Elara

The mayor’s albatross looks at me like it knows I’m up to something. Its black eyes gleam with suspicion as it paces on its perch, talons clacking against the wood. I give it my most disarming smile, the one I perfected after my mother called me “a walking apology letter waiting to be written.”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that.” I twirl a sprig of juniper between my fingers. “This is for science. And justice. Mostly justice.”

This secluded garden is my stage, a sun-dappled haven of tangled ivy and stone statues that the mayor probably thinks make him look cultured. It’s a shame, really—this place is far too pretty for someone so insufferable.

I pluck a final petal from the rose in my pocket, toss it into the silver bowl at my feet, and unwillingly relive the moment that brought me here.

The mayor, standing smug and self-important at last week’s festival, loudly announced, “Of course Elara doesn’t think the rules apply to her. But what else could we expect from the Marowen girl?”

He said it in front of everyone. My father’s jaw tightened; my mother’s smile grew brittle. And me? I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood.

Well, let’s see how smug he feels when his albatross shows up at the next council meeting with sunset-colored feathers. Nothing says “lawless” like bold plumage.

I snap my fingers, channeling a pulse of magic into the silver bowl. A puff of violet smoke rises, carrying the crisp scent of rosemary and the tang of ozone.

“All right, bird,” I say, leveling my wand at it. “Prepare to dazzle.”

The albatross tilts its head. I tell myself it's unaware of its glorious future. I weave the spell carefully, letting the words roll off my tongue like music. At first, it’s perfect: the shimmering glow around the bird deepens, and its white feathers begin to glint with streaks of orange and pink.

But then I think, Why stop at colors?

I falter, letting curiosity take the reins. “Let’s give you a little extra pizzazz,” I murmur, adding a twist to the spell. A touch of iridescence here, a hint of majesty there. The glow around the bird flares brighter, richer, alive with potential.

“Magnificent,” I breathe, just as the albatross lets out an alarming squawk.

The glow implodes in a snap of light and sound, leaving me coughing in a cloud of smoky purple mist. When it clears, the perch is empty. The albatross is gone. In its place sits a badger—if “sits” is the right word for a snarling, hissing bundle of fur and rage.

“Oh, no,” I whisper, taking a step back. The badger’s beady eyes lock onto mine, and there’s nothing remotely majestic about the way its lips curl back to reveal sharp little teeth.

“Stay calm,” I say, more to myself than to the creature. “We’ll fix this. Totally fixable.”

I flick my wand, murmuring the reversal incantation. The badger doesn’t change back. Instead, it lunges at me, claws-first, with a ferocity I wouldn’t have thought possible from something that weighs about as much as my school satchel.

“Hey! No biting!” I yelp, stumbling over a rose bush as I try to dodge its furious attack. “Don’t be so dramatic!”

The badger hisses, a sound that could peel paint, and swipes at my boots. I scramble to conjure a barrier spell, but my magic is still tangled up in the remnants of the transmutation.

In hindsight, giving the spell an extra flourish was probably unwise.

I manage to grab the nearest garden rake and use it to nudge the badger away. It chomps the handle with alarming enthusiasm. “This is why people hate improvisation,” I mutter, trying to circle around it without getting mauled.

The badger charges again, and I barely duck behind a stone fountain. Somewhere in the chaos, the mayor’s gardener must have heard the commotion, because next I hear the clatter of footsteps.

My heart sinks.

“Perfect,” I groan as the badger leaps onto the fountain’s rim, spitting like an angry teakettle.

This was supposed to be a statement of brilliance. Now it’s just. . . a mess. A claw-filled, badger-shaped mess.

The badger stalks toward me, and I’m just about to try a desperate spell when a voice cuts through the mayhem.

“What in the name of the Everlight is going on here?”

The gardener appears at the gate, his hands clutching a trowel like a weapon. His bushy eyebrows nearly meet in the middle as he takes in the scene: me, scratched and panting behind the fountain, and the mayor’s newly transmogrified badger pacing with bloodthirsty intent.

“It’s experimental magic,” I venture.

The gardener eyes me, then the growling badger. “That ain’t normal.”

Offended, the badger charges, forcing him to leap back, his trowel landing with a thunk.

“Enough!” he roars, pointing at me.

“I had it under control until—”

“Under control?” He gestures to the badger gnawing at the fountain. “That thing’s a menace!”

“It’s temporary!” I insist, doubting myself.

“Not my problem!” Grabbing my arm, he drags me toward the house. “The mayor’ll sort you out.”

