Zephyra Point of View

It has been two months since the visit to the Spirit Whispering House, where the veil between past and present thinned just long enough for ancestors to find their way home — and one particularly gassy infant turned out to be my father.

Well, in short, business is booming.

My shelves of handcrafted amulets—etched, moon-bathed, blessed, and sometimes mildly sarcastic—are nearly empty by noon each day. 

Love charms? Gone. 

Clarity stones? Out of stock. 

Anti-drama pendants? Always on backorder.

Honestly, who is against such good money?

I'm making a living using intuition, ancestral knowledge, and a little creative flair. What Grrrgal calls 'narrative-based placebo rituals,' I call spiritual entrepreneurship with excellent margins.

Not to mention, I'm earning with my own effort and my amulets are not dangerous at all.

Sometimes, I sit in my office with a cup of rosehip tea, look around at the wall of glowing sigils and softly humming crystals, and think:

Damn. I'm powerful.

Not dangerously powerful. Just... omnipotent enough.

The heavens really outdid themselves with me. I mean, truly. The talent. The cheekbones. The ability to juggle ancient spirits, twin stroller wheels, and a full waiting list of people desperate to get their exes metaphorically struck by emotional lightning.

And best of all? I earned it.

Now if only one client—one very specific, very theatrically gloomy client—would stop dragging my husband's name through the mud, everything would be just perfect.

Ah. Speak of the shadow...

He's back.

Mr. Shadowbane.

The man who arrives like he's followed by a theme song in a minor key.

I feel him before I see him. The temperature drops half a degree. The wind chimes in the back room give a shiver.

Why is this guy here again?

I thought the misfortune he's incurred since his last visit should've left him humbled. Or broke. Or in therapy.

Preferably all three.

Now that I'm looking at him again, he looks like a pauper but an underworld one at that.

I bet my week's revenue on it that this guy is here not for a good reason for sure.

He enters without knocking, of course. That would require social awareness. His boots creak against my spell-bound floorboards like even they don't want to be associated with him.

I smiled; the kind of smile that says welcome back, please sit down, and no you cannot sue me.

"Miss Fairy," he says, sweeping his hat off like he's about to deliver a tragic opera in my consultation room. "We need to speak. Urgently."

I gesture to the chair across from me—the same one he sat in two months ago when he first tried to commission me to sabotage my own husband's fate.

I didn't say a word. I just fold my hands, tilt my head ever so slightly, and wait.

Shadowbane sits. He looks... frayed. His suit is still pressed, but there's a tension in the seams, like the fabric is holding its breath. His cane rests against his knee like a prop that's forgotten its cue.

"I did exactly as instructed," he begins, fingers clasped tightly, "Carried the amulet every day. Didn't break the ritual chain. Said the incantation at sunrise. All of it."

"And?" I ask, pouring myself tea, slow and calm. "How's your misfortune treating you?"

He scowls. "That's the problem. I'm the one cursed."

I raise an eyebrow.

"I've lost three contracts. My assistant of six years quit and took half the clients with her. I tripped on my own staircase and cracked a rib. Twice. And meanwhile, your husband—" he says the word like it physically offends him, "—is apparently thriving. He just got published. Again."

I sip my tea. "Mmm. Terrible. You poor thing."

He leans forward. "You told me the amulet would sow imbalance."

"I told you the amulet would mirror intent," I reply, setting my cup down with a click. "And you, Mr. Shadowbane, are apparently full of your own mess. I don't sell karmic Clorox. I enhance what's already there. You're the architect of your own collapse."

His jaw tightens. "You're saying I cursed myself?"

I smile sweetly. "I'm saying you handed me a shovel and started digging your own grave with it."

He blinks, taken aback, like the metaphor personally slapped him.

"I don't make the karma," I continue, leaning back with a gentle creak of my chair. "I just fast-track the shipping. You, sir, ordered next-day consequences."

Shadowbane sits there, simmering, the glint in his eye a bit more cracked than cold now. It's subtle, but I can see it—he's unraveling. One string at a time.

"And yet," he says slowly, "Idris still stands. Still shines. Still... wins."

Oh, we're calling him by his first name now? I raise a brow but say nothing.

Shadowbane's eye twitches. His fingers drum once against his cane like he's trying to summon patience—or possibly a demon, which would honestly be a refreshing change of pace at this point.

"Why?" he rasps. "Why is he fine? Why am I the one paying the price while Idris Cruz Valen walks around like a messiah in a turtleneck?"

I open my mouth to respond—but before I can summon a single syllable of well-polished wisdom or sass, the wind chimes in the back room jingle.

Then, footsteps.

