They met in the basement of a magitech bookshop.
There was no sign outside. No glowing rune, no guild crest, no fancy illusion to hide the scuff marks on the walls. Just a creaking door beside a secondhand scroll vendor and a narrow staircase that led down into the smell of old paper and sage smoke.
Calen followed Dessa silently, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, thumb pressed to the back of his registry charm.
The shop above sold used focus tools and printouts of discontinued spells — mostly collector junk. The kind of place failed spellcrafters left their dreams behind on the shelves, shrink-wrapped in mana-resistant plastic.
The basement was warmer.
And full of chairs.
A circle of them, in fact.
Some were mismatched. One was just a stool with a levitation cushion nailed to it. A few had mana-etched comfort runes flaring softly at the edges. And all of them were occupied.
Casters.
Mages.
Not young. Not polished. Not whole.
One man sat with a cane between his knees. His eyes were bloodshot, one milky-white. A woman across from him wore a spell filter visor, the kind used for casting trauma. A teenage boy at the far end of the circle kept twitching his fingers, retracing a minor sigil over and over like it was a nervous tic.
And then there was Saxon.
He sat in the biggest chair — not because he'd claimed it, but because the others had left it for him. Wide shoulders. Thick beard streaked with gray. Robes that didn't quite hide the runes burned into the skin of his arms.
And his hands.
Or rather — his hand.
The other ended at the wrist, covered in a thick cloth wrap bound with a spell-thread that looked almost ceremonial.
He raised a brow as Calen entered.
"This the Veil-boy?" he said, his voice a rough gravel road of sound.
Dessa nudged Calen forward. "Be gentle. He's still halfway out the echo."
Saxon grunted. "Aren't we all."
The meeting started with a simple call-in.
One by one, the group spoke their names, current spell status, and incident count for the week.
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"Lyra," said the woman with the visor. "Two minor slips. One distortion during sleep. Saw a hallway I haven't lived in for six years."
"Tomik," said the man with the cane. "No incidents, but the pain loop returned when I touched my casting gloves."
"Hal," whispered the boy, barely audible. "I—um—did a quickcast in my sleep. Burned the corner of my bed."
No one laughed.
No one looked surprised.
It was just what this room was for.
"Calen," Dessa said when the silence circled to them. "No known incidents since the subway projection. Stabilized with an anchor sigil yesterday. First time here."
They all nodded.
Saxon stared for a long time. Then leaned forward.
"Wanna tell us what you saw?" he asked.
Calen hesitated.
His mouth went dry.
"I saw my parents," he said finally. "They were alive. Talking. Smiling. Then they... changed. Started saying things I never heard. Blaming me. I couldn't stop it."
"Were you trying to cast?"
"No."
"Did you want them back?"
Calen blinked.
"I don't know."
Saxon nodded slowly.
"Then you're where most of us started."
The room settled into quiet conversation.
Tomik shared a story about a woman he once healed who now appeared in mirrors — not a ghost, just an emotional bleed. Lyra talked about trying to hug a projection of her sister and getting physically thrown by the feedback.
The boy, Hal, didn't talk much. But he kept looking at Calen like he wanted to ask something. Maybe later.
Saxon broke the rhythm after a while.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a charm ring. It had been scorched nearly to slag.
"Used to wear this on my left," he said, lifting his wrist. "During the Barrowfield Sweep, I overcast three shields, back-to-back, without anchor reset. Wanted to save my squad. Lost a third of my casting channels. Haven't held a spell stable since."
Calen stared at the charm. Even melted, it was beautiful. Mage-forged. No doubt earned through blood and ranks.
"You were a frontline mage?"
Saxon laughed, but it wasn't happy.
"I was Combine Class II, Team Vanguard. Eighty-two successful expeditions. And not one of them prepared me for what it's like when your magic stops listening to you."
He leaned back.
"Echo magic is the worst of all," he continued. "Because it comes from you. From your pain. From your love. From the stuff you never wanted to put into a spell. That's what makes it powerful. And what makes it liquid death to cast without help."
Calen swallowed.
He hadn't cast the Echo Veil in over two days.
Not on purpose.
But sometimes, when he blinked too long, he saw the glint of his father's workbench. Heard his mother's voice in the clatter of a train door. Memory was everywhere now. Waiting to be triggered.
After the meeting, most of the group filtered out quietly.
Dessa lingered, chatting with Lyra near the stairs.
Calen sat across from Saxon as the old caster slowly re-wrapped his arm.
"You think it'll stop?" Calen asked.
Saxon didn't look up.
"No. But you'll get better at choosing what gets through."
"What if I don't want any of it?"
"Then you'll break."
Calen winced.
Saxon met his eyes.
"You've got a rare thing, kid. A spell that speaks grief. That remembers. Most magic wants to obey. Yours wants to understand. That means it's dangerous — but it also means it's honest."
Calen didn't know what to say.
He picked at the stitching in his glove.
"Can I ask you something?" he said finally.
"Sure."
"Why do you come here? You've seen worse. You've fought. Bled. Led squads. Why a basement circle with broken mages and trauma casters?"
Saxon smiled — not kindly, but warmly.
"Because we're the only ones who admit what magic really costs."
That night, Calen stood in his room, watching the flicker of spell light in his mirror.
He didn't try to cast.
He didn't light a candle.
He just let the quiet hum of mana settle over his shoulders and let the silence stay.
