By morning, the heart-shaped bubbles had stopped following them. Mostly. One still hovered near the ceiling of Cael's office, faintly pulsing with pink light like a lovesick lantern. He refused to acknowledge it. Elara, seated across the desk once again, couldn't stop glancing up at it and then stifling a giggle behind her hand.
"I assure you," Cael said, eyes never leaving the parchment he was reviewing, "there is nothing amusing about bureaucratic contamination of magical property."
"Oh, absolutely," Elara replied, nodding seriously. "It's tragic, really. That bubble's probably grieving. You should be compassionate."
Cael exhaled through his nose. "Compassion is not part of the auditing protocol."
"Well, maybe it should be. Emotional residue can't be solved with just numbers and rules."
"Miss Mirefield," he said evenly, "you caused a level-three magical incident involving involuntary emotional resonance in a government building. Numbers and rules are precisely what prevent that from becoming an epidemic."
She opened her mouth, then thought better of it and folded her hands primly. The bubble above them wobbled in sympathy.
Cael adjusted his spectacles and continued reading. The silence between them stretched until it felt like a spell of its own—fragile and awkward. Finally, he looked up.
"According to regulation 12A," he began, "you are still under evaluation for the unauthorized casting. That means your wand privileges are temporarily suspended outside of supervised activity."
Elara's eyes widened. "Suspended? But I have errands! My landlady's broom won't even start without a charm in the morning!"
He ignored her outburst. "Furthermore, as the supervising auditor, I'm required to document your magical tendencies for corrective review."
"You make that sound like I'm a dangerous creature being studied."
He paused, deadpan. "Aren't you?"
Elara gasped in mock offense. "I'm only dangerous to pastries and paperwork."
"That," he said dryly, "matches your file precisely."
Her indignation melted into a reluctant laugh. For a moment, the air between them lightened, until Cael turned back to his desk and the seriousness of his profession reclaimed the room.
He reached for the crystal sphere they'd used the night before. The glow inside it had dimmed but not vanished. "Residual magic persists," he murmured, "which means the spell is feeding on ambient energy. Likely your proximity."
"My proximity?" she echoed. "What, my presence powers affection now?"
"It appears so."
She blinked at him. "So, theoretically, if I left—"
"It might destabilize," he interrupted, his tone sharp. "We've been over this."
"Right. Fifty feet. Bound by bureaucratic affection."
He looked up then, expression unreadable. "You make it sound romantic."
"I make everything sound romantic," she said with exaggerated cheer. "It's a side effect of my handwriting."
Cael didn't smile, but his pen stalled for half a heartbeat before moving again.
By noon, he had finished his notes and declared that a new test was necessary. "The Department of Scroll Authentication maintains records of every registered charm formula. If we can locate the base script that your quill misinterpreted, we might derive a counter-sequence."
"Translation: we're going to the scroll archives?"
He nodded once.
Elara brightened. "Oh, I love the archives! All that parchment, the whispering pages, the dust bunnies with minor telepathy—it's like home."
He gave her a look. "You've been banned from the archives before, haven't you?"
"Temporarily," she admitted. "I sneezed near a levitation shelf. It panicked."
"Panicked?"
"And dropped six centuries of spell research on the archivist."
Cael rubbed his temples. "Why am I not surprised?"
The archives were located deep beneath the main hall, accessible through a spiral staircase guarded by runes that hummed when anyone approached with unauthorized magic. As they descended, the air grew cool and dry, thick with the scent of ink and age.
Rows of towering shelves stretched into darkness, each scroll labeled in precise script. Candles floated overhead, casting golden pools of light that swayed gently as if breathing.
Elara inhaled deeply. "Smells like trouble and genius."
Cael didn't respond, but his eyes flicked toward her, the faintest twitch of amusement breaking through his restraint. He approached the central catalog orb—a shimmering sphere that projected indexes when touched. "Section B-47," he murmured. "Charm subclass four, emotional modulation."
The orb glowed and cast a translucent list in the air. Hundreds of entries flickered into view.
Elara squinted. "There are so many. How are we supposed to find the right one?"
"By process of elimination," Cael said, already scanning the list. "We're looking for charm matrices that contain overlapping linguistic resonance with affection enhancement and attention enhancement."
"That's at least half the list."
"Then we start with half."
They worked in relative silence, pulling scrolls and returning them after inspection. For a time, it seemed almost peaceful—two opposite temperaments coexisting amid parchment and quiet candlelight.
Until Elara sneezed.
A shelf shivered. Several scrolls loosened from their slots. Cael looked up sharply. "Don't—"
Too late. One scroll fell open midair, its seals breaking with a burst of glittering blue light. The incantation inside flared to life.
"—touch anything," he finished flatly.
The scroll unrolled completely, runes spinning around them in dizzying spirals. A voice boomed through the chamber: 'Spell of Emotional Clarity, version prototype.'
Elara ducked as sparks shot overhead. "That doesn't sound stable!"
"It's not!" Cael barked, already tracing counter-sigils in the air. "Who left an unregistered prototype on the open shelf?"
The spell pulsed brighter, the air vibrating. Then—like a sigh—it imploded.
Silence.
Elara peeked from behind a stack of books. "Is it over?"
Cael straightened, brushing dust from his robes. "It appears to have neutralized."
Then he frowned. "Wait."
"Wait?" she echoed nervously.
He looked at her, and for the first time since she'd met him, his composure faltered. "Miss Mirefield… why are there sparkles in your hair?"
She reached up, fingers brushing something faintly warm. The sparkles shimmered faintly pink. "Oh. That's… new."
A soft hum filled the air again. The crystal sphere in Cael's satchel began glowing through the leather.
