1.  Awakenings

Today

Alex Rowan had always suspected the King’s Head pub was a structural experiment in how much noise and spilled lager a Victorian building could absorb before collapsing. Tonight it felt dangerously close to the limit. The floor stuck like flypaper, the speakers were coughing up something unrecognisable but loud, and the air was a soup of cheap perfume, sweat, and the tang of stale crisps.

"This," Alex said, sitting at a tiny table at the back, "is what Sartre meant by ‘hell is other people.’"

Ben, already halfway through his pint, leaned back with the grin of a man who thrived in exactly this sort of chaos. "Sartre never pulled on a Friday night in Camden. Look—" he nodded toward the bar, "—she’s here again. The redhead. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed."

Alex’s mouth went dry. Of course he’d noticed. He’d noticed every time. And every time he told himself: tonight I’ll talk to her. Every time he failed.

"I’m not inter—" he began.

Ben cut him off. "Mate, you’ve been silently drafting love sonnets to her in your head for months."

Alex bit the edge of his tongue. "Even if I did talk to her, what would I say? ‘Hello, I also consume liquids’?"

"Better than quoting Kant’s Philosophical Imperative," Ben said. "Anyway, you’re always trying to help others, so here is my helpful advice in return. Go. Before she leaves, or worse—before someone else does what you won’t."

Alex gathered what little courage could be found at the bottom of his pint and rose, his mouth suddenly dry as he wiped his clammy palms on his jeans and started towards the bar. He glanced back at Ben, who gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. For a fleeting, dizzying second, Alex didn't just see his friend's encouragement; he felt it, a wave of genuine hope for him mixed with a slightly crass desire to live vicariously through his potential success. The strange sensation was gone as quickly as it came, leaving Alex feeling slightly disoriented.

He shook his head and started towards the bar, rehearsing a simple opening line in a frantic mental loop. Squeezing through the crowd, he managed to find a space right next to her. She glanced at him, a flicker of recognition in her eyes, and he smiled, a shaky, uncertain smile. "Hi," he began, his voice barely a whisper. "I was wondering if…"

And the universe, apparently offended by the prospect of his romantic initiative, decided to implode.

It wasn’t a sound or a flash of light. It was a silent, invisible wave that washed through him, rewiring his senses in an instant. The pub’s cacophony became a physical assault. He could hear the fizz of every bubble from the lemonade dispenser, the creak of the floorboards under a dozen different shoes, the low, electric hum of the coolers behind the bar. The smell of beer, sweat, and cheap perfume was so intense it made him gag.

As his gaze locked onto the redhead, he was hit with another jolt, a flash of her inner world. He saw a fierce ambition to prove herself, a deep-seated frustration at being underestimated, and a surprising, hidden vulnerability—a fear of not being strong enough. It was an overwhelming, shockingly intimate connection that made his shyness skyrocket.

His mind screamed for it to stop, for some noise, some chaos to cover his own internal panic. And his subconscious obeyed.

Around him, people were yelling. A stream of beer from one of the taps on the bar suddenly defied gravity, flowing upwards in a perfect, golden arc to pool on the low, stained ceiling. A nearby table covered in glasses began to rattle and shake violently, its occupants desperately grabbing their pints to save them from spilling. And the hair of the redhead beside him, as if caught in a sudden, localised gust of wind, began to blow and swirl around her head like a crazed shampoo commercial.

Alex clapped his hands over his ears, a useless gesture against the overwhelming noise. The girl reached out, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern, and took one of his hands. "Are you OK?"

The touch was an explosion of sensory data. He stumbled backwards, pulling his hand away as if burned. The chaos continued. The pub lights flickered erratically. Packets of peanuts hanging behind the bar began to fly across the room like startled birds. A delicate pattern of frost started to form on the polished bar top.

There was shouting now, confusion turning to fear. As he turned, the girl reached for his hand again. This time, his panicked subconscious lashed out and she was the one who gasped, a sharp, shocked sound. Her irises dilated, her pupils becoming huge, dark pools. She jerked her hand back, staring at it and then at him.

