My Warlock Husband's Magic Is Fading, and I'm the Only One Who Can Save Him

The afternoon light slanted through the large windows of the Brooklyn loft, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. On the floor, amidst a sprawling city of wooden blocks and colorful toys, Max looked up at his father, his blue eyes wide with a very serious request.

“Papa,” he said, pointing a small finger at a line of plastic dinosaurs. “Make them roar. A real roar.”

Magnus smiled, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest at the sight of his son. “A real roar, blueberry? Are you sure the neighbors are ready for a T-Rex in full voice?”

Max nodded emphatically, his dark hair flopping into his eyes. “Please?”

It was the simplest of requests, a parlor trick he had performed countless times. Magnus knelt, his joints protesting mildly, and extended a hand over the toys. He gathered his magic, expecting the usual thrum of power that was as natural to him as breathing. He pictured the sound, a deep, reverberating growl, and began to weave the threads of the spell.

But something was wrong.

The power didn't flow. It felt... thin. Tattered. Where there should have been a deep well of energy, there was a hollow, cold ache. He pushed, trying to force it, and the magic sputtered. Instead of a roar, a violent crackle filled the air. A shower of acrid-smelling, purple sparks erupted from his fingertips, sending the plastic dinosaurs skittering across the floor. One of them melted into a misshapen lump.

Max let out a startled cry, scrambling back from the fizzing display.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Magnus said immediately, pulling his son into his arms. He held him tight, murmuring reassurances while his own heart hammered against his ribs. It wasn’t the backlash that frightened him—it was harmless. It was the feeling that preceded it. The void. The utter emptiness where his magic, his very essence, should have been. For a terrifying second, he had felt like a mundane. He masked the tremor in his hands by stroking Max’s hair, forcing a casual laugh. “Well, that was a bit more dramatic than intended, wasn’t it?”

Later, after Max was settled for his nap, the silence of the loft felt oppressive. Magnus paced the length of the living room, the cold fear still coiled in his gut. He had tried again, a simple cantrip to light a candle, and felt the same sickening resistance, the same weak flicker before it died.

The sound of the key in the lock was a profound relief. Alec stepped inside, looking weary. The stark black of his gear seemed to absorb the light in the room, and the lines of exhaustion around his eyes were deeper than usual. He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and his gaze immediately found Magnus.

“Hey,” Alec said, his voice low. He crossed the room and kissed him, a brief, firm press of lips that was meant to be reassuring but was undercut by the tension in his shoulders. “Long day.”

“You look it,” Magnus replied, trying to keep his own anxiety from his voice. “Trouble at the Institute?”

Alec ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of deep frustration. “You could say that. We’ve been inundated with calls all day. Warlocks whose portals are collapsing mid-transit. Fae glamour failing in public. Lily Chen called an hour ago, said half her clan can’t even retract their fangs.” He looked directly at Magnus, his blue eyes dark with worry. “It’s like there are magical brownouts happening all over the city, and it’s only affecting Downworlders.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and cold. An hour later, the loft was no longer their private sanctuary but the tense headquarters for a crisis. Maia Roberts, alpha of the city’s werewolf pack, stood with her arms crossed, her leather jacket creaking with every slight movement. Her usual calm was frayed, her gaze sharp and restless. Beside her on the velvet sofa, Lily Chen, head of the New York vampire clan, looked icily furious, her porcelain skin stretched tight over her cheekbones.

“It’s not a brownout, Lightwood,” Lily snapped, her voice cutting through the strained quiet. “It’s a theft. My fledglings are weak, disoriented. It feels, they say, as if something is pulling the immortality right out of their veins. Siphoning it.”

At the word ‘siphoning’, a visible tremor went through Magnus. He’d been leaning against his bar, a drink untouched in his hand, trying to project an aura of unbothered authority. But Lily’s description was too precise, too close to the hollowed-out feeling he’d experienced that afternoon. It was the exact sensation—a cold, parasitic drain.

Maia nodded, her expression grim. “My pack is feeling it, too. The shift is harder. Slower. Some of the younger ones can’t manage it at all. They say the connection to the moon feels… distant. Muted. Whatever this is, it’s targeted, and it’s hitting all of us.”

Alec stood beside Magnus, a solid, immovable presence in the room. His Inquisitor face was on, his expression unreadable, but Magnus could feel the protective tension radiating from him. He was listening intently, his mind processing every piece of information with the strategic focus of a field commander.

“The Clave will treat this with the utmost seriousness,” Alec stated, his voice ringing with an authority that left no room for argument. He looked from Maia to Lily, his gaze unwavering. “I’m allocating a dedicated team from the Institute. We’ll investigate every possibility, magical and mundane. You have my word.”

