The bell over the charm shop door chimed softly, slicing through the heavy quiet like a spell breaking.
Elara Moon looked up from her worn leather journal, its pages inked with protective runes and half-finished sigils. The late afternoon sun filtered through the dusty windows, casting golden rays on shelves filled with dried herbs, crystals, and bottled enchantments. From outside, the city moved as usual—cars honking, children laughing, life continuing. But inside, the air always felt... slower. Older. Like magic was holding its breath.
The man who stepped in didn't belong.
Not just because he was tall, all black leather jacket and storm-gray eyes that scanned the room like he was reading it. Not just because of the way he moved—like someone trained to fight but trained better not to be seen.
It was the magic around him. It didn't repel him like it did most non-magics. It clung to him, flickering uncertainly, like it didn't know whether to embrace or defend.
Elara's heart gave a single, unfamiliar lurch.
He walked in slowly, his hands in his jacket pockets, and paused in front of the shelf of moonstones and lavender bundles.
"I heard this place sells good tea," he said without looking at her.
Elara didn't smile. "Depends on who's asking."
He looked at her then. Their eyes locked.
And the world — broke.
A pulse exploded between them, a wave of raw, burning energy that shattered a glass bottle on the shelf behind him. Every candle in the shop flared to life at once. The runes etched along the floor glowed faint gold, humming in warning.
Elara stumbled back. He grunted and grabbed a nearby counter, blinking hard.
"What the hell was that?" he asked, staring at her like she'd just set the place on fire.
She didn't answer.
Because she knew what it was.
That reaction — violent, overwhelming, uncontrolled — it was a bond. A magical one. One witches were born with.
Only, she wasn't supposed to have one.
She had been cursed at birth. No bond. No soulmate. No magic connection to tie her to another life. It was the price her mother paid to keep her safe from a prophecy no one dared speak aloud.
And yet… here it was. Alive. Burning. Centered on this stranger with ice in his voice and weapons in his eyes.
"Sorry," she said finally, forcing calm into her voice. "Sometimes the shop reacts to outsiders. It's old."
He raised a brow, unconvinced. "Right."
She straightened her long black sleeves, subtly covering the sigils tattooed on her forearms.
"What tea did you want?"
He gave her a long look. "Do you sell nightroot?"
Her breath caught. "That's not a legal herb."
"I didn't ask for legal," he said. "I asked if you sell it."
Elara's mind was racing now. Who is he?
Nightroot was used by witch hunters. Not common knowledge. Not normal conversation.
Her fingers twitched toward the drawer where she kept her warding dust.
"No. I don't."
He didn't look disappointed. Just... sharper. Like her answer confirmed something.
"I'll take a blend then. For sleep."
She turned her back to him and grabbed a tin of dried herbs from the shelf, masking her shaking fingers. As she measured the leaves, she muttered a quiet grounding spell. The candles dimmed slightly. The tension in the air shrank.
But the bond — the bond was still there. Faint and humming, like a string tied between their chests.
"What's your name?" she asked, casually.
"Orion."
Her hand slipped, scattering herbs across the counter.
Orion. The hunter constellation. The name burned like fate.
"Elara," she replied carefully.
"Nice to meet you, Elara."
His tone said the opposite.
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He left with the tea ten minutes later. The moment the door shut, Elara collapsed into the nearest chair.
Her heart was still racing. Her magic still shaking. Her curse — or whatever it had been — was now cracked. Violently.
She grabbed her journal and opened to the protection spell she had written years ago. The ink was fading. The runes broken.
She touched the page. "What did you just awaken?"
Later that night, a knock came at her apartment door. It wasn't loud. Just once.
She peered through the peephole.
No one there.
Except for a small black envelope on the ground. Her name written in gold ink.
She picked it up and opened it slowly.
Inside was a single card.
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You were never cursed, Elara.
You were bound.
And now the bond has found you.
— The Circle