"What the hell was that?" she breathed, her voice a mixture of awe and terror.

"Sorry… I’m sorry," Alex mumbled, turning and pushing his way through the stunned crowd towards the exit. Ben ran after him, grabbing his arm at the door.

"Alex, where are you… Whoa, mate, you look awful," Ben said, his own face pale as he took in Alex's drained expression. "Come on, let's get you home."

Ben slid his arm around Alex and half-dragged him out into the night. The street was an assault of headlights, roaring engines, and a thousand different smells. Alex's only thought, a desperate, repeating prayer, was I just want to get home. Just clear a path.

As if in answer, a man just in front of them leapt to catch his wallet as it flew from his fingers, creating a perfect gap for them to pass through. “Well, that was lucky,” Ben muttered. A few yards later, a discarded newspaper whipped up from the ground, forcing a group blocking their path to scatter. Their strange luck held all the way to the tube station, with every obstacle seeming to clear from their path just moments before they reached it.

For Alex, the journey back to their flat still felt like an eternity of sensory torture. By the time Ben managed to get him through their front door, he could barely walk.

"Bloody typical," Ben sighed, helping Alex collapse onto his bed. "The one time you finally talk to a girl, and the universe decides to have a seizure." He quietly closed the door, leaving Alex in the blessed, silent darkness.

***

Alex woke later to the sound of Ben’s keyring jingling, the smell of takeaway chips, and the distinct feel of his own bed. A blanket had been thrown across him.

"Still alive?" Ben appeared, balancing chips in one hand and two cans of lager in the other.

Alex groaned. His head was stuffed with cotton wool, but he nodded.

Ben handed him a can. "So what was that? Panic attack? Epilepsy? Alien possession?"

Alex, unwisely, cracked the can open with shaking fingers. "Not a panic attack. I’ve had those. This was different, like… like the room wasn’t real for a second."

Ben snorted. "Camden lager’ll do that."

But Alex couldn’t laugh it off. It was hours later when he finally felt strong enough to investigate. He sat at his desk, the light from his laptop screen stabbing his eyes, but he typed anyway.

"extreme senses effect"
"pub hallucination peanuts"
"sudden touch sensitivity London"

Pages of nonsense. Ghost forums. Crackpot YouTube channels. One Reddit thread about ley lines that descended into a flame war over feng shui. Nothing that explained what was happening to him.

Then he found the video. A self-proclaimed expert explaining that the sensory overload could be "recalibrated." The video ended with a strange audio test. A high-pitched, complex series of tones filled his head, then a strangely distorted voice instructing, "If you can hear this, click on the link below and enter ‘Celestial’ "

He got up and found Ben dozing on the sofa. "Mate, you awake?"

Ben stirred and rubbed his eyes. "No." He blinked at Alex. "You look a bit better."

Alex managed a nod.

"Well, that’s a relief," Ben said, following Alex into his room. "Though I think you’ve blown it with the redhead. She was totally freaked out, and then just bolted. And the crazy stuff in the pub, Alex! I mean, the bar froze. What was that about?"

Alex ignored him, his focus entirely on the screen. "Ben, just… listen to this."

"I’m serious, mate, it was mental…"

"BEN, listen to this," Alex said, more forcefully, turning up the volume on his speakers and replaying the audio test.

Ben just frowned. "Listen to what? There’s nothing there."

Alex cranked the volume to maximum. Ben just shook his head, looking at him with genuine concern. "It’s silent, mate. Seriously."

Unsure if he wasn't just going crazy, Alex clicked the link, typed the word Celestial, and hit enter. The screen went black. Then, a single line of white text appeared, stark and absolute.

Alex stared at the words, unable to decide if they were a promise or a threat:

We will find you.