Lily arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “And will the rest of the Clave share your enthusiasm, Inquisitor? Or will they be content to let the ‘Downworlder problem’ resolve itself?”

The barb hit its mark. A muscle feathered in Alec’s jaw. “I’ve already had preliminary discussions with the Consul,” he admitted, his tone clipped. “There is some… reluctance to divert resources from patrol assignments. A sentiment that this is a magical phenomenon outside of the Clave’s immediate purview.” He didn’t need to elaborate. The old prejudice was clear: as long as demons weren’t actively gutting mundanes on Fifth Avenue, many in the Clave couldn’t be bothered with the internal affairs of those they still viewed with suspicion.

Magnus felt a fresh wave of cold wash over him, entirely separate from the memory of his failing magic. He watched Alec, saw the frustration warring with the resolute set of his shoulders, and realized the full, terrifying scope of their situation. He was not just a warlock prince facing a mysterious ailment; he was a patient with a disease his husband’s people refused to believe was real.

The door clicked shut behind Lily, leaving a profound silence in its wake. The tension in the room didn’t dissipate; it coiled tighter, settling directly between them. Alec’s professional facade crumbled, replaced by the raw, stark fear of a man watching the center of his universe threaten to go dark. He took a step forward, his voice barely a whisper. “Magnus?”

Magnus finally looked away from the door, his golden-cat eyes stripped of their usual glamour and filled with a terrifying vulnerability Alec had only seen a handful of times. His posture, usually so confident and regal, was slumped.

“It’s worse than I let on,” Magnus’s voice was thin, brittle. “This afternoon… with Max. I tried to do a simple charm for him. Something I could do in my sleep.” He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to his own hands as if they belonged to a stranger. “Nothing happened, Alexander. Or, not nothing. It was… empty. A cold, hollowing emptiness where my magic should be. And when I pushed, it felt like tearing something inside myself.”

The confession hung between them, more devastating than any demon attack. Alec closed the remaining distance in two long strides, his hands coming up to cup Magnus’s face, his thumbs stroking over the sharp line of his cheekbones. He could feel a faint tremor running through the warlock. All thoughts of the Clave, of the Inquisitor’s duties, vanished. There was only Magnus.

“Okay,” Alec said, his voice low and steady, a deliberate anchor in the swirling chaos. “Okay. We’ll fix it.”

“How?” The single word was laced with a despair that broke Alec’s heart. “If my magic is gone…”

“It’s not gone,” Alec insisted, his grip firming slightly, forcing Magnus to meet his gaze. “It’s being suppressed. Drained. Whatever it is, we will find the source, and we will destroy it. You and me. Together.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Magnus’s. “I’m not losing you. Do you understand me? That is not an option.”

Magnus’s breath shuddered out, and he sagged against Alec, his hands fisting in the front of Alec’s black shirt. He buried his face in the crook of Alec’s neck, inhaling his familiar scent of cedar and steel and home. Alec’s arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly, a solid wall of strength against the encroaching cold.

He kissed the side of Magnus’s neck, then his jaw, his lips finding Magnus’s. It wasn’t a frantic kiss, but a deep, searching one, filled with every ounce of his love and fierce determination. He poured his own strength into it, a silent vow to be whatever Magnus needed him to be. Magnus’s lips parted, and he kissed back with a need that was almost painful, his tongue meeting Alec’s as he clung to him, drawing on his warmth.

Slowly, without breaking the kiss, Alec began to walk him backward toward their bedroom. He unzipped Magnus’s silk shirt, his fingers brushing against skin that felt too cool. He pushed the fabric off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His hands roamed over Magnus’s chest and back, a desperate mapping of the man he loved, reassuring himself that he was solid, he was here.

Magnus’s hands worked at the buckles of Alec’s gear, his movements clumsy with urgency. He needed the leather and weapons gone. He needed only Alec. Once the gear was discarded, his fingers went to the hem of Alec’s shirt, pulling it up and over his head. He pressed his palms flat against Alec’s chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart. It was the strongest rhythm in his world.

Alec’s mouth left his, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his throat, over his collarbone. He tasted the salt of his skin, felt the shivers that followed his touch. He pushed Magnus gently back onto the bed, following him down, his body covering Magnus’s, a protective weight. He looked down into those beautiful, frightened eyes and saw his own love reflected there. He lowered his head again, his lips brushing Magnus’s ear.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his breath warm. “I will always have you.” He shifted his hips, letting Magnus feel the hard length of his penis pressing against his thigh, a physical confirmation of his presence, his life, his desire. It wasn't about sex, not really. It was about possession in its purest form, a grounding, physical promise that he was here, and he wasn't going anywhere.