Page 22 of Impawssible Magic

Coven leader of Mistvale. Owner of Thornveil Apothecary. The witch everyone respects and no one quite dares to approach casually.

And she’s standing in my shop, examining my crystal displays with an expression I can’t read.

“Leire Firesinger.” Her voice is cool, measured. “I’ve been meaning to visit.”

“Have you?” I resist the urge to straighten my already-straight display cases. “Should I be worried? Is there a coven inspection I didn’t know about? Because I’m pretty sure my business license is current⁠—”

“This isn’t an inspection.” The corner of her mouth lifts. Barely. “Consider it a welcome. Overdue, but genuine.”

She moves through the shop with the easy grace of someone accustomed to magical spaces. Her fingers trail over crystals without quite touching them. She’s reading my work without disturbing it. A professional’s instinct.

“Your attunement is impressive.” She pauses at the smoky quartz cluster, studying it with the eye of someone who could have made it herself. “Most witches your age are still fighting their materials. You’ve stopped fighting yours.”

“A month of arguing with that particular piece before it agreed with me.” I’m watching her carefully, trying to figure out the angle. People like Anouk Darkwater don’t just drop by to compliment inventory. “Can I help you find anything?”

“The apothecary’s wards need strengthening.” No preamble, no working up to it—she says it the way she probably runs her coven, direct and unhurried. Those dark eyes are assessing, intelligent, and more tired than her perfect composure suggests. “The standard protocols are adequate, but with the recent...” She pauses. Chooses her words carefully. “Instabilities. I’d like more comprehensive protection.”

Recent instabilities. The thin spots in the Warding Line. The things people whisper about but don’t say outright.

The dead bird on my doorstep.

“I’d be happy to consult.” I grab my order pad, to have it in my hands. “I can come by this week to assess the existing wards and develop recommendations⁠—”

“Tomorrow would be ideal.” It’s not quite a command, but close. “However, that’s not the only reason I’m here.”

She reaches into her bag and produces a small envelope. Heavy cream paper, elegant script. Old-fashioned in a way that feels deliberate.

“The coven hosts informal gatherings periodically. Tonight’s is at Duskfire Brewery. Nothing formal—just an opportunity for newer members to connect with the community.” She sets the envelope on my counter. “I’d like you to come.”

I stare at the invitation. At her. Back at the invitation.

“Is this... mandatory?”

“Nothing about coven participation is mandatory.” There’s amusement in her voice. “But I think you’d benefit from the company. Being new in Mistvale can be...” She pauses again. “Isolating.”

The word lands with unexpected force. Because she’s right. Three weeks in this town and my only real friend is Sakura, who has her own chaos to manage. The dead bird. The crystal rearrangement. The feeling of being watched by more than just my assigned protector.

Isolation breeds vulnerability. Maybe it’s time to change that.

“What time?”

“Seven.” She’s already moving toward the door. “Zeph runs the bar. She’s... enthusiastic. Don’t let her mix your first drink.”

“Ominous advice.”

“You’ll understand when you meet her.” Anouk pauses at the threshold, and for just a moment, warmth shows through the cool exterior. “I’m glad you came to Mistvale, Leire Firesinger. Whatever brought you here—I believe you belong.”

Then she’s gone, and I’m left holding an invitation to a gathering I’m definitely terrified to attend.

The mist has thickened with evening, turning the streets into a labyrinth of silver and shadow. I pass through Moonthread Square, empty except for the Whisper Oak creaking in a breeze I can’t feel. Past Thornwick Books, where the lights are still on and something moves in the window that might be Berry’s semi-sentient shelves rearranging themselves. Past the Crescent Cup, where a vampire couple is setting up for the night shift, their pale hands moving in perfect synchronization.

I spot Aslan three blocks before the brewery.

He’s not hiding tonight. Leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed, watching the foot traffic with predatory attention. When he sees me, there’s a shift in his expression. Not quite a greeting. More like... acknowledgment.

“Going somewhere?” There’s an edge under the casual words, pitched low enough that it lands somewhere south of my ribs.

“Brewery. Coven thing.” I keep walking. “Unless that violates some protection protocol I don’t know about.”