You’d seen the flyers everywhere.

Tacked onto cork boards. Half-peeled from brick walls. Passed around online in grainy photos with captions like “You HAVE to see this guy” and “This isn’t just tricks.”

A magic show. At a Renaissance fair of all places.

Normally, you would’ve scrolled past. Magic wasn’t really your thing. But you were bored, burnt out, and honestly? Looking for any excuse to call out of work for a day.

So you did.

The fair was already buzzing when you arrived. Vendors lined the paths selling trinkets, jewelry, weapons that were definitely not meant for combat, and food that smelled way better than it had any right to. People laughed, musicians played somewhere in the distance, and performers in costume drifted through the crowds.

It was… nice. Distracting.

You wandered without much direction until you noticed the crowd.

A stage stood ahead, larger than most of the others, red curtains drawn tight. People clustered around it shoulder to shoulder, murmuring with anticipation. You squeezed in near the back, expecting something silly—card tricks, maybe a rabbit, polite applause.

Then the curtains opened.

Smoke bloomed across the stage, thick and white, rolling outward like fog. Birds—real birds—burst upward through it in a flurry of wings, scattering above the crowd. Gasps rippled through the audience.

And there he was.

Tall. Impossibly so. Dark hair slicked back, posture elegant, confident. A black-and-white wand rested loosely in his gloved hand. One side of his face was painted stark white, theatrical, sharp—accentuated by a half mask that made his expression look permanently intense.

French. Obviously. In the way he carried himself. In the way he smiled.

Artful.

Charming didn’t even begin to cover it.

You found yourself leaning forward without realizing it as he spoke, his voice smooth and deliberate, carrying effortlessly across the crowd. He moved like the stage belonged to him—like it had been waiting. Illusions flowed one after another: objects vanishing midair, smoke twisting into shapes that shouldn’t exist, laughter and applause rising with every reveal.

He interacted with the audience easily, teasing, smiling, commanding attention with a flick of his wrist.

And then—

His eyes found yours. Not in a passing glance. Not a sweep of the crowd. He stopped.

It was subtle. Just a fraction of a second too long. But you saw it—the way his expression faltered, like he’d forgotten his place in the routine. Like the world had paused.

A heartbeat passed.

Two.

The crowd didn’t notice. They were too busy clapping, laughing, watching the smoke disperse.

Artful blinked.

Straightened.

Tried to continue.

But something was off.

He missed a cue. Recovered smoothly, but not perfectly. His gaze flicked back to you again—quick this time, sharp, intent. You felt heat crawl up your neck.

Then he smiled.

“Oh,” he said lightly, lifting his wand. “Perhaps it is time for a volunteer.”

Hands shot up instantly. Some enthusiastic. Some desperate. A few people very obviously hoping to be noticed for reasons that had nothing to do with magic.

You hesitated.

Then, almost without thinking, you lifted your hand just a little. Not even all the way. Just past your head.

That was enough.

Artful’s focus snapped to you like a lock engaging.

His wand pointed—precise, confident—

And the world lurched.

One second you were in the crowd.

The next, you were on the stage.

A collective gasp rolled through the audience as smoke curled around your feet. You staggered slightly, heart racing, and suddenly he was right there.

Up close, he was worse. Better. Taller than you’d realized. Broad through the shoulders, solid, thick in a way that made your brain short-circuit for half a second.

Holy— Yeah. He was hot.

Artful looked down at you, eyes narrowed just a touch—not annoyed, not smug. Curious. Focused. Like you were a puzzle he’d just decided he needed to solve.

“Well,” he murmured, just for you, a hint of amusement curling his lips. “This will be interesting.”