Rain whispered against the windows, cloaking the shop in a veil of silver hush. The world outside blurred, as if memory itself were breathing against the glass.
Inside Seraphine's Curiosities & Remedies, candlelight danced across shelves of living wood, each curve and knot humming with age-old enchantments. The walls exhaled a deep herbal warmth
Seraphine moved barefoot over old oak boards, her robe slipping from one shoulder. Steam rose from her cup in lazy curls, chasing the delicate perfume of ylang-ylang and lavender through the air. Padding through her library, her fingers brushed spines and curled parchment as she muttered to herself.
"Where the hell did I stash it? Left of 'Curses Unspoken'? Definitely not the poison index again. Last time, I nearly hexed the tea leaves."
A slow, amused rustle echoed from the rafters. The beams shivered, wood shifting softly like a tree stretching in its sleep. "You filed it under 'romance' the last time," came Neroghan's voice—ancient, resonant, with the dry patience of someone who had watched storms rise and kingdoms fall. "In your words: "Nothing whispers romance like blood pacts sealed under moonlight and the sweet sting of regret.'"
Seraphine made a face. "Oh, hush. That was a metaphor. And a bottle and a half of Lingonberry wine."
Another creak. A twisted branch unfolded from the ceiling beams above, curling down with slow grace to offer her a book. The cover was dark green leather, embossed with curling runes and a skeletal hand cradling a coin.
She took it with both hands, smiling wryly. "Terms & Conditions: A Practitioner's Guide to Forbidden Pacts and the Fine Print of Regret."
"Perfect."
"You cried during Chapter 5," Neroghan rumbled, quieter now. "You said it reminded you of that girl in Mistral Hollow—the one with fire in her laugh and frost behind her eyes. But now… you and Duskwood are more like Chapter 7 and 19 combined."
Seraphine's smile faltered just a little. Her fingers tightened slightly around the book, the echo of old names stirring in her mind. "They didn't read the fine print either," she said, voice quieter, like regret folded into parchment.
A beat of silence passed. The house seemed to lean in closer—walls warm, the rain a lullaby on the windows. His ancient, earthy rumble, "I would like both of you to end like Chapter 43."
Her smile held a trace of ache—like music heard from a room you no longer live in. It had always been his favorite story—one they whispered to candlelight when they were still learning each other's names, and they read it together many times to pass those early nights. "You're getting sentimental, old root," she murmured, running her fingers along the edge of the book. "Softer bark. Fewer threats of crushing, or grinding or tearing. I think you're going soft on me."
"I am still stone and root, little witch," he replied, though his tone was closer to affection than denial. "But you… you are water. And stone wears smooth under a river."
She reached out and patted the nearest beam—his shoulder, his ribs, his ribs that held up her home. "Still talking like one of those dusty old oaths wrapped in too many metaphors."
A deep creak. Almost a chuckle, deep and slow, made the teacups on a nearby shelf tremble slightly.
She leaned against the bookshelf, book in hand, tea in the other, and gazed out the window at the rain. For a long moment, neither spoke. The shop was quiet, breathing with them—alive, rooted, warm.
Then she murmured, "You know, I never imagined I'd share my home with a grumpy old tree spirit who reads my books and judges my filing, flirting, and casting."
"And I," came Neroghan's slow, gentle reply, "never imagined I would live again… through laughter, tea, and reckless spell craft - especially bargains with the likes of Liam Duskwood."
Seraphine laughed and turned toward the hearth—the true heart of the home, where the original heartwood pulsed faintly beneath the stones. She curled up nearby, book in one hand, tea in the other.
"Read with me?" she asked softly, as the pages of the book turned to Chapter 7.
The walls sighed with warmth, a pulse thrumming in the heartwood as the house itself answered, "Always, little witch."
She didn't remember falling asleep.
She remembered the warmth, though—how it had pressed in, how it had settled in her chest like something she hadn't known she'd been aching for. How she hadn't needed to say it aloud for Neroghan to understand her heart was already breaking open again.
She'd curled up on the old velvet chaise with her back to the fire and her hair unbound, a pile of blankets cocooned around her like a nest. Safe. Still.
The quiet had felt earned.
Later, when the door creaked open again, it wasn't the wind.
The shop shifted. A subtle ripple through the weave, like thread tightening on a loom. The wards didn't bristle—they knew him now—but the hush deepened in a different way, like the house was holding its breath. Like it knew what had happened here while he was gone.
Liam stepped inside, slow and careful, as if he expected to set something off. The air smelled different. It still carried that ever-present blend of herbs, old books, and candle wax, but tonight, something richer swirled beneath it—like spiced cider and damp earth, mingling with the faint, electric tang of magic. The air folded over him the moment he stepped inside—dense, spiced with cider and damp earth, threaded with a metallic flicker that raised goosebumps along his neck.
He paused, nostrils flaring. The scent tugged at something primal—guardian magic, unmistakable and old. Not wild, not yet hostile… but watching.Spirit Guardian. Neroghan. He'd never spoken or interacted with him - Not having an ounce of magic in his body, or the blessing of the Earth Mother, he simply couldn't.
