The Arcane Combine Administrative Center looked like a bank and a prison had a child.

  Gray columns, flickering runes, half-working elevators, and too many windows that never opened. Most of the employees wore cloaks cut like suits — bureaucrats pretending to be mages, or mages pretending to be useful.

  Calen sat alone on a cracked bench in Waiting Room 4D.

  His registry charm hung from his belt like a dead limb, still blinking from the security lock applied that morning.

  TEMP HOLD – LICENSE INACTIVE

  Pending Review.

  His stomach hurt, but he hadn't eaten since yesterday. There were vending spells down the hall, but he didn't want to risk leaving. Not after what happened.

  The Echo — if that's what it was — had triggered spontaneously. No incantation. No conscious gesture. Just grief. Raw and hot and involuntary.

  And now the Combine wanted to know why.

  A buzzer rang. His number appeared on the sigil-slab above the doorway.

  He stood, walked stiffly into a wide interview room where three desks were arranged like thrones. A curtain of protective glyphs separated the clerks from the accused — or applicant, depending on the day.

  A scrying crystal in the corner blinked to life as he entered.

  This interview is being recorded for magical compliance purposes.

  "Calen Rusk," said the woman in the center — mid-40s, pale blue robe, thin-rimmed spectacles over hollow eyes.

  "Yes."

  "You were involved in a recorded magical incident this morning at the District 9 Transit Hub. An unregistered illusion was cast without incantation or signatory clearance."

  He nodded. "Yes. It wasn't—intentional."

  "Describe it."

  "I was trying to claim my parents' belongings," he said. "They died last week. I didn't make it back in time. I was—angry. Tired. I didn't mean to cast anything."

  "And yet you did."

  "I didn't form a spell. There was no anchor, no verbal component. I wasn't trying to conjure anything."

  One of the secondary clerks tapped a rune tablet.

  "The visual resonance scan shows a humanoid projection approximately 80% consistent with your own family sigil memory trace."

  That made his mouth go dry.

  They'd scanned it. Analyzed it. Quantified his father's likeness like it was a data point.

  "It's not a spell I know," Calen said. "I didn't learn it. It just—happened."

  Silence.

  The woman leaned forward.

  "Unstable grief-casting is a recognized hazard among unaligned mages. You're not the first. But let's be very clear, Mr. Rusk: unauthorized illusions within federal infrastructure carry a Category 3 sanction. Were it not for your tier and recent field deployment, you'd be looking at temporary suspension."

  "I understand."

  She slid a packet across the rune-slot barrier. It landed with a sterile click.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Form 11-C: Probationary Status — Arcane Combine License Review.

  Violation Class: Emotional Disruption + Unregistered Signature Magic.

  "Sign. That locks you to freelance-only contracts for six weeks. No guild advancement, no private casting outside emergency use. If you trigger another incident..."

  She didn't finish.

  She didn't need to.

  Calen signed.

  The pen buzzed faintly — reading his aura, stamping the ink with residual mana.

  As he stood to leave, the second clerk added casually:

  "By the way, if you're looking to keep your rating from degrading further, you might consider field work. There's a backlog of minor contracts. Ghost-clearings. Curse assessments. Most of the big guilds don't bother with those."

  He blinked. "Freelance work?"

  The clerk nodded. "Probation work."

  "Where?"

  "New Detroit Sector," she said. "Talk to a coordinator named Tovan. He's used to dealing with... burned-out types."

  The walk to the coordinator's office took longer than expected.

  New Detroit was a labyrinth of collapsed highways, hovering magitech infrastructure, and ex-guild towers half-reclaimed by moss and spell rot. Old mana flowed beneath the streets here — a cursed leyline hub, barely maintained, buzzing like old teeth.

  The Combine field office was tucked into a corner unit above a laundromancer's shop. The whole building smelled like damp socks and cheap incense.

