Under His Spell

2. Where is the Magician?

The Love Spell of Dazzling Den

After that night at the event, Dazzling Den was on fire. He had taken the magic world by storm, proving that a little glitter and charm could make even the grumpiest audience members swoon. His calendar was booked solid for months. But even with all his fame, fortune, and enough sequins to supply every magician's parade for a decade, something was missing.

Love.

You see, despite his dazzling career, Den's romantic life was more of a disappearing act. He'd had flings, sure—more than he could count—but nothing lasting. His heart longed for something more substantial than a one-night stand at an illusion-infused after-party.

One evening, Den was performing at a smaller, intimate venue—Magical Mirage, a flamboyant little bar where the audience sipped cocktails more expensive than the dirt under their shoes. It was his kind of place: glamorous, but not too pretentious. The house was packed, the lights were hot, and Den was in rare form, his fan snapping open with every punchline, his wand, a recently adopted accessory, twirling through the air like a baton in a marching band of fabulousness. It made his eyes sore to a purple amethyst. Good thing he had power over his mischief.

As he stepped out to begin his final trick, he noticed someone sitting in the back row. A man—tall, rugged, with just the right amount of five o'clock shadow, and eyes that twinkled like magic all on their own. A familiar, he thought. Den paused, mid-sentence, the clever comeback he had prepared for a heckler completely forgotten.

"Well, well, well," Den cooed, a mysterious smile plastered across his face, "who has grazed us with his magnificent presence today?"

The audience tittered, but Den had tunnel vision, a secret he abhorred to tell. The man—dark, handsome, and leaning back with an air of effortless cool—raised an eyebrow. "Don't stop on my account," he said, his voice like velvet and thunder.

Den, ever the professional, regained his composure, or at least pretended to. "Dearest," he said with a flick of his wrist, sending a shower of purple dusty foggy glitter into the air, "I never stop when there's someone worth impressing."

The crowd laughed, but the man just smiled—an infuriatingly charming smile that made Den's heart flutter and his wand slip from his hand, clattering to the floor. He cursed under his breath, blushing, and quickly bent to pick it up.

"Not your usual trick, I'm guessing," the man teased.

"Oh my dearest, I'm full of surprises," Den replied, snapping his fan open to hide his nerves. "Stick around. You might just see me pull something...unexpected out of my hat."

The show continued, but Den's focus kept drifting to the back row. Who was this man? And why was Den suddenly nervous in a way he hadn't been since his first disastrous attempt at levitation; never again, he had vowed, would he try to float while sitting on a thin slippery wand.

After the final bow, as the audience filed out, Den made a beeline for the back. But when he got there, the man was gone—disappeared like a puff of smoke. Just as Den was about to resign himself to a night of staring at his phone, willing at the hunger and disappointment of not capturing any prey today, a voice came from behind him.

"Looking for me?"

Den whirled around to see the man standing there, leaning against the bar. Up close, he was even more devastatingly handsome. His smile was all charm, and Den's pulse quickened.

"That depends," Den said, trying to sound casual. "Are you a fan or a critic?"

The man chuckled. "Neither. I'm a magician myself. Call me Eno, please. As you can tell from your accent, I'm not from here, neither can I call my tricks as terrible as yours."

Of course he was a magician, and an arrogant one at that. Den should've known—the mysterious aura, the charm, the way he seemed to appear out of thin air. Den sighed dramatically. "A rival, huh? Should I be worried?"

Eno smirked. "Hardly. You've got me beat in the purple pixie dust department, that's for sure. I'm more...sleight of hand."

Den raised an eyebrow. "Dearest, if you're looking for sleight of hand, you're going to have to buy me a drink first."

Eno grinned and signaled the bartender. "How about a mocktail for me and I'll pay for whatever you want?"

"I don't take alcohol. Ruins my magic, if you know what I mean," Den said, sitting down beside him, feeling the magnetic pull of this man's energy. "So, tell me, Mr. Eno, what's a magician like you doing at a show like mine?"

"I heard you were one of the best, greatest in fact," Eno replied, his eyes locking onto Den's. "And after tonight? I think that's an understatement."

Den felt a blush creep up his neck. "Flattery will get you everywhere my dearest."

They talked for hours—about magic, life, love, and everything in between. The connection was instant, electric, like they had been orbiting around each other for years, just waiting for the right moment to collide.

As the night came to a close, Eno leaned in and whispered, "You know, Den, I may be a magician, but I think you've just pulled off the greatest trick of all."

Den tilted his head, curious. "And what trick is that?"

Eno smiled. "You made me fall in love with you."

Den's heart skipped a beat. For once in his life, he was speechless.

With a soft, dramatic flourish, Den snapped open his fan one last time. "Well my dearest," he said, grinning, "As my favourite colour is power purple, I always knew I was magical."