You had never been much of a fan of magic. Always seemed childish to you, the way people gasped and clapped like a rabbit appearing out of a hat was somehow the pinnacle of entertainment. But when your friend Garth insisted you come along to “the best magic show in the state,” you’d sucked it up. Couldn’t be that bad, right?

The fairground he dragged you to was chaotic. People in colorful costumes milled around, clowns tripping over their own oversized shoes, banners swinging in the breeze, and the smell of fried dough and popcorn everywhere. It was loud, absurd, and… strangely alive.

Garth tugged you toward the center, past cotton candy stands and some kind of ball-shooting arcade game that had caught your eye. You wanted to bail, maybe check that out, but he grinned and insisted you come see the main stage.

The stage itself was oddly imposing for such a carnival. Thick red curtains, tall enough to swallow a person whole, draped over a platform that seemed far too elegant for the otherwise chaotic grounds. You were about to glance away when the curtains whipped open. A puff of white smoke erupted, curling upward, and suddenly there he was.

Tall. Unnervingly tall. Easily 6’5”, his posture straight, commanding. Dark brown hair slicked back with precision, and a black half-mask over one side of his face that gave him the faintest resemblance to the Phantom of the Opera. The rest of his face was painted stark white, exaggerated and sharp, like some living cartoon of rage and elegance blended together. His thin lips pressed into a smirk, but it was the kind of smirk that promised both charm and danger in equal measure. In one hand he held a black-and-white wand, tilting it in a way that seemed almost casual, but the way he moved—every gesture deliberate, fluid, hypnotic—made it clear nothing about him was casual.

You had barely processed all of that when your ears caught it, “Need a volunteer! How about you?”

Before you could even register what was happening, a strange tug at your chest, and the world shifted. One second you were standing behind Garth, ready to ditch him and play the ball-shooter game, the next you were on stage, hundreds of eyes fixated on you. Your stomach lurched.

And to your left, Artful—because you had no idea what else to call him—leaned slightly forward, wand raised, eyes narrowing just the tiniest fraction, sharp and assessing. His gaze wasn’t threatening exactly, but it had a weight to it, like he could see through you and decide in an instant whether you belonged on his stage—or anywhere near his tricks.

“You’ll do nicely,” he said, voice smooth but low, carrying the kind of arrogance that somehow made you want to argue… and obey at the same time. The wand twitched in his hand, and a whisper of smoke curled around his fingers as if eager to perform at his command.

You wanted to step back, to protest, to vanish—but the stage felt impossibly small under his presence. Every motion, every flutter of his coat, the sharp line of his top hat, and the faint gleam of his eyes behind the mask made it clear, the magic here wasn’t childish. It was Artful, and you were very much in the middle of it.