Measured. Confident. Familiar enough to make my spine straighten and my tea swirl just a little faster in its cup.

The door creaks open, and Grrrgal walks in like he's been waiting for the cue his whole life.

"Because the universe," he says calmly, "has a strong bias toward justice."

Shadowbane turns in his chair with a snap, stiffening like someone just insulted his shadow. His face twists into a confused half-smirk. "You?"

Grrrgal ignores the venom, stepping fully into the room with all the grace of a philosopher-warrior who moonlights as a husband with flawless collarbones. He dusts imaginary lint from his blazer and raises one brow. "You really had the gall to hire my wife to take me down?"

Shadowbane blinks. Twice. Then slowly pivots toward me.

I shrug, dainty and unapologetic. "You never asked for my marital status. I never offered it. Confidentiality clause works both ways."

The look on his face is a tragedy performed by his eyebrows alone.

"I knew something about yourself was familiar," Grrrgal continues, stepping closer, the edge of a smile just beginning to bloom. "I've been trying to place it since that first day Zephyra mentioned your absurd name. Shadowbane? Aren't you called Ronan Stanke?" He chuckles. "You haven't changed a bit."

Stanke?

What a nice and fitting name for him!

Shadowbane paled, then flushes. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on." Grrrgal's tone drops into something velvet and lethal. "We were at university together. Philosophy department. You were two years ahead. Had a superiority complex and thinks very highly of yourself."

Grrrgal tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, the corners of his mouth curling into something between amusement and cold recognition.

"You always thought you were the next great mind of the century—until I published that paper on cognitive ethics and took the symposium spotlight right out from under your very elaborately waxed mustache."

Ronan Stanke—Shadowbane—gripped the handle of his cane tighter. "That paper was overrated."

"It won a national grant," Grrrgal replied mildly. "And got me two fellowships and a handwritten letter from the Minister of Arcane Integration. You remember that, don't you?"

There was a silence.

Then my chair creaked slightly as I leaned forward, resting my chin in one palm.

"Careful, Shadowbane," I said sweetly. "You're bleeding insecurity all over my blessed rug."

Grrrgal didn't even blink. He stepped to the side, pulling his phone from his pocket again.

"Let's skip to the part where the consequences roll in," he said, his tone cool, detached, and terrifyingly calm. "See, while you've been falling down stairs and losing staff, I've been connecting dots. Legal ones."

Ronan's lip curled. "You're bluffing."

"I never bluff," Grrrgal said, tapping the screen. "I don't have to. Your former assistant—Bela, right? She sent us a nice dossier. Records of shady contracts, falsified sigils, two separate clients reporting magical coercion... It's impressive, really. A kind of evil LinkedIn portfolio."

Ronan lurched forward, voice low and venomous. "You'll regret this."

Grrrgal just tilted his head, and smiled with all the calm malice of a man who had already filed the paperwork. "No. You will."

At that moment, the front door opened again. Two figures entered—plainclothes, serious faces, sigil-etched cuffs gleaming faintly under their jackets.

"Ah, punctual. I do love professionalism." I exclaimed loudly.

Ronan whirled around. "You planned this—both of you!"

"Oh no," I said, rising gracefully. "You planned this the moment you mistook my power for something you could buy and aim like a wand. You just didn't realize you were paying for your own downfall."

The officials stepped forward.

"Mr. Ronan Stanke, you are under formal investigation for corporate fraud, identity falsification, and embezzlement from three client trusts."

Ronan went rigid. His mouth opened, then closed again—like a fish realizing it's been caught in a net woven with paperwork and subpoenas.

I crossed my arms, watching the blood drain from his face. "Guess the universe isn't the only one taking notes."

Grrrgal added, voice smooth as a polished gavel, "Your assistant turned over full ledgers. Bank accounts traced. Emails. You really should've changed your passwords after your last affair, by the way."

Ronan's eyes darted toward the door—too late.

Ronan lunged—toward me, of course—but the floor sigils flared and launched him backward with a satisfying zap.

"You'll regret this!" he howled.

"Unlikely," I replied, plucking his cane. "This matches my boots." Saying, I snatched it away.

I really liked the cane and the pattern on it. It's suits my taste a lot.

As they dragged him out, Grrrgal exhaled beside me. "One danger down."

I sipped my tea. "He isn't considered a danger at all. Just a pesky fly."

I can handle such flies with my power easily. How is he even considered a danger?

Danger will be ashamed that it is associated with such a mindless fool.

Let the world bring its curses, its chaos, its would-be villains in dramatic hats—because I'm not just ready. I'm me.

And that - Is more than enough.

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

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