The doorbell chimes again…crisp and clear, like the ring of a silver bell at a particularly judgmental tea shop where the scones judge you back.
It echoes through the stillness of the house with a peculiar insistence, as if reminding Elara that this dusty, rickety mansion has just ceased being her private asylum and was now a stage for unwelcome visitors.
Elara freezes mid-step, the aged wood beneath her boots creaking like it was on the verge of filing a noise complaint. Her heart thuds in time with the soft hum vibrating inside her dress pocket…the key nestled there like a caged firefly, impatient and almost twitching. She wasn't sure if it wanted out or if it was just showing off.
"Do I answer this with a weapon or a smile?" she mutters, eyebrows knitting.
Moony, tail twitching like a cat who knows more than it's letting on, perches on an armchair and gives her a look dripping with mischief. "Both. Smile like you mean it, but keep the dagger handy. Witch-chic is all the rage these days."
Elara gives her dress collar a quick adjustment…the thing has so many mismatched buttons it could've doubled as a thrift store experiment gone wrong…but it had character, and she figured character was exactly what she needed.
A breath of the damp Westwood evening air slips in through a cracked window, bringing with it the scent of petrichor and something less identifiable. Something old. Something to watch. Anticipation, maybe? Or just the house's way of settling in for the drama it clearly lived for.
She cracks the door open just enough to peek out.
And then promptly forgets how to breathe.
The man standing on her porch looks like a walking brooding storm cloud. Tall enough to make the doorframe jealous, built like he could bench-press a small car, and drenched as if he'd just wrestled a thunderstorm and lost spectacularly. His forest-green coat was tailored tight enough to make even the house's protective wards shimmer in cautious recognition. Runes along the sleeves glowed faintly, blinking as if the house was debating whether to greet this guest with a 'welcome' or 'prepare for trouble' banner.
His dark curls were a wild mess, like a lightning strike had hosted a party on his head. And his eyes…grey as a thunderhead about to drown a village…held a calm, unblinking intensity. Not just looking, but scanning, like Elara was an ancient manuscript written in a language that might blow up anyone who dared read it too closely.
"Miss Finch?" His voice was low, clipped, the kind that sounded like it carried secrets it didn't trust anyone else with.
Elara snorts softly. "Depends. Are you here to offer me a quest, arrest me, or ask me to cleanse your aura? I can do all three, but only if you pay upfront."
He raises a single eyebrow, unimpressed. "Westwood Council. Your arrival caused an arcane disturbance in the town's wards."
Elara rolls her eyes so hard she feels them almost detach. Figures. The one man who manages to look like a fallen angel and possibly make her heart skip beats, was here to treat her like a walking magical hazard.
"Ah," she says, voice sweet but sharp as broken glass. "That explains why I haven't been arrested yet. Maybe I'm just that charming."
Moony, lounging on the armchair rest like the king of snark, grinned. "This'll be fun."
She sighs, opening the door wide enough to look like she was letting him in but not so wide that she'd lose control of the situation. "Come in. Wipe your boots, don't insult the wallpaper, and if the couch tries to bite, just slap it. She's temperamental."
The man hesitates for a heartbeat before stepping inside. The house groans softly…like a cat stretching after a nap and the lights flicker in a slow, deliberate nod of approval. Elara has half a mind to ask what it thought of this visitor, but figured the house might just send a book flying at her head for that.
Leading him to the sitting room, she notices the long-dead fireplace sparking to life with a crackle, casting flickering shadows that dance on peeling wallpaper and hint at stories better left unspoken.
He stands at the edge of the firelight, drying without complaint, looking like a "Man With Secrets and Definitely a Dagger Somewhere Under That Coat" poster child.
He extends a hand. "Rowan Thorne. Magical Enforcement Liaison for the Northern Vale Council and Westwood's local enforcer."
"Elara Finch. Recently unemployed librarian. Part-time witch. Full-time nosy niece."
They shake hands.
A spark jumps between their fingers—not metaphorically. Actual, blue-tinged, static-laced magic prickling her skin, warming her veins, and setting her teeth on edge with curiosity and caution.
Rowan glances down at his hand, then back at her. "You're carrying something magical."
Elara smirks, playing innocent. "Lip gloss, perfume, my tattered self-esteem?"
He doesn't take the bait. "A powerful artifact. Old. Possibly volatile."
Elara bares her teeth in a grin sharp enough to slice air. "Well, there's a powerful man in my living room. Likely judgmental. Possibly constipated."
Moony snorts from his spot, enjoying the interaction. "Oh, I like him. He's got that 'doomed soulmate' energy. Tragic, but with great hair."
Rowan's eyes flick to the cat, eyebrows raised. "Your familiar talks too much."
"Sadly, he came with the house. Apparently the warranty was lost somewhere in the early 1800s," Elara quips, folding her arms. "No returns, no refunds."
His grey eyes cut through her. "I'm not here to antagonize you. But something shifted when you arrived. The wards flickered. A magical echo spiked beneath the earth. Your aunt disappeared under suspicious circumstances."
Elara folds tighter into herself. "I haven't heard from her in ages. All I know is she left me the house, the cat, and apparently a lifetime of headaches. Not exactly a 'see you soon' kind of farewell."
Rowan pulls a small crystal pendant from his coat, pulsing softly with blue light. "We're monitoring magical anomalies. If something dangerous surfaces, we need to know."
Her jaw tightens. "You won't believe a word I say, will you?"
He doesn't answer.
That silence was louder than any accusation.
She leads him to the cluttered kitchen, where the smell of forgotten herbs tangle with the dust and old wood. She pours two cups of tea from a chipped blue kettle and hands him one without asking or waiting.
He takes it like it was a peace offering, his gaze locked on hers.
"What's an arcane disturbance, exactly?" she asks, curling her fingers around the mug and taking a sip. "Should I be buying garlic and holy water, or is it more like a flickering lightbulb?"
Rowan gives the faintest hint of a smile. "The wards protect the town from outside threats…dark forces, spirits, rogue sorcerers. If they flicker, it means something's disturbed the balance. Sometimes it's nothing. Other times, it's the first crack in the foundation."
Elara's eyes narrow. "And my arrival caused this crack?"
"You're a rare catalyst. Your family is deeply tied to Westwood's old magic—magic most have forgotten. Your aunt's disappearance and your arrival aren't a coincidence."
Moony jumps onto the counter, tail flicking. "He's not wrong, you know."
Elara rubs her temples. "Fantastic. So, I'm a magical soap opera wrapped in a haunted house with a snarky cat. Just my luck."
Rowan's expression softens, just a fraction. "I know it's a lot to take in."
She arches an eyebrow. "You say that like you're on my side."
They move back into the hallway. Outside, the wind stirs, rain tapping against the windows like the house itself was counting down to something. The walls groan softly, the floorboards whisper secrets only old houses keep, and Elara feels a chill that wasn't just from the weather.
Something was coming.
Both stand silent, watching, waiting.
Like chess masters on the brink of a dangerous game—or gunslingers in a standoff at midnight.
And the house?
It hums quietly to itself, pleased to finally have company.