"So about that ritual," Clara said, and was surprised to find her voice steady. She'd made her choice. Now she needed to see it through.

  Still, nervousness fluttered in her stomach. Not doubt, exactly. More like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing you're about to jump. The decision was made. But that didn't make the fall any less terrifying.

  "Is there anything I need to do to prepare?" she asked. "Any preparations? Should I, I don't know, fast? Meditate? Brace myself somehow?"

  Trazathine considered her for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. "The ritual will be intense. You may experience physical sensations unlike anything you've experienced before. Your body will be fundamentally altered, opened to magic for the first time. It will not be pleasant, I must warn you, though it should not cause lasting harm." He paused, watching her face carefully. "You may want to eat something first, to ground yourself. But more importantly, you will need to provide one personal item. Something that has been important to you, something that you have kept at your side ceaselessly, if possible."

  "Why a personal item?" Clara asked, her curiosity overriding her nervousness for a moment.

  "The item serves as an anchor," Trazathine explained, settling back in his chair. "A connection to who you are, what you've been. It will help bridge the gap between the void within you and the magic that will flow through you. Without it, the ritual could fail, or worse, the magic might overwhelm you completely. The item grounds you, informs the magic of what you were before, even as it transforms you into something new."

  Clara's mind raced. What did she have that was truly personal? She looked down at herself, still in her costume, her purse still slung across her body. She'd grabbed it on her way out of the party, by force of habit.

  She opened her purse and began looking through its contents, her fingers searching for something, anything that felt significant. Lipstick, mostly unused, a shade of red she'd bought on impulse after Rose had told her to try something bold. Her wallet with her ID and credit cards, important documents that proved she existed, but not deeply personal. Some concealer and blush, cosmetic at best, literally. Keys to her apartment, functional, necessary, but not sentimental. A small tube of hand sanitizer. A pack of gum. Mascara. Tissues.

  And her phone.

  Her phone. Clara pulled it out, holding it in both hands. It was an older model, scuffed and worn, the screen cracked in one corner from when she'd dropped it getting out of an Uber last month. The case was worn smooth in places where she'd held it countless times. But it had been with her constantly for years, always within reach, always on, always connected.

  Photos of her friends, of her cat, Mittens, sleeping in various ridiculous positions. Messages from people she loved, conversations that had made her laugh, or cry, or feel seen. Her calendar with all her appointments. Her reminders. Her notes app with random thoughts and grocery lists.

  But it wasn't like she was going to get any reception around here. The thought brought a pang of loss. The device that had been so central to her life was now useless. All those photos, all those messages, all those connections to the people she loved.

  Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away. There was no point crying about it now. She was here, and she couldn't go back. But maybe, in the ritual, the phone could serve a new purpose. Maybe it could help her hold onto a piece of who she'd been, even as she became something else entirely.

  She held it out to Trazathine, whose eyes widened in genuine shock.

  "I have never seen such a thing," he said, reaching for it hesitantly. When his fingers touched it, he flinched back slightly, as if surprised by something. "It feels wrong. Like it shouldn't exist. There is no magic in it, none at all, but there is something else. Something I cannot name."

  "It's a phone," Clara said, feeling suddenly defensive of the device. "For communicating with people across large distances, finding information, organizing my life, playing games, taking pictures, and so much more. Where I come from, everyone has one, and they're nearly always using it. It's like an extension of yourself. Everything you need, everything you are, all in one device."

  Trazathine looked at it more carefully now, turning it over in his hands. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface, tapped the screen, which remained dark, of course, with no battery charge. "Fascinating. And you carry this with you constantly?"

  "Almost never without it. I'd be lost without it back home." The admission made Clara realize just how dependent she'd been on the thing. It was a little embarrassing, actually.

  "It will do perfectly then," Trazathine said with a slight grin.

  Clara looked at her phone in his hands, then at the ritual space being prepared. This was really happening. Her phone, that constant companion, that piece of her old life, would become the anchor for her transformation. There was something fitting about that. Something that felt right, even as it made her chest tight.

  Her phone had always been her window into the wider world. Her way of organizing information, tracking fitness progress, keeping in touch with friends.

  And now it would become part of her. Part of the magic.

  She wasn't just giving something up. She was bridging two worlds. Taking something from her old life and weaving it into her new one.

  The thought steadied her, gave her something to hold onto. This was her ritual now, not just something being done to her. She'd chosen the anchor. She'd chosen her path.

  But her hands trembled slightly as she watched Trazathine work. Physical unease crept through her body, a visceral awareness that she was about to be altered at a fundamental level. Magic would flow through her very being. And afterwards she would be able to command it.

  What would be left of her when it was done? Would she still love the same things? Still laugh at the same jokes? Still be Clara, or would she be someone else wearing Clara's memories?

  She didn't know. Couldn't know. Not until it was done.

  But there was no turning back now. The ritual was being prepared. The choice was made. All that remained was to see what she would become.

  "Let us begin then." Trazathine stood and moved to a clear space on the platform. He gestured, and Clara watched as the wooden floor shifted, creating a smooth, circular space about ten feet across. The wood grew darker in that circle, forming a surface that looked polished.

