Chapter 2 Dean
Dean
I’ve decided I hate the color cream.
I can’t stop rotating the damned envelope that arrived this morning and ruined my daily agenda. It’s cream, of course. Heavy for a letter. Closed with a golden seal.
And it’s from my family.
Mom called on Sunday like she does every week. Months have passed since she sent me mail. But it’s not even her name on the envelope. It’s Nell’s.
I flip it over again.
Feel the weight of it in my hand.
A dozen magical crises happened just last month, and I didn’t hesitate a beat.
Wielding enough magic that I cause most people—humans and magical types alike—to veer away from me?
Standard Monday. Helping infuse the heavy wards required to keep the magic in a tourist destination like Magnolia Cove under wraps?
Piece of cake. Dealing with shifters or warlocks who lose control of their magic? Nothing a massage won’t fix.
But one letter from my sister and I might as well be nineteen again. Breaking my sister’s heart. Making a choice that would split our family and cause me to leave home forever and move to Magnolia Cove.
Sitting here in this office, I’m ignoring a dozen magical inquiries, half a dozen wards that need inspection, a lunch meeting about the Harvest Hoopla, and—because the universe has a sense of humor—a request to approve another human for long-term residency.
Another Sinclair sister. Perfect. Because what this town really needs is one more human who sees too much.
I reach for the medallion I’ve carried since graduating from Calthorne—one of the few magical universities that actually matters.
The crest is worn smooth, but the weight is the same.
It’s a reminder of everything it took to shoulder this kind of responsibility.
Enough power to hold a town’s wards steady.
Enough training to manage its magic safely.
Enough control to do it without burning everything down.
I’ve gone hand to… well, paw with werewolves and bear shifters and didn’t blink.
But I can’t bring myself to open this damn envelope.
It’s now one of the two personal items in the room.
The other is a picture I never look at. Otherwise I keep my office sparse.
Nothing hangs on the marbled emerald and ebony walls.
The recessed bookshelves hold all the standard magical law texts—The Codex Arcanum, The Charter of the Council, and Binding Principles of Magic.
There’s a dusty set of various years’ copies of The Mage’s Code of Conduct.
My ledger—heavily warded—and my Parker Duofold Centennial fountain pen sit on the desk’s polished wood.
And now the letter.
Which I can’t force myself to open.
A set of heavy knocks on the door pull me out of my stupor. “It’s open,” I say as I stand and shove the envelope into my leather jacket’s inside pocket.
Eleanor pokes her head inside, the wrinkles at her eyes more pronounced than normal. As head of the local council—and my second in command—she doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Dean, we have a problem.”
Of course we do.
We always have a problem.
I bob my head and follow her out.
The crowd outside Petal Pushers is dense.
Eleanor and I make our way up Main Street and its perfectly maintained cobblestone road.
Oaks draped in Spanish moss and Magnolia trees stretch overhead, casting the entire downtown in cool, dappled shade.
The crowd parts before us—mostly tourists, phones raised high, capturing what they think is some quaint small-town attraction.
If only they knew.
Mums and marigolds pirouette in their ceramic pots, showering the air with sparkly golden pollen that catches the dappled sunlight filtering through leaves. The display would be almost beautiful if it weren’t so dangerous. Magic ripples through the air, making my teeth ache.
My fellow council members—all powerful witches and warlocks—already work the crowd.
There are seven of us total, appointed by the National Council after the usual trials and tests.
I’m Head Warlock here—part political figure, part magical janitor.
Depends on the day. I catch Gerald’s eye and he nods, understanding my silent command.
Start with the phones. Then the memories.
Gentle touches only. Memory magic leaves scars if one isn’t careful.
“Can we book this for my daughter’s wedding?” A tourist has cornered Iris, the shop’s owner who stands against the wall like the woman in her beach cover up is wielding a weapon instead of a question. “Is there a waiting list?”
I resist the urge to clench my fists as I step beside them. “It’s experimental technology. Not available for private events.”
I reach out with my magic. Gentle. Careful. Find the edges of the last ten minutes and blur them softly, like morning mist rolling over the sea. Her pupils dilate as the magic takes hold. The wonder in her eyes fades and she furrows her brow.
“I’m sorry.” She blinks then looks around. “What was I asking about?”
“The Harvest Hoopla,” I lie smoothly. “It’s our big fall festival in a few weeks. Plenty of local vendors will be there.”
She nods and drifts away, already forgetting our conversation.
I watch her go, tasting mint and regret on my tongue—the lingering almost painfully spicy signature of memory magic that will grow until it burns my sinuses and causes my eyes to water.
I’ve always hated memory magic, the physical discomfort of using it being the least reason.
Most magic has limits, but not consequences. Infusing comfort into baked goods or small protection wards all hum along harmlessly, like a current that knows its path.
But high-level magic like the kind I wield always comes with a cost. It wears you down—in your bones, in your thoughts, in the way you sleep at night. The greater the spell, the more it takes.
And very few people are built to handle it. Not just magically, but mentally. Emotionally. There’s a reason most burn out early or lose themselves along the way. To wield this kind of power and stay intact takes discipline. Distance.
