." Moments later, the gang emerged—Max in a buckled hat and black coat, Gwen in a lace bonnet and colonial frock, Ben in breeches with wooden buckle shoes, and Fred in period trousers and a faded waistcoat. Fred dragged his shoes, grumbling into his collar. "This is so embarrassing."
Gwen beamed at her reflection in a shop window. "Honestly, I could get used to this—feels like we're in a history book."
Ben smirked. "Just don't expect me to start writing in cursive."
They wandered through Salem's narrow alleys until they arrived at a crumbling red‐stone apartment building. Inside, Charmcaster—disguised as Faith Wainwright—dwelt among teetering stacks of leather‐bound spellbooks and yellowed parchments. She'd enveloped herself in the arcane ever since their road trip began, determined to master every form of magic Gwen and Fred shared with her.
A sudden rap-tap at her battered oak door sent her fingertips skittering over vellum. She smoothed her gray-streaked hair and slipped into the persona of a prim, older woman with wire‐rimmed glasses. "Coming," she called in a soft, cultured voice.
"Faith Wainwright," a gravelly landlord's voice boomed through the wood. "Your rent's due."
"Just a moment!" Charmcaster thrust a loose page into a book and opened the door to reveal a burly man in suspenders. She forced a polite smile, bending slightly. "Yes, Mr. Carrington? I'll have it by the end of the day."
Satisfied, the landlord stomped off. Charmcaster's shoulders sagged. "Rent, always rent." She closed and locked the door, turning back to her dusty study.
Down the corridor, two doors away, a scene erupted through thin walls: a boozy father in a tank top and boxers guffawed drunkenly as he dragged his teenage daughter by the wrist. The girl wore round reading glasses—one lens cracked—and looked half‐terrified, half‐defiant.
"—and you'll scrub floors until you earn your keep!" the man snarled, jamming a fist against the hallway's peeling wallpaper. The teen stumbled, clutching battered books. She peered past her father into Charmcaster's door: motes of glowing mana drifted from under the crack, swirling around leather tomes stacked floor to ceiling.
Magic? she thought, eyes widening. She'd seen discussion threads on obscure forums—stories of real‐world sorcery sounded like fairy tales, until now. A tug at her sleeve jolted her back.
Her father's belt buckle glinted in the dim hall. "Do those dishes! And don't think I won't come looking if you skip." He shoved her toward their apartment.
Inside, the girl yanked a dishcloth from the sink and scrubbed envy into her motions. Flames of humiliation burned in her chest. I can't take this anymore, she vowed, eyes scanning the battered toes of her shoes.
---
That night, the apartment was deathly still. Her father slumped on a threadbare couch, a whiskey bottle dangling from his hand, snoring in a drunken stupor. The teen slid out of her battered chair and crept through the hallway.
She passed Max's large pilgrim-hat hanging on a rack, then paused outside Faith's door—his heavy underbedding muffled Charmcaster's laughter and low conversation. The teen pressed close, inhaling the scent of old books and herbs. Her pulse hammered as she pulled a hairpin from her hair.
Pick…click… she murmured. The lock clicked. With a soft creak, Faith's door swung open into a tidy sanctum of swinging lanterns and polished floorboards. A single row of candles traced the walls, illuminating a neat desk covered in arcane scripts.
"Interesting…no clutter except the books," she whispered, stepping inside.
A low bark yipped behind her, and she spun—heart in her throat—to see a tiny chihuahua at her heel, its round eyes curious. Relief washed over her. Just a dog, she thought…until its fur rippled and hardened into grey stone pocked with pink runes. The air trembled with ancient earth‐magic as the creature grew to the size of a small armchair.
The teen staggered backward, hand pressed to her mouth. Of course—this is a magician's home. She bolted for a bookshelf, hands skimming spines, and climbed five rickety shelves. The golem raised a rocky claw and slammed it into the shelf base—crack!—sending books plummeting like falling stars. She jumped, clutching a slender black book with a leathery cover, blackened runes etched across it.
One elbow knocked a stack of grimoires off the next shelf. Books cascaded, and she slid her grip onto her black‐leather treasure. The golem lunged, but its massive fists slammed into empty air beneath her feet. On the floor, shattered volumes formed a carpet of ancient knowledge.
The golem's rocky silhouette loomed through the books. Its runes pulsed a dark pink, sapping air with a low hum. The teen squeezed her eyes shut, panic fluttering—until a whisper of memory stirred: A shield-cutting charm…
Instinct took over. She pressed the black book's cover with trembling fingers and felt a tremor beneath her palms. The runes flared bright red. Her hair whipped into silver streaks; her eyes blazed scarlet. Boundless energy crackled around her—she recognized the transformation as Celestialsapien and Anodite power fused.
With a guttural cry, she thrust the book forward. A wave of red mana surged outward in all directions. The golem's runes flared and then dimmed as the pulse washed through its rocky form, draining every ounce of its mystical charge. With a resonant crack, the golem collapsed into a motionless heap of rubble.
The girl's chest heaved; her newfound aura sputtered as the red energy faded. She stared at her trembling hands, mind racing. "W-what…d-did I just do?"
She tucked the grimoire beneath her arm and slid down the shelf. Her feet hit the wooden floor with a hollow echo as she turned on shaking legs. The door hissed closed behind her, sealing with a gentle click.
Gripping the black book to her chest, she raced down the hallway, past her father's snore, and into the safety of her own apartment. Heart pounding, she slammed the door and locked it, panting in the dim lamplight.
On the other side, Charmcaster—still in full Faith Wainwright regalia—fell silent in her study. The chimes of midnight wafted through the windows. Something had shifted in the ley lines of her domain. With a furrowed brow, she rose and pressed her hand to the doorknob—just as a single rap echoed from the hallway.
Outside, the teen girl—cold sweat beading her forehead—pressed an ear to the wood. Her breath stilled. In her arms, the black leather book glimmered with dark promise.
And in the hush before dawn, the stage was set for new mysteries—of magic, of stolen innocence, and the dawn of a power she had only begun to comprehend.
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