  Inside: a cluttered room with spell files on every surface and a ratty green couch that hadn't been cleaned since the arcane riots ten years ago.

  Behind the desk sat Tovan, a round-shouldered man with glowing tattoos up both arms — faint recall glyphs, likely combat memory assists. He looked up when Calen entered and grunted.

  "Rusk. The sad one. Sit down."

  Calen didn't argue.

  Tovan tossed him a data slate.

  "Low-grade illusion residue job. Subway tunnels, south rail. Weird shimmer, reported passenger confusion. Normally we don't care — but it's near a node junction. If it spreads, it'll mess with magi-comm."

  Calen squinted at the job note.

  "You think it's a ghost?"

  "No," Tovan said. "But the client does. Old lady. Thinks her cat died and came back through the wall."

  "You want me to fix that?"

  "I want you to investigate and log it. If it's an active spell, cancel it. If it's a resonance echo, tag it for cleanup. You got gloves?"

  Calen nodded.

  "Great. Here's your partner."

  The door creaked open behind him.

  Calen turned.

  She was average height, combat boots, and a rune-chalk-stained coat. Messy auburn hair pulled into a loose braid. Left wrist wrapped in burn tape. She looked like she'd just walked out of a failed summoning circle and hadn't had time to change.

  She looked Calen up and down.

  "This the sad boy?"

  "Yeah," Tovan said. "This is Dessa."

  "I don't like working with weepers."

  "I'm not—" Calen started, but she waved him off.

  "You've got that look," she said, heading for the door. "Like someone who tried to cast through a panic attack and still thinks it was noble."

  He didn't answer. He just followed.

  [Scene Break – New Detroit Subway Tunnels]

  The entrance was unguarded. Just a faded Combine sign that said:

  CAUTION: SPELLFLUX ZONE. ENTER AT OWN RISK.

  Dessa lit a snap-orb and held it above her head. Light scattered against the walls in sickly purple hues. The rails below still hummed faintly — not from trains, but from mana drift.

  "You ever done tunnel work?" she asked, not looking back.

  "No."

  "You jump in front of spells for people?"

  "Sometimes."

  "You ever lose someone?"

  He stopped walking.

  She turned, light haloing her shoulders.

  "Yeah," he said finally. "Two weeks ago."

  She nodded.

  Then kept walking.

  They moved quietly through the first few platforms. The air buzzed with residue — leftover thoughts clinging to the edges of the walls like mold.

  Then it happened.

  Calen saw a shape.

  Standing at the end of the tunnel. His mother. Her back turned.

  She was humming.

  He staggered forward, not even aware he'd moved.

  Dessa grabbed his wrist.

  "Don't."

  "What is that?"

  "Resonance echo. Class II, maybe III. Triggered by proximity emotions. You fed it."

  "I didn't mean—"

  "No one ever does," she muttered. "That's the problem."

  As they approached, the figure rippled. Became something else.

  Not his mother.

  Not even human.

  The illusion collapsed inward — turning into static, then flame, then vanishing.

  "Echo Veil," Dessa muttered. "Haven't seen one form like that in years."

  Calen's heart dropped.

  "You know what that is?"

  She looked at him.

  "Not officially. But I've seen fragments. Emotional constructs. Spell hybrids. Usually accidental. Dangerous."

  She paused.

  "Rare."

  He said nothing.

  She studied his face.

  Then said, more gently:

  "Next time it happens, tell me. Before something uses it to pull you in."

  They walked the rest of the job in silence.

  He filed the job report.

  She didn't compliment him, but she didn't argue when Tovan assigned them together again.

  And later that night, in his room above the laundromancer's shop, Calen stared at his hand again.

  This time, when he opened his palm, he tried to summon the image.

  His mother's voice.

  Her humming.

  Just once.

  A shimmer formed. Warm. Gold.

  It flickered, then died.

  But not before he heard a single word:

  "Calen."

  And he smiled, for the first time in two weeks.