When most people think of magic in fantasy, they imagine spectacle—firestorms, duels, glowing relics. But in Blurred Lines, I wanted to explore something quieter. The magic in this world isn’t about grandeur. It’s about subtle magic. And more importantly, what happens when subtle magic is treated as absolute truth.
The Seers don’t cast spells. Their magic is forensic—rooted in memory, emotion, and the residue of events. A touch can reveal a lie. A glance might uncover a hidden betrayal. But this subtle magic isn’t infallible. It’s shaped by emotion, proximity, and context. And when it fails, the consequences are devastating.
The real danger lies in how society treats Seer visions as unquestionable. There’s no review, no jury, no counterbalance. If a Seer says you’re guilty, you are. If they say you’re innocent, you walk free. Over time, this certainty breeds corruption—not loud or obvious, but insidious. The Coalition of Seers, once advisors, now rule without challenge. Their word is law. And when mistakes are made—or worse, when visions are manipulated—there’s nowhere for the truth to go.
I didn’t set out to write about power. Not consciously. But once the story was finished, I realised that’s exactly what I’d done. Blurred Lines became a way to explore how truth can be weaponised, and how even the quietest magic can reshape a society.
You’ll see the first cracks in that system in Blindsided, the prequel novella. Logan Fraser arrives in Edinburgh expecting a fresh start, only to find himself pulled into a case that exposes just how fragile certainty really is.