Page 16 of Impawssible Magic

Instead I’ve spent every evening finding reasons to patrol past Moonthread Square. Standing in shadows while she works late, her magic flickering around her like candlelight, talking to crystals like they’re old friends. Last night, I stayed until her lights went dark, counting the hours until I could justify returning.

The beast disagrees. He thinks we’re being romantic.

The communication crystal on my desk flares with Caius’s voice, clipped and urgent. His office. Now.

I’m dressed and moving before the message ends.

The Den is chaos even at this hour.

Someone’s left a half-eaten plate of bacon on the bar, which is being investigated by a spectral cat who keeps phasing through it with increasing frustration. Two wolves are arm-wrestling in the corner while their seconds shout suggestions that range from unhelpful to anatomically impossible. A bear—Torin’s second, Greta—is attempting to fix the jukebox by hitting it with progressively larger objects.

“The percussive maintenance approach,” she explains when I raise an eyebrow. “Works for everything. My grandmother fixed a possessed harpsichord this way. Admittedly, she used an axe, but same principle.”

The jukebox responds by playing what sounds like a polka version of a funeral dirge.

“See? Progress.”

Rhodes Blackthorn sweeps past me, looking like he’s been awake for several days and resenting every moment of it. His locs are pulled back in a style that screams “I have not had time for personal grooming because someone keeps generating paperwork.”

“Aslan.” He nods curtly. “Tell me Caius doesn’t have another incident report. I can’t process another incident report. I’m drowning in incident reports. There are incident reports about my incident reports.”

“I don’t know what Caius wants.”

“It’s definitely an incident.” He sighs like a man who has seen too many forms in his lifetime. “It’s always an incident. Why did I agree to handle Network documentation? I’m a lion. Lions are supposed to be majestic. There’s nothing majestic about filing systems.”

He stalks off toward the coffee station, muttering about alphabetization and the death of dignity.

I leave the chaos behind and head for the stairs.

Caius’s office takes up a corner of the second floor, walls lined with maps and patrol routes and enough yellow incident markers to make any optimist reconsider their life choices. He’s standing at his window when I arrive, scar catching the weak morning light.

“Close the door.”

I do.

“Sit.”

“I’ll stand.”

He turns. Those steel-gray eyes sweep over me with the same calculating assessment he’d give a battlefield.

A muscle ticks in his jaw. He gestures to his desk, where a photograph lies face-up. “Come look at this.”

I move closer. Look.

A sound escapes me—not quite human, not quite controlled.

The image shows crystals arranged in a deliberate pattern—angular, precise, wrong in a way I can’t articulate. My skin prickles.

“What is this?”

“That’s what I need to figure out.” Caius leans against his desk. “Found in the new charm witch’s shop. Whisperwind Charms.”

My hands curl into fists.

Her shop.

“Someone got past her wards without triggering them,” Caius continues. “Rearranged her crystals into this pattern overnight. Left a dead sparrow on her doorstep.”