The light from the scrying panel burned bright in Calen's eyes, and the room smelled like disinfectant and too much paper.

  He sat on a bench inside an Arcane Misuse Bureau intake chamber. A box fan rattled in the corner, the enchantment loop inside it long since degraded, sputtering cold air every fifth second.

  The clerk hadn't spoken yet. Neither had the investigator standing beside him. Both wore matching black coats with the AMB's sigil stitched into the collar — an eye wrapped in thorns.

  Calen tapped his fingers against his knee, his gloves clutched in the other hand.

  The gloves felt like armor. Or maybe like a mask. When they were off, his scars were visible. His spell burns. His failure.

  "Name?" the clerk finally asked, without looking up.

  "You know my name."

  The clerk didn't respond. Just kept scribbling.

  "Calen Rusk," Calen muttered, staring at the ceiling. "Tier Gray. Freelance certification. Probation status."

  "Violation: Uncontained magical memory resonance, emotionally anchored," the investigator added.

  She looked younger than he expected. Blonde hair tied tight, not a strand out of place. She didn't have a wand or a focus tool on display. That made her more dangerous. Bureau mages didn't need them.

  They weren't like Combine administrators or guild casters. Bureau agents weren't trained to cast spells — they were trained to end them.

  "Three civilians reported sympathetic memory aftereffects," she said, checking her slate. "One witness described seeing their deceased father walk across the platform. One wept uncontrollably and was taken to a mage trauma center. One fled the scene."

  "I didn't try to cast anything," Calen said.

  "Intent is irrelevant. You've said that before."

  He sighed.

  The lights flickered — a gentle pulse. Someone, somewhere, had just overcast a spell too close to the main grid.

  The clerk passed a manila folder through a neutral ward between them. A soft glyph burned on the edges — the Bureau's seal.

  "Inside is a cautionary letter, a list of known spell reflex types, and a recommended course of mental reinforcement drills."

  Calen didn't touch it.

  "And a draft notice."

  That made him blink.

  "A what?"

  "You're being placed on experimental registry for emergent emotional spells. You'll report every new episode of resonance or projection to this office within forty-eight hours."

  "That's a leash."

  "It's a safety protocol."

  Calen didn't answer. He picked up the file. His name was printed in block letters on the front, with a case number below it. The word 'watchlisted' had been stamped across the header.

  The young investigator stepped closer.

  "You've created something that reacts to grief," she said. "It has partial memory recall, visual projection, and spatial bleed. You understand how rare that is?"

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "It's not a spell," he said. "It's just... pain."

  The woman tilted her head. "Pain that others can see. That others can feel. If that's not magic, what is it?"

  Calen didn't have an answer.

  The clerk opened a drawer. "You'll be assigned a contact mage. If your... Echo Veil," he said, glancing at the label, "manifests again, log it and send a recording within twelve hours. If it escalates—"

  "I'll be detained?" Calen said bitterly.

  "No. You'll be helped," the woman said, too calmly.

  They dismissed him a few minutes later. No arrest. No fines. Just more paperwork and another set of eyes watching his every move.

  Outside, the street felt too bright. The sun was out for the first time in days, and the light stung like guilt.

  Dessa waited across the street, leaning against a mana pole. Her coat was half-unbuttoned, and she was drinking from a paper cup with runes slowly fading around the rim.

  "Thought you were getting locked up," she said when he approached.

  "They gave me a folder and a leash."

  "Progress," she muttered, handing him the cup. "Tea. Charged. Not too bitter."

  He took it and sipped.

  "Tastes like copper."

  "Means it's working."

  They walked in silence for a while, heading toward the east edge of the district. The New Detroit skyline shifted around them — buildings from twenty different architectural eras layered like fossil beds, stitched together with magitech and cheap wards.

  "Echo Veil," Calen said finally. "They named it."

  "Of course they did. Everything gets named if it breaks enough rules."

  "You've seen this before?"

  "Not exactly. Pieces. Fragments. A caster I knew once tried to recreate the feeling of a lost village. Made a memory loop. Got stuck inside it. They found him three days later in an empty house, eating ghost food."

  Calen blinked. "Ghost food?"

  "Don't ask," she said.

  They reached a training alley behind an old spell casting hall. It was cracked concrete and rune-scorched walls, with dozens of old sigil marks burned into the stone.

  "Why here?" he asked.

  "Because no one watches," she replied.

  She pulled off her coat, set it aside, and stretched her arms.

  "You want to learn control?" she asked.

  "I don't want to hurt anyone."

  "That's not the same thing."

  She walked to the center of the alley and drew a rune in the air. It sparked.

  "You know the anchor sigil?" she asked.

  "Basic form. Grounding loop."

  "Show me."

  Calen stepped forward. Formed the shape in the air with his right hand — palm out, two fingers curled, wrist tight.

  Dessa shook her head.

  "You're doing it from memory. Not from need."

  "I don't understand."

  "Magic doesn't come from your hands. It comes from your focus," she said. "Your grief is bleeding into the world because you haven't given it anywhere to go."

  She pointed at his chest.

  "Anchor there."

  He tried again. This time slower. Not copying a textbook shape — just feeling the pull.

  The sigil formed more naturally. It pulsed once, steady.

  "Better," she said. "Now tie it to a shape. Something real. Something that mattered."

  He hesitated. Closed his eyes.

  A memory floated up — his mother's ring. The one she wore even when she worked on machinery. Gold. Simple. Scuffed.

  He shaped it in the air — an echo of its outline.

  And the sigil locked.

  The air stilled.

  Dessa raised a brow.

  "You just anchored an emotional overlay," she said. "Without flooding the whole block. Congrats."

  He exhaled.

  Then the memory returned — sharper.

  The day he left.

  His mother hugged him at the station. Told him not to forget to eat. His father didn't say much — just squeezed his shoulder.

  He hadn't told them he loved them. Hadn't even looked back as the train pulled away.

  The sigil flared. The light warped.

  The image of his parents flickered beside him.

  Dessa stepped back. "Easy. Anchor it. Don't live in it."

  "I didn't—" He swallowed. "I don't want this."

  "Doesn't matter. It's yours."

  The projection held for another few seconds. Then faded.

  Calen dropped to one knee. Not from exertion. From emotional weight.

  "They're dead," he said, voice barely a whisper. "And I missed it."

  Dessa didn't reply for a moment.

  Then she sat beside him.

  "Mine died in a storm," she said quietly. "Outer Island, ridge break. I was ten."

  Calen turned to look at her.

  "I thought they were coming home. I made them dinner. Set the table. Waited by the window until morning. I still see the plates sometimes. In dreams. Never used."

  Silence again.

  "Why do you do this?" he asked.

  She shrugged.

  "Because when magic takes something from you, you take something back."

  That night, Calen returned to his room and lit a single focus candle.

  He held his hands steady above the flame and cast the anchor sigil. This time, he didn't try to form his parents' image. He just pictured the feeling.

  Missing.

  Loneliness.

  The ache of silence.

  The Veil shimmered — soft this time.

  And a memory appeared.

  Not a person. Not a scene.

  Just his father's toolbox. Resting on the shelf. Unused. Waiting.

  Calen stared at it until the candle burned out.

  And didn't cry.

  Not yet.