Page 54 of Impawssible Magic

“And Shadow?”

He’s quiet for a moment. His nostrils flare, testing the air. “Cat. Faint. Underneath the other smells.”

My heart clenches. “He’s here.”

“Leire.” His hand catches my arm. Warm. Solid. Grounding me when I want to run straight into that building without thinking. “Whatever we find⁠—”

“I know.” I meet his eyes. “I know it might be bad. I know he might be too far gone to save. But I have to try.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then nods. Releases my arm.

We move forward.

The old mill is exactly as decrepit as it sounds.

Three stories of rotting timber and broken windows, half-swallowed by climbing vines that definitely aren’t natural. The mist pools thick around its foundation, and there’s a wrongness to the air—a weight, a pressure, like the magic here has curdled into poison. Even the grass around the building grows strange—too tall, too dark, bending away from the structure like it’s trying to escape.

“Wards.” Aslan circles the building slowly, his footsteps silent on the damp ground. “Old ones. Meant to hide, not protect.”

“Hide what?”

“Whatever’s inside.”

I reach out with my own magic—tentative, careful. The suppression spells push back, oily and cold, sliding against my senses like rotten silk.

“He’s here.” My voice catches. “I can feel him. Barely, but—he’s here.”

Aslan tries the door. It swings open with a groan of rusted hinges. Inside, darkness. Dust. The smell of old magic and decay, thick enough to taste.

We step through.

The ground floor is empty except for debris—fallen beams, rotted machinery, piles of unidentifiable organic matter I choose not to examine too closely. Our footsteps echo in the hollow space. The mist seeps through gaps in the walls, pooling in corners like living things.

“Upstairs.” Aslan tilts his head, listening. “I hear breathing. Slow. Shallow.”

We climb the stairs carefully, testing each step before committing our weight. The wood groans but holds. The second floor is more of the same—emptiness, decay, the oppressive weight of hidden magic. But there’s a door at the end of the hall. Closed. Warded with symbols that make my skin crawl.

“Can you break it?”

I study the ward work. It’s complex—layers upon layers, some ancient, some more recent. Different hands, different traditions, all woven into a barrier meant to keep everything out. But there are cracks. Weak points where the magic has degraded over time.

“Give me a minute.”

I pull a crystal from my pocket—the clear quartz I’ve been carrying since the attack, the one that flared when we channeled power through it. It pulses warm against my palm as I push energy into it, directing it toward the ward’s weak points.

The magic resists. Pushes back. For a moment, I think it won’t work—my power isn’t stable enough, isn’t strong enough without a familiar to anchor it.

Then Aslan steps closer. Not touching, but near. His presence steadies me. Not magic—we don’t share magic like witches and familiars do. But his nearness grounds me anyway. Gives me stability to push against.

The ward cracks. Shatters. The door swings open.

And there, curled in the corner of the bare room, is Shadow.

He’s smaller than I remember.

Memory has a way of distorting things—making the precious seem larger, the beloved more substantial. But Shadow is just a cat. A sleek black cat with matted fur and visible ribs and eyes that stare at nothing. He’s lying on bare floorboards, no blanket, no food or water in sight. They’ve been keeping him like this for who knows how long. Months. Years.

I drop to my knees beside him. My hands hover, afraid to touch, afraid to confirm what I already know.