  He began laying out stones in a pattern, first larger ones carved with symbols that Clara couldn't read, placing them at specific points around the circle. Then he placed her phone carefully in the exact center, and Clara felt a pang of loss watching it sit there, dark and useless in this world of magic.

  From a pouch at his belt, he began removing smaller stones, each one pulsing with its own inner light.

  "These source stones are different from the one I showed you earlier," Trazathine said, laying them in a circle around her phone. As each stone touched the ritual space, lines of light connected them, forming a pentagram shape that glowed against the dark wood. The green stone pulsed with the rhythm of a heartbeat. The brown one smelled like fresh earth after rain. The silvery-blue one crackled with energy that made the air around it shimmer. The white one radiated coldness that Clara could feel even from where she sat. The black one seemed to absorb all light, creating a small pool of darkness around itself.

  "Life, nature, storm, ice, and darkness," Trazathine continued, pointing to each stone in turn. "Life and nature form your foundation, your core. These affinities will make you a protector, a nurturer, someone who understands the cycles of growth and decay."

  He moved his finger to the other stones. "Ice and darkness for the season that is approaching, the coming winter when the world sleeps and shadows grow long. These are necessary for balance, little fairy. You cannot have life without death, growth without decay, light without shadow. They are part of the natural order."

  Finally, he gestured to the storm stone. "And storm, for nature's wrath, the wild and untamed power that can both destroy and renew. Storms clear away the old to make room for the new. They are nature at its most powerful, its most chaotic, and its most transformative."

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  He looked up at her, and his eyes were serious. "These affinities will shape who you become as a magic user. They will influence how you think, how you feel, how you interact with the world around you. They are not choices to be made lightly. How does this sound to you?"

  Clara looked at each stone in turn, feeling their presence even from where she sat. These would shape who she became. Not just what spells she could cast, but how she thought, how she felt, how she interacted with the world. The weight of that pressed down on her.

  Life and nature made sense. Those resonated with everything she'd told him, everything she'd wanted. Storm magic felt wild and powerful, a little frightening but exhilarating too. The druid path she'd dreamed about.

  But ice and darkness? She studied those stones more carefully. The white one radiated coldness that made her shiver. The black one seemed to swallow light. Trazathine had explained them, tied them to winter and natural cycles, and that made sense intellectually. Balance. The natural order. You couldn't have life without death, growth without decay.

  Still, she hadn't chosen them. He had.

  The thought flickered through her mind, then settled. But he knew this world, knew magic, knew what she'd need to survive. She'd told him what she wanted, and he'd shaped it into something that would work here. That was guidance, wasn't it? That was what she'd asked for.

  "It sounds right," Clara said, and was surprised to find she meant it. These affinities would make her a protector, a healer, who understood the full cycle of nature, not just the pretty parts. Someone who could face winter as well as spring. Someone stronger than she'd been.

  She could feel it approaching now, the moment of transformation. Her heart beat faster. Soon there would be no more questions, no more wondering. Soon she would know exactly what she was becoming.

  Trazathine smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Good. Now, I need a few more things."

  He moved to a section of the platform where several plants grew in planters made of woven branches. The plants were alive in a way that transcended normal life, their leaves shimmering, their flowers pulsing with inner light. Trazathine moved among them with practiced ease, his fingers careful and precise as he selected specific leaves, flowers, and berries.

  "Moonleaf for clarity," he murmured, plucking silvery leaves that shimmered in the light. "Dreamroot for connection to other realms." He gathered dark purple berries that oozed a faint luminescence. "Starbloom petals to bind the elements." The flowers he chose were small and white, but they glowed like captured starlight.

  He brought everything to a bowl that seemed to grow from the table itself, its edges formed of living wood. Some of the plants glowed as he placed them in the bowl. Others seemed to move on their own. He added what looked like powdered crystals, grinding them with a small stone pestle, then something like liquid metal, pouring it carefully from a small vial.

  "What are all those for?" Clara asked, watching in fascination.

  "Each ingredient serves a purpose," Trazathine said without looking up, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. "They bridge the gap between the mundane and the magical, ease the transition, protect you from the worst of the transformation. Rituals are delicate things, little fairy. One wrong ingredient, one mispronounced word, and the results can be quite unpleasant."

  "I will need a drop of your blood, as a final ingredient," Trazathine said, and suddenly he was beside her, taking her hand before she could react. He produced a needle that seemed to be made of crystal, or perhaps ice, and before Clara could protest, he'd pricked her finger.

  "Ow!" The pain was sharp but brief. A single drop of blood welled up, dark red against her pale skin.

  He guided her hand over the bowl, and her single drop of blood fell into the mixture. The moment it hit, the contents of the bowl began to glow, shifting from the various colors of the ingredients to a uniform silver-blue that pulsed with light.

  "Sit down right here," Trazathine said, pointing to a spot at the edge of the ritual circle, directly opposite where he would stand.

