Page 40 of Impawssible Magic

His response is immediate. How specific?

Me: Very. She said “trouble with your wards.” Not just commotion. Wards.

Aslan: Stay in the shop. On my way.

I text back: It’s fine. I’m not in danger from scones.

Bossy. But I stay.

By mid-afternoon, the staying has gotten old. I pace the shop, re-alphabetize charm components, and count the register money twice with different wrong answers both times.

The obsidian watches me from the shelf with the resigned patience of someone who has seen this before and knows exactly how it ends.

The selenite tower by the window hums at me. I pat her anyway because she’s trying her best.

Aslan: Meeting ran long. Thirty more minutes.

Me: Going stir-crazy. Quick walk to Sakura’s. Back in fifteen.

I don’t wait for a reply. I’m already locking the door, the bell chiming behind me like a reproach.

The afternoon is bright, the mist burned off by actual sun. Moonthread Square is busy—Grandmother Peach is still outside the Registry, handing out samples of something that smells like brown sugar and magic. A young witch stops to taste one and her face transforms into something approaching religious ecstasy. Grandmother Peach smiles that knowing smile of hers—the one that makes you wonder if she’s running a bakery sample stand or conducting some kind of elaborate social experiment.

A pair of selkies have set up a jewelry stand near the fountain, their wares catching the light in ways that suggest either excellent craftsmanship or subtle enchantment. Probably both. One of them is braiding the other’s hair while they wait for customers—domestic and efficient. One of the stone trolls is sitting near the Whisper Oak, having what appears to be a very slow conversation with the tree. He’s been there for at least three hours. Troll conversations can take days. I’ve heard of one that lasted a month and was mostly about whether moss prefers north-facing or east-facing stones.

Normal. Safe. Just a regular day in Mistvale.

Except there’s a cat sitting in the middle of the sidewalk.

A sleek black cat with eyes that used to be golden and warm. Eyes that looked at me like I was the center of the universe. Eyes that crinkled when he purred and narrowed when he was plotting mischief and softened when I scratched behind his ears just right.

Shadow.

I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The world narrows to just him—his familiar shape, the exact arch of his spine, the way his tail curls around his paws. Two years since I’ve seen him. Two years since he destroyed everything we had.

But his eyes⁠—

His eyes are wrong.

Flat. Empty. Like someone turned off the light behind them. He stares at me with no recognition, no warmth, nothing that says he remembers the nights we spent curled up reading. The bond that was supposed to last forever. The way he used to headbutt my chin when my throat tightened, like he could push the sadness out of me through sheer force of feline affection.

“Shadow?” My voice comes out cracked. Broken. The name I haven’t spoken aloud in two years.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t twitch an ear. He just watches. Then turns and walks away.

I follow. I know I shouldn’t. Every survival instinct screams that this is a trap, that I’m being led somewhere I shouldn’t go, that the smart thing to do is turn around and walk back to my shop and wait for Aslan.

But it’s Shadow.

He leads me into an alley—narrow, shadowed, exactly the kind of place a smart person wouldn’t go. The cobblestones are slick with mist that didn’t burn off back here. The walls press close. It smells like old rain and rust.

I go anyway.

The alley dead-ends at a brick wall covered in faded graffiti—someone painted a poorly drawn dragon decades ago, and generations of magical residents have added to it until it’s become a collaborative mess of color. A sprite has added glitter to the dragon’s eyes recently. Someone else painted tiny flowers growing from its nostrils.

Shadow is gone—vanished like mist. I spin around, and⁠—

A woman blocks the exit. Mid-thirties, forgettable face, eyes as flat as Shadow’s. She wears dark clothing that seems to blur at the edges when I try to focus on it. She holds out an envelope.