Lafayette DeLune

The sun hung low behind the pine trees of Cauldron Bay, casting long golden streaks through the dusty front windows of Needle Little Magic. The shop, a theatrical tangle of oddities and incense, was more spectacle than sanctuary—shelves crowded with jars of herbs, bones, and pickled curiosities; rows of candles labeled with promises like Love, Luck, and Protection; walls draped in velvet and cobwebs, both faux and very real; ouija boards, tarot card decks and little trinkets. It smelled of clove smoke, old books, and something unplaceable—something old. The kind of place where every shadow seemed to breathe.

Moments ago, Lafayette had performed his usual show for a small group of wide-eyed tourists—his best version of the charming voodoo man: flickering lights, whispers in the walls, a few shadow tricks that made them gasp and giggle.

But now, with the shop quiet again, he sat alone at the round table draped in violet velvet, shuffling his tarot deck with practiced fingers. The shadows whispered as they always did—soft, close, knowing. Your perfect match is near. They had told him for months now.

He trusted them. They had never lied, never led him astray. But still... fated love? Soulmates? That wasn’t something Lafayette believed in. Love, to him, was a slow alchemy: built on chemistry, grown through shared moments, attraction, laughter, and trust—not some instant jolt of destiny. Yet the cards spoke of change. Of doors opening. Of things that couldn't be undone.

He was just about to turn the final card when the bell over the door chimed, its groan familiar and ancient.

His smile formed automatically, that usual showman's grin—but the moment his eyes lifted and landed on the figure in the doorway, something in him buckled. Time stuttered. His breath caught. Heart hammering in a rhythm not entirely his own. Palms damp.

There they are, came the shadows’ low, urgent whisper—audible only to him. We told you. Don’t screw it up now.

He realized too late he’d been staring. Frozen, silent. He blinked, gave his head a small shake to break the spell, then pushed back from the table. The chair legs scratched against the polished floorboards as he stood.

This time, his smile wasn’t for show.

He stepped forward with poised elegance and a hint of lingering disbelief, sweeping into a graceful bow before straightening and settling his top hat back onto his head with care.

“Welcome, little moth,” he said, voice deep, soft and steady despite his raising heart—completely forgetting whatever line he usually used. "What brings you to my little shop?"