  Suddenly Clara was feeling a little self-conscious. She still had her costume on, fairy wings and all. The ruffled lace top was impractical at best, the layers of tulle in her tutu making every movement slightly awkward. Even her green platform heels were still on her feet, which might not be the most practical footwear for what would come next.

  She took off the fairy wings, setting them carefully aside, their iridescent surface catching the light from the ritual circle. At least without the wings she'd be a bit more comfortable. She sat down in the spot he'd indicated, crossing her legs beneath her. Looking a little silly wouldn't derail the magical ritual, she hoped.

  The ritual circle was beautiful and unnerving. A pentagram with curved, flowing lines instead of straight ones connecting the points of the star. Each point was marked by one of the source stones, pulsing with its own colored light. In the middle was her phone, dark and inert, completely out of place amongst all this magic.

  Trazathine took his place across from her, the bowl of glowing mixture in his hands. The light from the bowl cast shifting patterns across his face, making him look both more and less human. His tattoos began to glow, the patterns on his arms pulsing in time with a rhythm only he could hear.

  He began to chant, and the words were unlike anything Clara had ever heard. They weren't in any language she recognized, not English, not Spanish, not French, not anything from her world. They sounded ancient, primal, the language of the earth itself, of roots growing deep, of storms gathering, of life beginning and ending in endless cycles. The sounds wrapped around her, and she felt them more than heard them, vibrations that resonated in her bones, that echoed in the very marrow of her being.

  The chant had a rhythm to it, a pattern that built, spiraling outward and inward at the same time. Each word carried weight, each syllable shifting something in the space around them.

  As he chanted, he dipped his fingers into the bowl and began painting lines between the stones with the glowing mixture. Where the lines were drawn, they stayed, suspended in the air, threads of matter that defied gravity. The pattern grew more complex with each line, spirals and curves that held meaning beyond her comprehension, sacred and ancient.

  The ritual circle began to pulse, the light from the stones and the painted lines creating a web of energy that shimmered and shifted. The air itself thickened, becoming charged with energy. Clara could feel it pressing against her skin, against her lungs, making each breath feel deliberate.

  The chant pulled at her attention, and her thoughts began to fragment. She tried to think about home, about her friends, about anything familiar, but those thoughts kept slipping away. Everything was being replaced by the chant, by the growing sense of something building that was about to change everything.

  Each syllable vibrated through her bones. The air pressed in around her, thick and unyielding, and she could feel the pressure building down to her core.

  Heat bloomed beneath her skin. It wasn't painful, yet it felt a little invasive. It crept along her arms, her spine, her chest, settling deep in places she couldn't name. Her pulse roared in her ears. This wasn't something happening around her anymore. It was happening to her.

  A sharp edge of fear cut through her focus, of what would remain when this was finished. Would she still feel like herself when the magic let go?

  The pressure built, and her thoughts began to scatter, pulled away by the chant, by the magic, by the overwhelming sensation of being unmade.

  Fragments of memory surfaced, unbidden.

  Orange light. Laughter. Music thudding through walls.

  A vampire’s fangs. The smell of dry ice and cheap punch.

  Dancing badly and not caring.

  The memory fractured before it could settle.

  All of it slipping away, fading like dreams at dawn. Being replaced by something new, something unknown. The life she'd lived for twenty-three years dissolving into memory, into the past tense, into who she used to be.

  Her throat tightened. A thought flickered across her mind. This was the cost. Not pain, nor death, but this. The severing of everything familiar. The loss of the person she'd been.

  But the ritual pulled her forward, relentless. There was no room left for grief, no space for looking back. Only the chant, the magic, and the transformation consuming everything she was.

  The chant grew louder, and Clara could feel something building in the air around her. Energy. The source stones glowed brighter, pulsing in time with Trazathine's voice.

  The lines between them writhed and shifted, living threads of energy forming patterns that made Clara's eyes water. Her phone in the center began to glow, its screen flickering with a kaleidoscope of colors. For a moment, she caught glimpses of photos from her old life flashing by, then the light became too bright to look at.

  The world blurred at the edges, colors bleeding together. Purple into green, red into blue, everything becoming a swirling vortex. She could feel something tugging at her very essence, hooks sunk into her soul.

  She was being unravelled. Threads pulled from a tapestry. The sensation was painless, but it was deeply, utterly alien. It felt like her body was being rewritten at the most basic level. Strange magical energies flooded into the void, filling every empty space, overwhelming and relentless.

  Terror flooded through her. No regret or doubt. Just pure, primal fear of the transformation itself. What would be left when it was done? Would anything of Clara remain?

  Her bones ached. Her muscles spasmed. Every nerve ending burned with magic, raw and wild and beautiful.

  Trazathine's voice rose to a crescendo, and Clara felt something inside her break, or maybe crack open. The void that had protected her, that had kept magic out, was being bridged, breached, transformed. Magic poured into her, water into an empty vessel, and she was drowning in it, suffocating in it, becoming one with it.

  The chant reached its peak, and Clara's vision whited out completely. For a moment, there was only light, pure and overwhelming, and then suddenly there was nothing, only blackness, and the feeling of falling through endless space, tumbling through the void between worlds, between states of being, between what she had been and what she was becoming.