“Dean,” Iris breathes. She’s shaking so much her ivory hair trembles and she clutches her arms around herself. “I didn’t know. The performance was supposed to be simple… just a few students and—”
“Everything’s under control.” I keep my voice level despite the headache building behind my eyes. “Your shop’s reputation won’t suffer; we’ll make sure of it. Everything will be back to normal in a few hours.”
“But the tourists—”
“Won’t remember anything unusual.” I soften my tone. A few years back when someone accidentally turned all her roses neon green she’d cried. “We’ll handle it.”
Her lip wobbles but she gives me a nod.
That’s my role here—handling things. Cleaning up messes. Keeping everyone safe, even if they sometimes resent my methods. The weight of their reliance settles across my shoulders like a familiar coat. Heavy, but perfectly tailored.
Let them whisper about the stern council member, the one who has lived here nearly a decade and hasn’t integrated into the Cove’s social life.
Let them think I’m cold, unapproachable.
It’s easier that way. Clean. Like magical theory—every action has an equal reaction.
Stay distant, stay focused, and problems get solved without the messy complications of emotional entanglement.
The envelope in my pocket from my family seems to burn my chest. That’s what brought me here in the first place. Caring too much, getting tangled up and hesitating instead of doing what needed to be done. That led to the problem becoming massive and the hurt mirroring it in size.
Never again. Some lessons leave scars that remind you why walls are necessary. I straighten my jacket, brush away the dusting of pollen over its smooth black surface.
Rachel, a local music teacher, stands protectively in front of her student—Emma, the young witch who started this mess.
The girl clutches her violin case like a shield, trembling.
This isn’t our first conversation about magic this year.
Three times I’ve had to pull her aside after incidents at school.
A shattered window when she got frustrated with a difficult passage.
Wind that howled through the halls during her solo at the spring concert.
Now this. The girl has power thrumming through her veins like a crescendo building to its peak, raw and wild and dangerous.
Her extra lessons with Rachel aren’t helping as much as I’d hoped they would.
I recognize that particular brand of untamed magic. The way it builds under your skin like a storm gathering force, how it begs for release, for expression. At her age, I shattered more than windows. Created tempests that made today’s sparkly pollen show look like a gentle spring shower.
It took years for me to learn to control my magic. To learn the costs of having it.
I walk toward them. Rachel meets me halfway, her nose flaring. “Before you start, she was just trying to take part in a normal school activity.”
“Normal?” The word tastes bitter. “Normal doesn’t usually involve enchanted horticulture.”
“We can’t deny her regular experiences just because—”
“Just because she could expose our entire community?” Pollen settles once again on my black jacket. I brush it off with more force than needed. I’m going to have to break out the microfiber cloth and leather conditioner tonight, though. “She needs control first. Then performances.”
Every time magic slips into the open anywhere in the world it’s the magical community that pays the price.
Fear makes people dangerous, and history’s been painfully consistent on that point.
Salem comes to mind. Hundreds of innocent people—mostly non-magical humans—lost their lives, and the fallout laid the groundwork for the council system we have now.
I wait in silence until finally Rachel sighs and steps out of my way. All of us have had moments of wishing we weren’t born magical, but we also all have to come to terms with what we are at some point too.
“Go easy on her,” Rachel says as I pass. “It wasn’t intentional.”
I gesture for Emma to follow me to a quieter spot near the alley. She does, her violin case bumping her legs.
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispers. “The magic just felt so…”
“Powerful.” I finish for her. I’d had many similar moments in my past. “Yes, I know. But that’s exactly why you need to learn control first.”
“I don’t want control.” She still trembles but she juts her chin up, causing her tight dark curls to spill over her shoulder. “I don’t want magic at all. Music is what I love and what I’m good at. I want to go to Juilliard and—”
“Juilliard won’t be possible if you can’t manage your magic.
” Her face crumples and my stomach twists.
But I remember the cost of unleashing that much raw magic without control.
What it destroys. Who it hurts. And how long it takes to rebuild afterward—if you can rebuild at all.
I remember Nell’s tears. “You have extraordinary potential, Emma. As a musician and a witch. But with that comes responsibility.”
She bows her head and clutches the violin even tighter. “I’m sorry. I won’t let it happen again.”
She probably will, but I know she means her words. “All right, then. Better get back to your teacher. I think she’s worried about you.”
The girl scurries away, and I exhale slowly, trying to steady the energy still buzzing in the air. My hand slips into my pocket, reaching for the familiar weight of the medallion I always carry, but instead, my fingers brush paper.
The envelope.
I pull it out before I can talk myself out of it. The seal breaks easily under my thumb.
An invitation, as expected. Cream card stock, gold lettering. Nell is getting married. That leaves me unsteady on my feet for a moment. I don’t even know who my sister is marrying. I don’t even know my sister anymore. But it’s the note from my mother that makes my throat tight.
Dean,
We miss you. All of us. I know you probably won’t come, but we had to try. Maybe it’s time to heal these old wounds. Please attend Nell’s wedding. Let us try to be a family again.
Love,
Mom
I trace the words, the slight indentations her pen left in the paper scraping my finger. Around me, Magnolia Cove hums with contained magic, with secrets and responsibilities. With the weight of choices made and prices paid.
The envelope slips back into my pocket. Some wounds aren’t meant to heal. Some distances must be maintained. Because some actions are unforgivable. Even if maintaining that means standing alone.
Always alone.