**Chapter 7:**Two Wizards,One Spell
Four Days Before Homecoming, Behind the Bleachers
Tuesday, three days after the binding, four days before Homecoming.
I was cutting behind the bleachers to avoid Brittany's cheer-practice ambush when I heard it: a tiny, panicked chirp.
A sparrow lay on the concrete, one wing bent wrong, chest heaving.
The mist curled around it like it was trying to help and failing.
Grandma Elowene's voice drifted in, soft as morning fog.
**"Mist and light, dragă. Never blood. That was never our way. Reach."**
I crouched.
The bird didn't flinch when I scooped it into my palms.
Its heartbeat fluttered against my lifeline like a trapped moth.
I didn't know the words, but Grandma did.
They spilled out of me in Romanian and Japanese at the same time, overlapping like double exposure:
**"Lumină lină, ceață blândă—ridică aripa frântă."**
**"Yasashii kiri, hikari yo—tsubasa o naose."**
The mist answered.
It rose from the cracks in the concrete, silver and warm, wrapping the bird like cotton.
Light—soft, not blinding—poured from the center of my right palm where the spiral sometimes slept.
The broken wing straightened with a tiny pop.
Bones knitted.
Feathers smoothed.
The sparrow blinked once, looked up at me with black bead eyes, and launched straight into the sky.
It circled my head twice—gratitude—then vanished over the stadium lights.
I stayed crouched, palms still glowing faintly, mist curling around my wrists like bracelets.
That's when I noticed him.
Remy Tsatoke leaned against the chain-link fence twenty yards away, helmet dangling from one hand, braid loose in the wind.
He hadn't made a sound.
Just watched.
Our eyes locked.
His went amber for half a heartbeat—coyote flash—then back to brown.
He didn't smile, didn't wave.
Just nodded once, slow, like he'd seen something sacred and didn't want to ruin it.
I stood, brushing grass off my jeans.
The second locket—the black-garnet one from Mom's cedar box—suddenly felt heavy in my hoodie pocket.
I'd stolen it this morning.
Planned to clean it, polish it, offer it to Seras tomorrow as proof I was serious about co-op.
Now it burned against my hip like it knew its destination.
Remy pushed off the fence, walked over.
Close enough I could smell lake water and cedar smoke on him.
"You fixed it," he said.
Voice low, Caddo accent curling around the words.
"Didn't even touch it."
"Mist did the work." I shrugged, cheeks hot. "I just… asked."
He studied my face—really studied—like he was seeing past the ruby eyes to the girl underneath.
"Grandma says people who heal little things without being asked… they're the ones who hold the big things together."
I laughed, awkward. "Tell that to Brittany. She thinks I'm just the weird transfer with the skateboard."
Remy's mouth twitched.
"Brittany thinks the world spins for her pom-poms. World don't care about money or crowns."
He glanced up at where the sparrow had vanished.
"World cares about hands that fix wings."
My phone buzzed—Brittany, of course.
**WHERE ARE U?? TRYOUTS FOR HOMECOMING COURT START IN 5!**
Followed by seventeen crown emojis.
I silenced it.
Remy's eyes flicked to the pocket where the second locket hid.
"That for Seras?"
"Yeah." I pulled it out.
The black garnet caught the sun and drank it.
"Cleaned the chain this morning. Figured if I'm asking her to share the vein, I should bring half the jewelry."
He nodded again, slower.
"Nakamura's like symbols. She'll feel it."
He hesitated, then:
"You need backup tomorrow when you give it to her, you know where the lake kids sit."
I swallowed.
"Thanks, Remy."
He started to walk away, then stopped.
"Celeste?"
"Yeah?"
"The sparrow's gonna tell every bird in the valley what you did. Word travels on wings."
He flashed a rare grin—small, crooked, beautiful.
"By Friday, every coyote in Hot Springs will know whose hands don't break things."
He jogged off toward the field house.
I stood there holding the black-garnet locket until the chain warmed against my palm.
Grandma's voice, soft:
**"Mist and light, dragă. That's all we ever needed. Blood was never ours to wield."**
I slipped the locket back into my pocket.
Tomorrow, behind the bleachers again, I'd offer Seras the other half of the spiral.
No kneeling.
No breaking.
Just two girls, two lockets, one vein.
And maybe—maybe—a coyote quarterback who'd just decided the new girl wasn't so new anymore.
