4. Torin #2
“Observation.” Rhodes’s tone drips skepticism.
I take a second and recall the incidents over the weeks. Then I lean forward, holding his gaze. “Same sector, every time. All of them facing the Registry. That’s not instability. That’s sensitivity.”
“Or coincidence.”
“Or evidence.” Aslan intervenes before I can respond. “Torin’s right. Her magic might be the detection system we’ve been lacking. If she can sense disturbances others can’t...”
“Then she’s useful.” Elio nods slowly. “And worth protecting. Even from ourselves.”
Rhodes looks like he wants to argue. But eventually he nods, and moves on to the next agenda item.
I’m walking back toward the studio—earlier than planned, my excuse of Network business abandoned—and my conclusion won’t leave me alone.
Her episodes cluster around specific locations. All within the same sector, all facing the Registry.
Not instability. Sensitivity. The distinction had felt obvious the moment Rhodes raised it as a concern, but the implications are still settling.
If she’s reacting to disturbances in the Warding Line, that means the disturbances were there first. It means someone is doing this deliberately.
And it means she’s been walking into compromised zones every time her magic flared without knowing why.
She’s been detecting them. Not causing them.
Something cold moves through me that isn’t the evening air.
And she’s alone in the studio right now.
Wrongness hits like a punch to the chest.
My bear surges. Hackles rising. Instincts screaming—
threat, danger, mate—
Then Sakura screams.
I run. Faster than I should be able to, faster than my human form should allow. The studio door crashes open under my shoulder—wood splintering, bell shrieking discordant warning.
Inside, chaos.
Wind tears at the crystals, sending them flying. Rain pours from nowhere—not outside rain, inside rain, falling from a ceiling that shouldn’t be producing weather. Lightning crackles along the walls in branching patterns that scorch where they touch.
And at the center of it all—
Sakura.
On her knees behind the reception desk. Power crackling off her in visible arcs. Her eyes are closed, face twisted with pain, and the elements rage around her without direction, without control.
“Sakura!” I push through the wind, rain stinging my face. “Can you hear me?”
No response. Just another surge of power, lightning missing me by inches.
I don’t hesitate.
I wrap myself around her.
Elemental power crashes against me. Wind. Rain. Electricity. It should hurt more than it does—my bear’s natural resistance is the only thing making this bearable, deflecting the worst of the magical assault.
“You’re safe.” Low, steady, cutting through the roar. “I have you. Breathe.”
Her body shakes against mine. The lightning intensifies.
“Sakura. Listen to my voice. You’re having an episode. It will pass. But I need you to breathe.”
A sob tears from her throat. The wind howls.
“Breathe with me.” I inhale slowly, deliberately, my chest expanding against her back. “In. Hold. Out.”
For a long moment, nothing changes. The storm rages. She trembles.
Then—
A shuddering breath. Her lungs expanding in time with mine.
“Good. Again. In. Hold. Out.”
Another breath. The wind begins to ease.
“That’s it. You’re doing it. Keep breathing.”
The rain slows from downpour to drizzle. The lightning fades from strikes to flickering static. The temperature stabilizes.
By the time the last of the storm dissipates, we’re both soaked, both breathing hard, and I’m still wrapped around her.
Slowly, I loosen my grip.
She doesn’t move.
“Sakura?” My voice is rough. “Are you with me?”
“I—” Her voice cracks. “I’m here.”
She pulls away. I let her go, even though every instinct screams to hold on. She surveys the destruction—scattered crystals, scorched walls, waterlogged furniture.
“My studio.” Horror fills her voice. “I destroyed—”
“You had an episode. It passed.”
“I almost killed you.”
“You didn’t.”
“The lightning—”
“Missed.”
“Barely!”
“Has it been this bad before?”
She wraps her arms around herself. “Only since I came here. Only in certain places, it seems.”
Certain places. A pattern.
Before I can respond, commotion outside draws my attention. Through the broken window, half the square seems to be converging on the studio.
Sunny arrives first, armed with pastries. “Heard there was weather! Emergency scones!”
Ember appears with candles, smoking slightly around the edges. “I brought aromatherapy! Fair warning, I might combust if the emotions get too intense.”
“The emotions are already intense,” Sakura manages weakly.
“Oh good! Then you won’t notice when I catch fire.”
Marcus and Thalia drift up from the coffee shop with an enormous carafe. “Emergency caffeine,” Marcus announces. “Mandatory after magical exhaustion.”
“Also,” Thalia adds, surveying the damage with ancient eyes, “the mist changed colors a few minutes ago. Usually means a significant development.”
“The mist is very chatty today,” Sakura mutters.
“The mist,” a new voice observes, “is always chatty. Most people just don’t listen.”
Then Sunny, brightly: “So! Emergency scones, everyone?”
The cleanup takes hours.
The townsfolk help—Sunny organizing the snack distribution, Berry alphabetizing scattered romance novels by author because “the shop will be upset if they’re out of order,” Ember helpfully not catching fire despite the emotional intensity.
Marcus and Thalia provide steady caffeine and occasional dry observations about the structural damage.
“This wall will need replastering.” Thalia traces a scorch mark with clinical interest. “Lightning damage. Very dramatic.”
“Very ‘forbidden passion,’” Marcus adds.
“There’s no forbidden passion,” Sakura protests.
By evening, the studio is at least functional. The townsfolk drift away with promises of more pastries and comfort novels and emergency caffeine whenever needed.
Finally, it’s just us. Sakura collapsed on her battered couch. Me standing by the door, uncertain whether to stay or go.
“Thank you.” She looks up at me. “For not running.”
“You were screaming. Running wasn’t an option.”
“Everyone else runs.”
“Everyone else is wrong.”
She stares at me for a long moment. The silence between us feels alive, charged with everything we’re not saying.
“Why do you care?” Her voice is quiet. Raw. “I’m just a witch you were assigned to monitor.”
A dozen lies present themselves.
I tell her the truth.
“Because when you look at me, I feel seen. And I haven’t felt that in a very long time.”
Silence stretches. She doesn’t look away.
“That’s...” She swallows. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You don’t have to do anything with it.” I step back toward the door. “I’ll bring coffee in the morning.”
“Torin.”
I stop.
“You’re not what I expected.” A small smile. Fragile but real. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“What did you expect?”
“Something worse.”
“I’ll work on it.”
I leave before I can say more. Before I confess the rest—the poetry, the certainty, the fact that I would stand in every storm she makes and call it sunshine.