Page 35 of Impawssible Magic

Then, past midnight, her wards flare. Not an alarm—not yet—just a ripple, subtle enough that a lesser shifter would have missed it. Someone testing the perimeter, patient and careful, searching for a weak point that isn’t there. Not tonight, at least.

I’m inside before I decide to be. She doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t argue when I claim the couch like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world instead of the last of my discipline giving out.

Neither of us sleeps much that first night. By the second, neither of us pretends I’m going anywhere. By the third, it isn’t a question at all.

The Den smells like woodsmoke and spilled beer and too many shifters crammed into one space.

I lean against the bar, nursing a whiskey I don’t particularly want, watching the room with the half-attention that’s become second nature. Thursday nights draw a crowd—off-duty patrol members, young wolves blowing off steam, a table of bears arguing about something that’s probably going to end in arm wrestling. Near the fireplace, a group of panthers plays cards with the kind of focused silence that means serious money is changing hands.

It’s been three days since her wards flared. Three days of sleeping on her couch. Three days of watching her work, listening to her hum, catching her scent every time she moves past me.

“You look like someone pissed in your whiskey.”

Torin drops onto the stool beside me, the wood creaking under his bulk. His beard is neatly trimmed, his eyes warm despite the observation.

“Long week.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Long four days, then.”

His laugh rumbles through the bar, deep and warm. He signals the bartender for a beer. “Caius mentioned she’s had some trouble. Threats. Someone playing games with her wards.”

“It’s being handled.”

“Is it?” Torin accepts his drink, takes a long pull. Wipes foam from his beard with the back of his hand. “Or are you handling it alone because you don’t want anyone else near her?”

My jaw clenches.

Before I can respond, Veren Tahann saunters in and drops onto the stool on my other side, stealing my whiskey in one smooth motion.

“Gentlemen.” He makes a face at the whiskey, sets it back down. “You look terrible, Aslan. That couch doing you permanent damage?”

“I’ll survive.”

“On that couch? Doubtful. I’ve sat on that couch. It’s an instrument of torture masquerading as furniture.” He steals an olive from somewhere. “The charm witch has excellent taste in crystals, questionable taste in seating.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Always.” But he leans back, and something in his eyes sharpens past the performance. “Heard anything more about those Preserver symbols? The ones from the Registry archives?”

The shift catches my attention. Beneath the theatrical charm, something sharper lurks. The foxes see everything, hear everything, remember everything. If he’s asking, he already knows something.

“Elio’s looking into it.”

“Elio’s been looking into it for years.” Veren’s voice drops, losing its playful edge. “Those symbols aren’t random. They’re warnings. And whoever’s leaving them for your witch knows exactly what they mean.”

“She’s not my⁠—”

“Sure.” He’s already moving, sliding off his stool with liquid grace. “Just an observation from someone who sees everything in this town. Watch the eastern perimeter tonight.” A pause at the edge of the crowd. “And fix the couch situation. You look like a man who hasn’t slept in a week.”

He disappears before I can respond.

Torin finishes his beer. Sets the glass down with a solid thunk. “I’ve known you a long time, Aslan. Since before Dorothea. Since the early days of your pride. I watched what losing her did to you.”

My chest tightens.

“I’m not⁠—”