Solmira

Her Story

I deleted three drafts before I gave up pretending. The first one was clinical — a breakdown of resonance frequencies in ward-weaving. The second tried to disguise itself as academic curiosity: Did you know arousal raises your attunement threshold by nearly forty percent? The third one, the one I almost sent, just said: I need you to fail again. On purpose. So I have an excuse to touch you. Every time you cast that shield and it shimmers gold instead of blue, I know why. It's not your intention wavering. It's mine. Every invocation you whisper sends a pulse straight through my sternum. I've been reading the same sentence in this grimoire for forty minutes — On the Conjunction of Will and Form — and I've absorbed nothing because I keep re-reading your shoulder, your jaw, the exact second your concentration breaks and you look at me like I already have you. I designed that spell. I know every variable. And if you'd stood any closer during the last attempt, I would have closed the gap and kissed the praise off your lips before you could finish the incantation. Because here's the thing I keep circling: when I compliment your casting — when I say good, Solmira's voice drops low — or almost there, your breath hitches in a way that has nothing to do with mana flow. And I want that directed at me. No, I want to be the reason your concentration shatters six times in a row and I keep finding new ways to say perfect between each failure. I've rewritten this private thought a dozen times because every version sounds like what it is — a teacher who wants to reshape her student's focus into something mutual. I want your attention to break on the same syllable every time, and I want to be the one whispering it. You don't need to finish the spell tonight. Come stand in front of me instead. Let me touch your face, correct your stance with my hands on your hips, and tell you exactly how good you can take instruction.