Oh my, nothing too extraordinary if that's what you're here for; applied sorcery in spell craft with a touch of Fashion Week eccentricity, is all it is.

—NOVA-SCOTIA NÉLISSE, HEXER (B.H.), FOUNDER-CEO NÉLISSE & CO, IN A MORBID MAGAZINE INTERVIEW (PUBLIC EDITION).

"When... Wonderhoff posed that question... I'll be honest..." a man's voice resounded, obscured, as if echoing through the stately walls of a submerged auditorium.

The room's dim lighting cast an ethereal ambiance. Masked waiters, midair, tip-toed to low classical music in a delicate waltz. Champagne glasses clinked, there were whispers, then hushes—a riot of giggles from a dark corner, swallowed only by the macho woos that followed. It went on. Yet that man's voice persisted, like a whisper of a broken record, as some lips drew dangerously close in a blend of playful banter turned to heated flirtation.

"... went over my head..."

Sorcerers sponsored by luxury spell crafting brands wore enchanted couture and accessories. Here, women painted their lips in alluring shades men knew not to kiss and tell. Scentmakers melded for each sorcerer a unique fragrance, not too strong, as none wanted to seem desperate, of course.

"... enrolled for... ethical hexing, not philosophy..."

These were men and women of a certain caliber, after all. Born to affluence, many of them, but some had earned their place here. Still, no sorcerer invited to the public gallery needed to impress, perhaps only their plus-ones did.

"I... wanted... that White Hat... didn't care... for... grand meaning of sorcery..."

Some guests sought privacy and clarity within translucent cones of silence. A pale blue light, in which iridescent flecks dazzled, shaped each cone. It was these marvels of spell craft that prevented all sounds but the man's voice from resounding unobstructed, allowing the sorcerers within to engage with what was happening in the oval chamber below.

"I can't believe this disgusting hypocrite!" said a woman in a crow-shaped mask, biting her luscious red lip. "Madders hated the old man!"

"Old Wonderhoff wasn't infallible. Burnswitch had his reasons, you know that," a large man in a pig-shaped mask said, licking his fat fingers as he picked another slice of the marinated venison from the platter. "Can't fault a man with reasons. When famished, I eat. And when angered... I lash out."

As Madders Burnswitch held the podium, his commanding presence captivated both the public gallery and the House of Representatives. While his pleasing appearance initially drew them in, it was his powerful, thought-provoking words, and charismatic persona that kept them listening.

"... maybe that's why I never got the hat," Madders said as the Sorcerer's Assembly burst into laughter.

"To hell with you both!" said the woman behind the crow-shaped mask, her lips trembling as she walked out of the cone of silence. The woman's shadowy gaze lingered on the 167 representatives over the balcony. She clenched her jaw on hearing whispers of the applause Madders reveled in. But then she felt the tension release as a warm, nostalgic fragrance enveloped her, reminiscent of the sweet summer morning dews of youthful days long forgotten. The woman's pouting red lips parted.

Her neck craned to the massive, runed stone doors, where the giant bailiff stood watch. For a few moments, an eerie smile crossed her lips.

Bravo, Madders, you've hit an all-time low! Manipulating a retired old lady by dangling her rundown school in the woods on a twig... have you no shame? Does ambition far outweigh your gratitude for all Baffleme gave us? Thought the woman behind the crow-shaped mask.

She left the venue right after, a bitter taste growing in her mouth as she met eyes with Madders's witch of a mother.

***

Inside a separate cone of silence, two women eyed each other, their masks discarded on a table. Out of the corner of their eyes, they saw Madders, amused by his gestures every so often, but these women were engaged in a rather... tangential conversation.

"If you don't mind my asking, is that the infamous Seed Staining, I see on your lips, or is it the controversial Fuck-Me-Senseless Purple brand of lipstick you're wearing, Corporal Bloodspawn?" Asked Victoria, a pretty brunette in her early-twenties, as she placed a recording device on the table.

"I haven't done many of these interviews, but that's not the way to start, Tori. You'll give the wrong impression," Melanie said, touching her purple-stained lips with a smile. "I'm assuming your recorder isn't on."

"Of course not, I'm no prude," Victoria leaned over the table to touch the scarlet-eyed woman's lips. "Holy shit, Elle, it's authentic Seed Staining! Only three and a half years of deployment and you're already a proper spellbreaker slut!"

Melanie's pastel pink hair, in a taper fade, complemented an elegant, powder blue Nélisse & Co dress that hugged her lean figure. Victoria nearly spilled her champagne as Melanie pinched her exposed soft skin through a black thigh-high dress, saying,

"Language, Tori. It doesn't show much when I look this good in couture Nélisse & Co dresses, but I'm proud of my uniform. I'd never take it off if Nova-Scotia didn't pay so good to wear her brand. A girl can only do so much with a humble civil servant's pay, after all."

"Language? They've ruined you! Where's the Elle who convinced me to go skinny-dipping in winter at Witch's Brew Lake the night before our service exam in the pretext of recon?"

And there's nothing humble about your salary if the median pay for mere Privates is 250,000 pentacles per annum! Victoria wanted to add, but bit her lip.

"I remember doing lots of recon that night. You did, too," Melanie laughed.

"On our lady bits and tits!"

