Page 11 of Fixing the Grumpy Pumpkin King
Those aren’t… they can’t be…
Locke’s brain was cataloging details despite the panic. The way the light caught their wings. The perfect tiny details of their carved faces. The way they moved.
This wasn’t CGI or a trick. Wasn’t anything explainable.
“That’s not…” Locke’s voice came out faint, strangled. “Those aren’t…”
Every conversation with Grandma was replaying in his head. Every dismissed explanation, every rolled eye, every time he’d said “sure, Grandma” while thinking she was just eccentric, just superstitious, just OLD.
The crystals aren’t just pretty rocks, sweetheart.
The herbs aren’t just for smell. Each one has a purpose.
The wards keep us safe. The sigils keep us strong.
Magic is in your blood, Locke. You’ll understand when you’re ready.
He’d never been ready. Had never WANTED to be ready. Because being ready meant accepting something impossible.
“Magic.” Lord Mabon’s voice cut through the buzzing in Locke’s head. “Real magic. You summoned me, and by extension, you summoned them.”
Locke stared at the tiny flying creatures. At Lord Mabon with his pumpkin head. At the room that suddenly felt different, alive, humming with something he’d been ignoring his entire life.
The room tilted. Or maybe Locke tilted. Hard to tell.
Everything went dark.
Lord Mabon caught the warlock before he hit the floor, reflexes still sharp despite centuries of disuse. The familiars scattered with indignant squeaks as he gathered the unconscious young man in his arms.
Weight. Warmth. Presence.
The reality of him, the heat radiating through his clothes, the steady rise and fall of his chest after so long with nothing to touch, nothing to hold, it was almost overwhelming.
“Well,” he said. “That could have gone better.”
“You broke him, boss.” Bramble perched on the dresser, arms still crossed in perpetual disapproval.
Pip hovered nearby, genuinely concerned. “Is he okay? Did we do that? We’re very exciting, so that’s understandable.”
“Perhaps a more gradual introduction would have been prudent, my lord,” Russet offered, settling on the nightstand with careful dignity.
Lord Mabon carried the warlock to the bed properly this time, laying him down gently on the patchwork quilt. Locke’s head lolled, his breathing evening out into the slow rhythm of unconsciousness.
He brushed the light hair back from Locke’s forehead. His skin was warm, flushed with color. That autumn scent was even stronger now, like the magic in his blood was settling, recognizing what it had called forth.
In the fading evening light, with the familiars casting golden sparkles around the room, Locke looked young. Vulnerable. Nothing like the powerful summoners Mabon remembered from centuries past, who had known what they were doing, who had called him forth with intention and preparation.
This one had summoned him by accident.
Didn’t even know he had magic.
“What am I going to do with you, little warlock?” he murmured.
“Maybe start with not propositioning him five minutes after kidnapping him?” Bramble suggested.
Mabon glared at the tiny familiar. “I was offering an honor.”
“You were assuming. Big difference.”