Liam thought that to be a good thing, as he'd had to hunt and kill such guardians before, either because they were driven mad with rage and grief over some injustice or because they were twisted by other foul methods.
The lighting was lower than before, the usual warm glow of enchanted candles now subdued, their flickering flames casting elongated shadows along the wooden floor. The shelves loomed, bottles catching light like watchful eyes. Grimoires shifted slightly as he passed, their spines breathing faint pulses of glyphlight. Strange symbols glowed briefly when his eyes passed over them, then faded just as quickly. Somewhere in the depths of the shop, a whispering voice muttered in a language he couldn't place.
Liam exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers at his sides. This place was alive.
At the far end of the counter, the witch sat perched on the edge, one leg lazily swinging. Gone were the corsets and flowing skirts; tonight, she wore ripped jeans and a sweater slipping off her shoulder like a secret she didn't mind revealing. Her curls were chaos held by a single stubborn pin, a few loose strands framing her face, and in one hand, she cradled a steaming mug of something deep red, the scent sharp and fruity, with an undertone of spice.
She lifted it to her lips, watching him over the rim. "Look who's punctual."
Liam folded his arms. "You never actually told me when to show up."
Her lips curled into a knowing smirk. "And yet, here you are."
Liam rolled his eyes, striding closer. The old wooden floor creaked beneath his boots, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the thick, magic-laden air.
"Okay, oh great and terrifying spell-slinger—what's the agenda?"
She didn't answer immediately, setting her mug down with a quiet clink. Instead, she reached out and rapped her knuckles against a section of the wooden wall behind the counter. At first, nothing happened. Then, with a slow groan, the wood began to shift, seams appearing where none had been before, a doorway sliding open like the mouth of something ancient waking from slumber.
Liam tensed, instinct prickling at the back of his neck. He could feel the air beyond the door—different, thick with something almost sentient, something watching.
The witch hopped off the counter, the movement effortless, fluid. "Come on," she said, the candlelight catching the gleam in her eye before she vanished into the dark.
Liam hesitated for only a moment before following.
The space beyond the door was not what he expected.He expected to be back in her apartment - but this looked like a greenhouse - until the plants turned to follow him. He stepped further in, the air damp and humming. At first glance, a greenhouse—but the pulse in the air and the way the plants watched him made it clear: this was something else entirely., "How did you do that?"
Towering glass walls stretched high into the darkness, their panes streaked with condensation, reflecting the flickering glow of strange, bioluminescent plants. Vines twisted and curled along the edges of the room, some blooming with oversized flowers that pulsed faintly, as if breathing. The scent in the air was thick—damp earth, crushed leaves, something floral but sharp, alive. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped rhythmically, the soft plip-plip echoing through the cavernous space.
A long stone table stood at the center of the room, rough-hewn and ancient, its surface covered in intricate carvings that glowed with a faint, golden light. Opposite it, a single chair—massive, dark wood, its high back etched with symbols that shimmered when he moved closer.
She laughed, standing besides a table, watching him with that same, infuriating yet enthralling smirk. She gestured to the chair. "Have a seat, brave hunter. The chair only bites when bored."
Liam hesitated. The chair felt… wrong. Not in a dangerous way, but in the way old things sometimes did—ancient, waiting.
Still, he sat.
Seraphine had prepped and prepared for this moment.
The wood was smooth beneath his palms, polished from what had to be centuries of use. It was surprisingly comfortable, fitting his frame perfectly, though he had the distinct sensation that if he tried to leave before she let him, it wouldn't let him go.
She tapped the single candle on the table between them. "Lesson one: Intention."
Liam frowned. "I thought this was Witchy Dating 101, not Demon Summoning for Dummies."
She grinned. "Nothing gets summoned." A pause. Then, with a playful tilt of her head, "Well—not in the usual screaming-latin-and-blood-circle way."
Liam huffed. "Comforting as ever."
She gestured toward the candle. "Light it."
Liam blinked. "I—what?"
"Light it," she repeated, voice patient.
He stared at her, then at the candle. "You do remember I'm not a caster, right? No Magic in my veins?"
She leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. "You're a Hunter. That kind of survival doesn't come without magic."
"You use it all the time—you just don't call it that," she said, voice soft but firm. "Your use is instinctive, reasonably skilled but instinctive. Whether you like to admit it or not, you have it in your blood, just like I do."
His jaw tightened. Magic was incantations and light shows—what pulsed through him was raw and feral, like muscle memory soaked in blood and instinct. A thing his body just did. He had never thought about why it worked—just that it did. Sure he'd had to train it over weeks and hone it, then spend months mastering it until it was second nature.
A dry chuckle scraped from his throat—nothing of warmth in it. Just the ghost of a younger version of himself who still believed in balance. "Tried magic once. Thought I could juggle spells and slay monsters—young, dumb, the whole package. I thought maybe I could somehow combine spellwork with monster hunting. You have to learn Elven to cast, right? The whole ancient-tongue-of-creation deal."