"Well, I didn't know if I'd see you again... I wanted to do it at least once. And the lake was the only place we could be alone in camp."

"Do it? You wanted to fuck, Elle... but in the middle of a goddamn frozen lake past midnight? Give a girl a heads up. I lost count of how many times I cast Flamos Aima while keeping an eye out for your favorite stalker, Maddox... I don't even remember if that was a mole or a birthmark on your ass... then the morning came and I was alone... did Maddox--"

"No. Maddox wasn't stalking me… he's my partner. I do real recon with him. We were just two ordinary cadets out of thirteen who passed the spellbreakers' test that year. That's all it was, Tori."

"So you just left me there? Thought so," Victoria said. She sighed as she tucked loose hair behind her ear. "I felt like such an idiot. Like a real country bumpkin, you know. You'd passed, and I didn't even realize there was a test. I'd let the biggest opportunity of my life slip away to a girl who knew exactly what she was doing the whole time."

"If anything slipped out of your hands, you're to blame, Tori." Melanie said. "I told you--"

"I know! That's why it haunted me. There were places from memory that didn't exist anymore, people not on any records. Was any of it real? Were you real? Did I really have the best sex of my life on a frozen, possibly jinxed lake? It couldn't be true, but the spells I'd learned told me it happened. I'd cast Memoriosa until I was bleeding out my nose just to relive that time—God, those migraines! Don't ask what I did, but I met with a psychologist when it got out of hand. He suggested writing, instead. Memoriosa's heightened emotions and sensations didn't help me reflect, he said. Writing saved my life, Elle. After a while, I quit practicing spell craft and went around telling everyone I was a freelance journalist. That just means I can't land a proper job, apparently."

"Tori--" Melanie said. Victoria could see genuine concern on her face, but she didn't want to hear it.

"Don't you dare apologize!"

"I won't. I don't regret what happened between us, or how it ended, just that it couldn't last longer. But... I'm hardly surprised you can't land an actual job, you know? Any decent journalist knows what this color means on a spellbreaker's lips," Melanie said, touching her purple-stained lips in mock contempt.

"Exactly!" Victoria said, a little too loud, with red eyes. "All I see is a hopeless addict obsessed with stabbing things with pointy ends or blowing them to smithereens with speculative spell craft. A story as old as time. Everyone knows all its twists and turns! And that's coming from a freelancer making minimum wage on her gigs, so take it as you will."

"Why did you jump on this opportunity, then?" Melanie asked. "I can't imagine you'd find conversation with me enjoyable."

"You got that right, but it doesn't work like that. I'm the one asking the questions. Surprise me a little, Elle, my paycheck's on the line here. Seriously, I think laying off boring writers might just be Señora Marinez-Wolfspawn's muse, and avoiding her goddamned guillotine is mine."

Melanie giggled. Victoria tore her gaze away as a smile nearly touched her lips, she run circles around her champagne glass's lip, saying,

"I saw you again after that night, and this line popped up in my head in one of those rare flashes of inspiration the guys in Creative talk about all the time: 'Purple Hickeys: Thirsty Spellbreaker Trades Scorching Heats of the Mohabi Desert For a Hotter Night Only the Dirty Sheets in the Capital's Pleasure Houses Remember.' It could be more compact. I'm just brainstorming. But I could probably get a lipstick brand to sponsor the article. Get it? It's a play on--"

"My Seed Staining paralleling the controversial lipstick? It's a... unique play on the words. But I don't know, Tori, erotica in Morbid Magazine?" Melanie asked, more amused than repulsed by the little heartthrob's eccentrics.

"Of course not, then I'd really lose this gig," Victoria said, sipping her champagne. "It's for a new column I wanna propose to the Baroness. Reckless abandon with zero consequence, that's the whole point of the Fuck-Me-Senseless enchanted line of lipsticks, right? It panders to lonely housewives, and… spellbreakers who haven't gotten a good dicking in ages. You give this story credibility, Elle!"

"Last stroke, civilian." Melanie said, a dangerous smile crossing her purple-stained lips. "I might just cuff you for conspiring to defame literally every spellbreaker out there and planting seeds of indecency in the common housewife's already… laden mind."

"Well, that wouldn't be a surprise. You've cuffed me on far… lesser charges, Corporal," Victoria said, leaning in.

"We were in a mutually consensual relationship, then. It's long over." Melanie wasn't smiling anymore. "If I cuffed you now, they'd be no pleasure in it for either of us, Tori. Drop it."

Victoria swallowed a lump down her throat as she sipped more of the champagne. In her three years as a freelancer, the young woman had learned she could push some sorcerers, especially exes she parted with on ambiguous terms, only so far.

Fuck. Am I really stuck with the same boring story everyone's going to run? Victoria thought, pulling out a notebook and pencil from her purse.

"Fine. So, what really happened in the Mohabi Desert, Corporal Bloodspawn?" Victoria asked, sitting straight up, brows knit as she flicked on the recorder. She fiercely stood her ground against those scarlet eyes as she took an air of professionalism. "Tell me about these terrorists... the Environmentalists? How did this organization wipe out an entire platoon of veteran spellbreakers, yet a pair of novice Privates survived the fray? One skipping two ranks in promotion—shooting straight up to Corporal—and the other, a politician's son, losing his mind."

***

To be continued.