***

Jessie was trying to ignore the student across the bench from her, a lanky boy named Mark with more confidence than sense, who was currently resting his chin on his hand and staring at her. The chemistry lab’s air was thick with the sharp, clean scent of acetone and the faint, acrid smell of burning magnesium. Jessie's dark brown eyes, with their distinctive gold flecks, narrowed slightly as she concentrated on the delicate colour change in her flask. A strand of her straight, black hair fell across her cheek, and she impatiently pushed it back with the back of her hand, revealing the elegant line of her jaw and the smooth, brown skin of her neck.

"You know, our bond could be covalent," Mark said, his voice oozing what he clearly thought was charm. "We could share a pair of electrons."

"I'd rather have an ionic bond with that bottle of hydrochloric acid," Jessie replied without looking up from the burette she was examining. She was already nearly through the experiment, scribbling down figures before she finished.

Chemistry soothed her. Controlled, logical, obedient to rules—unlike people, who were messy and irrational and constantly disappointing. Equations never lied to you. They balanced, or they didn’t.

She was about to make another, even more pointed, comment to Mark when she suddenly felt a bizarre, overwhelming change in her senses. It started with her hands. She was touching the smooth, cool glass of the burette, but it didn't feel smooth. She could feel every microscopic imperfection in the glass. She could feel the almost imperceptible vibration of the liquid within the tube as it warmed, a low, buzzing hum that vibrated up her arm. It was too much information, a sensory overload that felt like a low-grade burn.

Jessie let go of the burette, lost her balance, tumbled off her stool and landed in an ungainly heap on the cold tile floor. Mark leapt from this stool and rushed to help, reaching down to help her up. The moment his skin touched hers, it was agony. It wasn't just the texture of his skin, the heat, the pressure. It was everything.

"GET OFF ME!" she screamed, a raw, panicked sound.

She threw her hands up, a desperate, instinctive gesture to push him away. But it wasn't a push. An invisible wave of force erupted from her, lifting Mark clean off his feet and throwing him backwards. He crashed into the lab bench behind him, sending a cascade of beakers, test tubes, and stands smashing to the floor. At the same instant, the Bunsen burners on every bench in the lab roared to life, their gentle blue flames suddenly flaring into two-foot-high jets of roaring, yellow-orange fire. Students yelped and jumped back as the professor rushed from bench to bench, frantically turning off the gas supplies.

In the confusion, Jessie scrambled to her feet. She had to get out. As she ran for the lab's heavy double doors, a sudden, inexplicable gust of wind seemed to catch them, swinging them open just before she reached them. She didn't pause to question it, bursting out into the corridor and running for the exit. The five-minute journey to Hertford Hall became a frantic, half-running trek through the leafy university parks, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She dodged past worried-looking students who stared at her wild-eyed flight, every accidental brush of a sleeve against her arm a fresh agony.

The main doors to her hall swung open for her just as the lab doors had. She struggled up several flights of stairs, her legs burning, until she reached her corridor. The door to her own room, usually so heavy, opened with a gentle click as she fumbled for the handle. She crashed inside, slamming it shut behind her, and collapsed onto her small, perfectly made bed. Her room, a sanctuary of tidy, organised calm, was a stark contrast to the chaos raging inside her. As the waves of pain began to recede, her mind filled with a dizzying swirl of strange, overlapping designs, like an intricate language slowly sorting itself in her head. She closed her eyes, and slept.

***

Pippa was in her studio, a clean, light-filled space in her family's Knightsbridge penthouse that smelled of turpentine and linseed oil. She pressed a brush into a canvas and let the ochre and umber oil paints blur together. The late afternoon light streamed through tall windows, catching on her chestnut hair. She could almost ignore the echo of her mother’s last phone call:

"Darling, law is practical. Painting is… indulgence."

Pippa dabbed harder, leaving a streak that was more anger than art. She didn’t care. Here, no one was watching. No tutors, no parents, no friends she had to impress. Just her and the canvas, but she couldn't focus. Something was wrong.

Her vision began to jump, like a camera lens trying and failing to find its focal point. The room would zoom in with nauseating speed, the grain of the wooden floorboards suddenly filling her entire field of view, then rush out again, leaving her feeling dizzy and disconnected. She gripped the edge of her easel to steady herself as the world swam around her.

