Where the Leylines Intersect with the By-Laws

"Let's get on with it," Tina said, drumming her fingers on the concrete table. A tiny wisp of smoke curled from her thumbnail and vanished. "Some of us have day jobs."

Martin, who looked like a portly, tweed-clad university professor but was, in fact, a fourteen-hundred-year-old gargoyle, took a slow sip of his tea. His 'day job' for the last century had been pretending to be the university's archivist. "Patience, child of fire. Bureaucracy, whether mortal or arcane, has its own pace. Johnny has yet to give his report from the Naming Committee."

Johnny shimmered into view, perched on a stack of zoning ordinances. To most, he'd look like a scruffy bike messenger in his late teens. Only those with the Sight could see the faint, iridescent wings beating a frantic rhythm behind him. "The mortals have named it 'Spiral of Aspirations,'" he chirped, his voice like tiny bells. "Dreadful. Absolutely no poetry."

"We are not here to critique the mortals' artistic taste, Johnny," Tina sighed. "We are here to ensure it doesn't get them all killed. The sculpture in the plaza. What is its energetic signature? Clean?"

Johnny's cheerful expression vanished. He flew down to the table, landing silently. The air grew cold.

"No," he whispered. "It's not clean. It's... saturated. Drenched in magic. I've never seen anything like it. It's woven into the metal itself, into every weld and rivet. And it's not ours."

Martin put his teacup down with a heavy click. His human glamour flickered for a second, and Tina caught a glimpse of grey, stony skin and a deep, unsettling stillness. "Describe the weave," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.

"It's... chaotic," Johnny struggled, tracing patterns on the dusty table. "It's not elemental. It's not glamour. It feels... emotional. Like someone poured pure, raw belief into it. Hope and fear and anger, all tangled up. And it's keyed to draw more. It's a psychic amplifier."

Tina swore, a short, sharp syllable in a language that made the lights flicker. "An emotional siphon? In the middle of the city? The unveiling is tomorrow at noon. The mayor will be there. Hundreds of people."

"When they applaud, when they feel that civic pride..." Johnny trailed off, his eyes wide. "The spell will activate. It will feed on that energy. What happens then?"

A Motion to Intervene

Martin's face was grim. He closed his eyes, accessing memories that stretched back to the city's founding. "There are old tales. Spells of mass influence. They were used in the Unravelling, to turn neighbour against neighbour. They called them 'Heart-Twisters.' We thought all the knowledge was lost."

"Looks like someone found it," Tina said, standing up and pacing. "This has to be dealt with. Now. I can go tonight. A simple, contained pyromantic event. It'll look like a gas main explosion. The mortals will be upset about their ugly sculpture, but they'll get over it."

"And what of the balance?" Martin countered, his voice heavy. "An overt act of power like that will draw attention. The Wardens will be all over us. We are the Arts Council, not the Demolition Squad. Our mandate is subtlety. To nudge, to tweak, to glamour."

"Subtlety went out the window when someone planted a magical bomb in front of City Hall!" Tina shot back, her temper flaring. The air around her grew hot. "Your precious balance won't mean much when half the city is gripped by a magical frenzy because we were too busy filling out forms in triplicate!"

"She's right, Martin," Johnny piped up. He zipped over to the city map pinned to the wall, a web of glowing ley lines visible only to him. He pointed a trembling finger at the plaza. "Look. The sculpture... it's not just sitting there. It's been placed on a major intersection. A nexus. Whatever it's going to do, it will broadcast it through the whole city's network."

Martin stood and walked over to the map. He placed a heavy hand on the wall, and for a moment, the ley lines pulsed brighter, responding to his ancient, earthy magic. He traced the paths Johnny indicated. "He is correct. The placement is deliberate. Professional. This is not the work of some hedge-witch dabbler."

"All the more reason to act decisively," Tina insisted.

"Or cautiously," Martin rumbled. "Whoever did this knows what they are doing. They will expect a direct response. They may have laid a trap. A secondary working that would trigger if the first is destroyed."

They were at an impasse. The eternal argument of their council: the pragmatist's fire versus the historian's stone. Johnny, the agent of air and illusion, was caught between them.

"There might be another way," Johnny said slowly. "Spells like this... they have a core. A focal point. A maker's mark. If I can get close enough, I might be able to... edit it. Change the emotional frequency from 'frenzy' to 'calm.' Turn a magical riot into a city-wide group meditation."

Tina snorted. "Glamour isn't strong enough for that. It's a patch, a coat of paint. This needs to be torn out by the roots."

"My 'coat of paint' has kept this city from seeing the truth for three hundred years," Johnny snapped, his wings buzzing with irritation.

Before the argument could escalate, a low hum filled the room. The ley lines on the map began to glow an angry, pulsating red, all converging on the city plaza. A tremor ran through the stone floor.

Martin stumbled, his hand flying to the wall for support. "What is this? It's too early!"

On the concrete table, Tina's discarded mobile phone lit up. The screen showed a live news feed. A crowd was gathering in the plaza. A protest. An unscheduled, unexpected flare-up of intense, concentrated mortal emotion.

"They're activating it now!" Johnny cried, pointing at the map. The light from the nexus point was growing brighter, hotter. "It's feeding!"