Two Wizards, One Spiral**
Wednesday, 3:33 p.m.
Behind the bleachers, same spot the sparrow learned to fly again.
The sun was bleeding gold across the practice field, but the mist still pooled in the shadows like it had been waiting all day.
Seras was already there, back against the chain-link, red streak glowing against black hair.
She wore her cheer jacket open over a cropped tee, and around her neck hung a brand-new pendant: the black garnet melted down and reshaped into a perfect spiral.
She didn't smile when she saw me.
She didn't scowl either.
Just lifted her chin.
I stopped three feet away, skateboard under my arm.
The second locket—the one from Mom's cedar box—rested warm in my right palm.
"You came," she said.
"Told you I would."
I opened my hand.
The black-garnet spiral on its silver chain caught the light and **hummed**.
Seras's eyes flicked to it, then to my ruby ones.
"Equal means equal, Morua."
She held out her right hand, palm up.
"Let's break the veil's rules together."
I stepped forward.
The mist rose between us like a curtain, thick and silver and ancient.
Grandma Elowene's voice layered over the wind, soft but strong:
**"Mist and light, dragă. Speak the words. Bind the hearts. Rewrite the vein."**
I placed the second locket into Seras's open palm.
Our fingers brushed.
No spark.
No fight.
Just warmth.
We spoke at the same time, voices overlapping like they'd rehearsed it in another life:
**"Lumină lină, ceață blândă—"**
**"Yasashii kiri, hikari yo—"**
**"—două inimi, un izvor—"**
**"—futatsu no kokoro, hitotsu no izumi—"**
**"—sora și umbră, soră și soră—"**
**"—sora to kage, shimai to shimai—"**
**"—acceptă-ne ca una."**
**"—watashi-tachi o hitotsu ni."**
The mist **exploded** upward in a perfect column, spinning like a tornado made of moonlight.
Both lockets rose from our hands, chains tangling mid-air.
Silver and black garnet melted together in a heartbeat—fusing, reshaping, cooling into **two identical lockets**.
Same Gothic Romanian filigree.
Same Japanese kanji in the center: **森羅** – *Morua* – "to receive."
But now each garnet held a perfect silver spiral, and each silver frame held a thread of black garnet.
They dropped back into our palms, warm as skin.
The mist settled.
The column collapsed into a soft ring around our feet.
Seras stared at the new locket against her collarbone.
Then at me.
Ruby eyes met black-garnet eyes.
Something clicked.
Grandma's voice cracked like breaking dawn:
**"Look closer, children. The veil never chose one.
It was waiting for both."**
A memory slammed into me—not mine.
Kyoto, 2017.
Two little girls on a rooftop, six years old.
One platinum blonde with a fresh spiral tattoo.
One with a red streak and a black-garnet mark behind her left ear.
Both wearing tiny matching lockets.
Both laughing as Grandma Elowene kissed their foreheads and whispered,
I staggered.
Seras caught my elbow—instinct, not choice.
"You're My Sister from this day forward.
Tears cut clean tracks through her usual smirk.
"I thought you stole everything. Turns out you were the half I never knew I lost."
I laughed—wet, broken, perfect.
"Guess we're rewriting more than the veil."
The mist curled up between us, forming two coyote heads that touched noses, then dissolved into silver butterflies.
Every butterfly carried a tiny spiral on its wings.
Seras wiped her face with the back of her hand.
"Still hate your skateboard," she muttered.
"Still hate your cheer bow," I shot back.
We grinned at the same time.
The lockets pulsed once—**together**—like a single heartbeat split in two.
Grandma's voice, soft as steam:
**"Two Wizards. One spiral. One vein.
The valley finally exhales."**
Seras clipped her locket on.
I did the same.
They hung side by side, identical, perfect.
I held out my fist.
She bumped it.
Behind us, the sparrow from yesterday landed on the bleacher rail with seven friends.
They chirped once—bright, clear, celebratory—then scattered into the sky.
Remy's voice drifted from the fence.
He'd been watching again.
"Told you word travels on wings."
He lifted one hand in salute, amber eyes soft.
"See you Friday, Celeste."
Seras rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
"Lake kid's got taste."
I laughed so hard the mist danced.
For the first time in seventy-three years, the valley didn't have to choose.
It had **both**.