"No," he said under his breath. "No, no, no."
The affection charm—still partially active—had reacted to the scroll's residual energy.
Before either could act, the sphere floated out of the bag and split into three smaller orbs, each circling them with cheerful persistence.
Elara's eyes widened. "It multiplied."
"Wonderful," Cael muttered. "It's learning reproduction."
The orbs began projecting faint images—reflections of memories distorted by magic. In one, Elara stood in front of the bakery that had started this entire mess, proudly holding her wand. In another, Cael sat at his desk, younger, buried in study. The third orb flickered uncertainly before showing both of them together in the previous night's courtyard, surrounded by bubbles.
"Are those—?"
"Emotional projections," Cael said grimly. "The spell is feeding on shared recollection. This is why unauthorized enchantments are dangerous."
"But they're kind of… pretty."
He shot her a look that could have frozen lava. "Pretty is not the word I'd use."
As they moved closer, the third orb glowed brighter until a small shockwave rippled through the room. Candles flickered. The archives shuddered.
Cael reacted instantly, grabbing Elara's wrist and pulling her down as another surge of magic pulsed outward. Shelves rattled. Scrolls tumbled. The entire section of the archives seemed to groan in protest.
"Containment!" he snapped, conjuring a circle of runes around the orbs. "Assist me—no wand, just focus."
Elara nodded, heart pounding, and pressed her hands against the runes, channeling what little stabilized energy she could muster. The light wavered but held. Slowly, the orbs dimmed, their hum quieting to a soft, steady pulse.
When it was over, the room lay in disarray—scrolls strewn everywhere, dust drifting lazily through golden light. Elara's knees wobbled, and she sank to the floor, exhausted.
"Well," she said weakly, "that was educational."
Cael gave her a long, level stare. "You are banned from sneezing near magical documents."
"I'll try to suppress all natural bodily functions in the future," she said dryly.
He almost smiled—almost—but bent to retrieve the crystal fragments instead. "Despite your theatrics, this might have given us what we needed."
She blinked. "Really?"
He held up one fragment. The runes within shimmered in dual tones—blue and pink. "The interference pattern reveals both enchantments. We can trace the emotional and cognitive threads separately."
"So, in simpler words?"
"We might finally be able to undo your mistake."
Elara grinned. "See? Accidental genius."
"Accidental something," he murmured.
They returned to the upper halls hours later, carrying the stabilized fragments in a warded box. The evening sky outside glowed amber and violet. As they walked, Elara hummed softly, her steps light despite the exhaustion.
Cael, ever the picture of stoicism, finally broke the silence. "You seem remarkably unconcerned, given that your apprentice license may still be revoked."
"I've learned worrying doesn't stop disasters. It just makes them punctual."
"An interesting philosophy."
"It's a survival one."
He glanced at her, his expression softer than usual. "You're not entirely unskilled, you know. Chaotic, certainly, but not without potential."
Elara blinked, caught off guard. "Was that a compliment?"
"It was an observation."
She smiled. "I'll take it anyway."
When they reached the Spell Licensing Hall, the corridors were nearly empty. Only a few enchanted lamps flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. Cael placed the box on his desk. "I'll analyze the fragments tonight. You should rest."
"I can help," she offered quickly.
He shook his head. "You've done enough damage for one day."
"True," she admitted, "but I've also done enough helping to balance it out."
"I'm not sure the scales agree."
She laughed, but didn't move toward the door. Instead, she lingered by the window, watching fireflies drift through the twilight outside. "You know," she said softly, "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I just wanted to prove I could make something work for once."
Cael looked up, his expression unreadable. "Intent and outcome rarely align in magic," he said after a pause. "But… effort still matters."
She turned toward him, smiling faintly. "That's your way of saying 'I believe in you,' isn't it?"
He sighed. "You're remarkably interpretive."
"And you're remarkably bad at hiding kindness."
He didn't answer that.
The silence stretched again, this time more comfortable. Then, abruptly, the crystal box on his desk flickered.
Both turned toward it as a faint light pulsed from within—soft, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.
Cael's eyes narrowed. "It's reactivating."
"But how? We stabilized it!"
The box trembled. Then, with a sharp crack, it split open. The three orbs burst free, streaking upward and merging into one brilliant sphere that hovered above them.
"Elara," Cael said tightly, "get back."
She didn't move. "It's not attacking."
Indeed, the light wasn't violent—it pulsed gently, then projected a shimmering illusion across the wall: the bakery again, but this time with both of them standing together at its counter. The image looked peaceful, almost content.
Cael stared, speechless.
The projection flickered once, then faded, leaving only the faint warmth of residual magic behind.
Elara exhaled. "Well. That was new."
Cael rubbed his temple. "I can't decide whether the spell is mocking us or teaching us something."
"Maybe both," she said. "Magic has a sense of humor. Like you, deep down."
He gave her a long-suffering look, but his voice lacked real irritation. "Miss Mirefield, go home before the archives collapse again."
She curtsied dramatically. "As you wish, Supervisor Thornwright."
"Please never call me that again."
"Noted, Supervisor."
He sighed as she left, the faint sound of her laughter echoing down the hall.
When the door closed, Cael leaned back in his chair and glanced at the broken fragments on his desk. They still glimmered faintly—pink mingled with silver-blue, chaotic yet strangely harmonious.
He should have filed the report, sealed the evidence, and ended the matter. Instead, he found himself smilin
g—just slightly—before shaking his head and muttering, "Spell Request still pending, indeed."
Outside, in the deepening night, a single heart-shaped bubble drifted past the window, glowing softly before vanishing into the stars.
End of Chapter 2