"Elven is the language of magic," she agreed. "But it's not the only kind. You had classes? The last was…" she sighed, "Autumnheart."
"Autumnheart," confirmed Liam, "Seven hundred years old of High Elven blood. He'd take us out on 'field lessons' to sit beside brooks and contemplate sunlight sparkling and dripping through leaves."
She bit back a smile, "Others were learning Arcane Lore, Hellsigns, Elemental Sigils. Real spells with real application. Casting fireballs and bending the elements to their will. And I was stuck in a mossy grove, watching a stag sip from a stream while Autumnheart whispered, 'Let the forest speak through you.'"
The smile broke through, "I asked him once — just once — if we were ever going to learn something practical, actually usable. He'd just smiled and said, 'The roots of language are in the earth, Liam. Listen long enough, and the flowers will speak back.'"
The smile became a melodic laugh as he grumbled, "That was the day I decided I can't learn magic. Not because I'm dumb. Not because I don't have the talent. But because I can't spend ten years trying to translate the sound of sunlight and one-handed clapping wind poetry while demons roam and continue tearing people apart."
"I need things I can rely on. Cold Iron. Silvered Steel. My reflexes. Combat tactics and strategy. Magic? It's too... vague. Too slow. Too full of riddles and metaphor. You can't kill a hellbeast with a love song." he gestured to the candle, "and I'm somehow expected to just "light it"?"
"Yes." Her expression didn't change. "Why can't you?"
"Because I don't do magic."
Her gaze didn't waver. "Don't you?"
He exhaled sharply, "Cantrips, basic incants, rituals-sure. If you've got half a brain, read and follow instructions? Sure. That I can do, but actual casting…" he reached out for the candle, pressing his fingers against the cool wax. He left a fingerprint indentation, and…
Nothing happened.
Of course nothing happened.
He scowled. "See? No magic."
She made a thoughtful noise in her throat, then reached forward, her hand covering his.
Her skin was warm. Too warm. Like sunlight on bare skin, or the slow burn of embers beneath the ash. He expected to feel something—some jolt of power, some surge of energy. But there was nothing except her steady, unshakable presence.
"You don't believe in yourself," she murmured.
Liam stiffened. "That's not—"
She squeezed his hand, just slightly. "You hesitate. You overthink. You assume failure before you've even tried."
He wanted to pull away. But he didn't. Her smile was softer now, lacking its usual smugness. "You've never really owned what you are, have you? You shaped your magic into faster flexes, healing, sharper hearing."
Liam swallowed.He wanted to argue. But the words wouldn't come. He was close to human. She was too… But non-human enough to have the magic channels in her veins, to have magic in her blood. "Do you trust me? One demi-human to another demi-human?"
He sighed, "Magic huh?"
"Magic," she agreed, "Just close your eyes, and take a slow deep breath." He closed his eyes.
"Focus. Not on the candle. Not on the magic. But on yourself." He frowned slightly as she took his hand, feeling the same sensual warmth of her touch. He almost jerked away, and her grip tightened infinitesimally as he overrode that instinct.
"Feel it," she whispered, her hands resting on top of his, "Within yourself."
A flicker of warmth stirred in his chest. "Don't force. Feel. Don't tell. Don't demand. Just ask politely."
Then-he saw it, in his mind, the candle. He felt Seraphine. Uniquely her. Not her face, not even her voice, but something essential—like heat pressed into memory, the echo of her laugh curling through the hollow space inside him.
The wick caught.
A steady golden flame unfurled at the tip, like it had been waiting for him to mean it.
Liam's eyes snapped open.
The scent hit him next. Smoke and spice, cinnamon and wild rose—the way her magic always lingered after she left a room. It sank into his chest, and something twisted there. Not fear. Not exactly.
Longing.
She grinned. "See?"
He exhaled sharply. It was real. Not reflex. Not a coincidence. It had come from him.
She released his hand, almost unwillingly. The flame flickered but didn't die.
His heart was racing, though he wasn't entirely sure why. "You can do it, and you can learn. And you can cast." The witch leaned her chin on her palm again, watching him with something like amusement. "Now," she said, "imagine what else you could do if you stopped getting in your own way - Which is why, we're going clubbing!"
"Magic doesn't live in theory. It lives in the body. In sensation. Emotion. Intention," she said, her eyes glinting. "You felt it! In here." She tapped his chest. "Now you need to feel it out there."
Liam blinked, "I'm sorry. I just got a neck injury from the whiplash? We're what?!"
"C-l-u-b-b-i-n-g!" she sang spelt the word as she half danced through a doorway, "Just lemme get changed." She paused, "You've got stuff here, in the laundry from all the times I've stitched you up. Pretty sure you've got something you can wear!"
He pinched the bridge of his nose: This was going to be a long lesson… till the early morning hours… or sunrise. He could decline - It was always time for a drink at the Troll Bar… but she'd been trying to get him to go for weeks… and with how things were going, "Sure."
He blinked in surprise. Where did that come from?!