"For goodness sake, get it together Pippa", she berated herself.

She turned, catching her reflection in a large, gilt-edged mirror leaning against one wall. And then she saw them. Not just her reflection, but dozens of ghostly after-images of herself, shimmering in the air around her, each one making a slightly different choice. She saw the Pippa who became a lawyer, her expression severe, a heavy leather-bound book in her hand. She saw the Pippa who took over the family business, dressed in a sharp power suit, her face a mask of cool command. She saw the Pippa who left it all behind, her clothes spattered with paint, a look of fierce, lonely joy on her face. It was a dizzying, terrifying confrontation with every path not taken.

Pippa stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth, a strangled cry escaping her lips. She was left trembling, alone in her silent studio, the painful awareness of how truly lost she felt was a sharp, physical agony.

***

The chamber of the Council of the Courts was old stone and dark wood, its vaulted ceiling traced with silver constellations that pulsed faintly like embers in a dying fire. Eleven banners hung behind the crescent table, each stitched with the sigil of a constellation, each representing one of the magical Courts.

Carla stood before the giant screen, her body practically vibrating with glee. She looked as if she were about to start dancing on the polished grey floor. "Finally", she whispered, then an angry shout, "Finally!"

"Carla Bennett. Decorum," High Sigilist Arabella said, her voice a low, sharp warning.

Carla spun around, her professional mask completely gone, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. "Decorum? Arabella, Court Cygnus has waited twenty-eight years for this! Twenty-eight years of watching asteroid Tykee lens the other Courts. Watching them get stronger while we get nothing! I think a little shouting is justified."

As the other Court representatives began to stand, gathering their things and filing silently out of the dark council room, High Sigilist Ixchel paused by their chairs. "Such an emotional display," she said, her voice a soft, mocking purr. "One might think this little awakening actually matters. How very… optimistic."

Arabella’s gaze was like ice. "You sound almost pleased it didn't happen in Court Vela territory, Ixchel. Perhaps your Court has finally realised it is not equipped to handle new initiates?"

Before Ixchel could retort, Carla, in a highly inappropriate breach of protocol, half-yelled after the departing representatives, "Court Cygnus holds claim! So, no foolish games! Hands off our new witches!"

Ixchel just laughed, spikey and sharp, and glided out of the room, leaving the scent of expensive perfume and quiet animosity in her wake.

When the heavy doors finally closed, leaving them alone, Carla's triumphant energy vanished as if a switch had been flipped. She was all business again, her fingers already flying across her tablet and the sleek, encrypted laptop she produced from her bag. Across the internet, hacked search engines were reporting on query patterns that matched the expected symptoms. At hospitals and clinics across the affected areas, sophisticated (and entirely illegal) spyware quietly monitored patient records, flagging any unusual symptoms or complaints that might indicate… an awakening.

"Get the teams into action within the hour," Arabella commanded. "I want every one of these newly Awakened to be located before the other Courts even think about sniffing around our borders."

Carla nodded. "We’re on it. I got the teams live when the provisional calculations looked positive for Court Cygnus. We already have a possible hit in London. Web searches on hyper-sensitivity, enhanced senses, the right age. He did the audio test."

"I am impressed. Well done." Such praise was rare from Arabella. "And Shadowbrook house?", she continued.

"Being prepped right now", Carla

***

Somewhere in the Home Counties, a sprawling manor house was being readied to receive its new residents. Plush leather couches were strategically arranged, state-of-the-art training facilities (if a cellar with a bare bulb could be considered state-of-the-art) were cleared, and a small army of impeccably polite staff members polished silver and prepared to brew gallons of calming herbal tea.

Welcome packs, containing a bewildering assortment of arcane texts, notebooks, star charts, and a surprisingly comfortable pair of pyjamas, were stacked, ready for distribution. Onboarding plans, detailing everything from basic magical theory to advanced rune casting techniques, were being finalised.

And then everyone waited. Albeit not very patiently.

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