I’m led to the mayor’s office—a room that is the very picture of oppressive authority. A heavy oak desk stands in front of shelves lined with books about governance. There’s a portrait of him looking insufferably dignified above the mantle.

I stand in front of his desk, arms folded, as the gardener explains the situation in breathless, exaggerated detail. The mayor listens, face shifting between disbelief and exasperation, before leaning back with steepled fingers.

“Miss Marowen,” he begins, his tone sharp, “am I to understand you’ve turned my prized albatross into a badger?”

“In fairness, it’s a very impressive badger,” I counter. Not my most impressive comeback, however.

He doesn’t blink.

I swallow, fumbling for the right words to say. “It was meant to be harmless. Just a color change! A minor hiccup.”

“A minor hiccup?”

“Well, it’s not like I set the garden on fire.”

“Not yet,” the gardener mutters.

The mayor raises his hand. “Enough! You’ve ignored warnings, and if this continues, I’ll recommend your removal from the magical community.”

“Isn’t that extreme for one furry mistake?” I argue.

“Dismissed!” he bellows.

I march home, only to find the mayor’s glowing letter on the table. My father’s silence and my mother’s glare say everything else.

This is going to be a long night.

Father opens the letter with pursed lips. Red ink scratches across the parchment like an angry serpent, coiling itself into harsh words that seem to hiss at me. My father grips the letter, his knuckles pale as he scans the mayor’s damning account. The room is quiet—too quiet. Even my mother, usually the first to interject with a calming word, stands rigid by the hearth, twisting a dishcloth into knots.

“Transmutation of a government-owned albatross into a. . . ” Gideon Marowen’s voice trails off, his jaw tightening. His eyes dart to the next line. “Badger. Hissing badger.”

I clear my throat, aiming for casual. “To be fair, the mayor didn’t specify what counts as unauthorized—”

“Elara,” my father interrupts, his tone sharp as cracked glass. He drops the letter onto the table, and I swear the parchment trembles under the weight of his disappointment.

The enchanted ink doesn’t stop. It scribbles furiously, adding more to the growing list of my so-called “indiscretions.” It’s a résumé of creative problem-solving, really.

He pins me with a stare so cold it could freeze lava. “This. Has. To. Stop.”

“I agree,” I say, raising my hands in surrender. “The mayor is blowing this out of proportion. It was just a—”

“‘Just a mistake,’” he snaps, his voice rising. “You’ve said that every time. When you enchanted the village fountain to ‘spice up the ambiance.’ When you animated the butcher’s broom to chase his cat. And now this!”

He gestures to the glowing list, where the albatross-turned-badger incident is rapidly overtaking previous entries.

“To be fair,” I say, because what else can I do, “the broom did stop chasing the cat once I fixed the spell.”

Gideon slams his palm onto the table, and I flinch. My mother steps forward, her voice softer but no less cutting.

“Elara, your father is right. Magic isn’t a game, no matter how talented you are. These antics—”

“They’re not antics!” I cry out. “They’re experiments. Learning opportunities. It’s not my fault everyone else is so. . . literal.”

Her eyes narrow. “Literal or not, you’ve pushed it too far this time. The mayor isn’t joking in that letter. He’s recommending the loss of your magic.”

The words hit me like the sting of ice-cold water on a wound. “They can’t do that,” I say, though my confidence falters. “Can they?”

My father exhales, long and slow, as if my question alone has aged him a decade. “The Covenant allows it,” he says grimly. “Reckless magic is grounds for expulsion from the community. The loss of your abilities would follow.”

“Loss of—” I gape at him. “They can’t just. . . take it away. That’s absurd! It’s who I am!”

“Then you should treat it with more respect,” he barks. “Do you think your mother and I spent years teaching you discipline for this? For you to waste your gifts on childish rebellion?”

My mother’s face is gentle, but her words sting just the same. “Elara, magic is power. And power has consequences. The world won’t indulge your whims forever. One day, it will push back.”

“I’m not hurting anyone,” I say, the heat rising in my voice. “The mayor just hates being embarrassed.”

“This isn’t about him!” The force of his words stills the room. His voice drops, heavy with anger and something darker—fear. “This is about you. Your future. Your family. If the mayor follows through, you’ll lose more than your magic. You’ll lose everything.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Guilt churns in my stomach, battling with stubborn defiance. I want to defend myself, but the truth is staring at me from that cursed piece of parchment.

Gideon steps closer, his expression stern but tired. “You will not put this family’s name in further disgrace. You will think about the consequences of your actions from now on, Elara.”

“Or what?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

“Or,” he replies coldly, “you will prepare yourself for the possibility that your magic might be taken from you. Permanently.”