“The first time I turned one hundred years old, it was a simple affair. It was just a few old friends and song. Now, look at what you’ve done!” I said, waving an arm over the crowd, two-hundred assembled on the open-air roof, the 59th floor, of Sestina tower—my home.

  Many laugh in their birthday hats, some smile, and others stare blankly back. With concern, I note those.

  “It will be good to be young again. I’ve forgotten what it feels like!” I continued, looking out over the city lights, the half-moon arcing between buildings, moonlight reflected like a knife.

  “So, I’ll close with a verse.” I say, as the crowd ripples with murmurs of anticipation.

  With a simple spell I weave beats in time with the power of the Cant, my power, where I get my title, “The Poet”. Everyone present knows this one. It’s the finale of my most famous poem.

  I begin.

  

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  I let the incantation lightly simmer on the silent crowd and take a breath.

  “It’s wonderful to see you all tonight!”

  Leaving the stage, I stumble slightly. I’m spirit-withered, reaching so many with the embrace. They feel warmth and love—even peace. Well, most of them, those who can, do. My table, a short distance from the stage, slightly elevated, blurs. I’ll need to rest.

  “We have a problem.” I say low, as I sit—my old knees aching. Simi, my assistant, looks up from a screen and glances at the dour-faced attendees.

  “I see,” he says shortly, my poem not having affected him, and continues, “Those look to be trouble. I’ve heard reports of this over the last twenty years, but coming after you? Time to clean house.”

  “In another hundred years, it could be even worse,” I say, nodding. I notice dinner has been served. I pick at it and wait.

  ###

  “You ready?” Simi asks, rising to accompany me.

  I nod again and get up to begin the walk to a large brass container, vaguely bell-shaped. My body hurts with the effort. A century of planning. The crowd—my crowd—parts for me, making a path.

  Climbing in, I see those blank stares. My meticulous work, ruined—worthless to me now. Their "will" stolen by an unknown with the Cant, a brazen attack, personal.

  Once in, I begin my spell, the one I have primed everyone here for decades to receive. The brass purrs as I begin my verse.

  Dinnerware rattles, the purr becomes a hum and sustains.

  I draw from my crowd, first a sip, then a torrent. Less than expected, I won’t be as youthful as I wanted. I’ll find these bold witches who have stolen from me.

  “Forget no more …” My crowd, my sustenance, chant.

  It’s my birthday.