Page 59 of Impawssible Magic

The afternoon mist is thick today, golden where the sun catches it. Mistvale goes about its business around me, oblivious to the war brewing beneath the surface.

I pass Grandmother Peach’s cottage, and she’s standing in her garden, apparently having a serious discussion with her peach tree. She catches my eye and waves, then holds up a basket covered with a checkered cloth.

“For the witch!” she calls. “Cobbler keeps best when shared with someone you love!”

I have no idea how she knows where I’m going. I have no idea how she knows anything. The woman is a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in pastry dough.

I take the basket. It smells like brown sugar and fate.

“Thank you.”

“Thank me by making her happy, dear.” Her eyes twinkle with knowing I definitely don’t want examined. “The mist has been very particular about you two.”

I don’t ask what that means. Some questions are better left unanswered.

I feel Leire before I see her. Not her thoughts, not her emotions—just the steady pulse of her presence, like a compass pointing north. She’s in her shop. Safe. With Shadow.

The knowing settles everything in my chest that’s been unsettled for hours.

FIFTEEN

LEIRE

While the alphas sort out the fate of the magical world, I mind my shop.

The amethyst on my workbench has been agitated all morning, rearranging herself every few minutes like she can’t get comfortable. Even the usually cheerful selenite has dimmed to a worried glow.

“I know.” I stroke the amethyst’s surface, feeling the anxious vibration beneath my palm. “I don’t like it either. But if you could stop vibrating off the edge of the table, that would be great. You’re making me nervous.”

She pulses indignantly.

A young witch—barely more than a teenager, with bright eyes and an eager smile—browses the charm bracelets near the window.

“These are so pretty.” She holds up a bracelet with tiny moonstone beads. “Did you make all of these yourself?”

“Every single one. That particular design is good for intuition and emotional balance. The moonstone likes to be charged under a full moon, but you probably knew that.”

She beams. “My grandmother taught me. She says moonstone is a witch’s best friend.”

“Your grandmother sounds wise.” I wrap the bracelet carefully, adding a small sachet of dried lavender. “A gift. For good luck.”

Her smile could light the entire shop. “Thank you! My friends are going to be so jealous.”

She practically skips out the door, and I’m smiling despite everything.

Small test: I reach for my magic to reseal a hairline crack in the display case nearest the door—an automatic working, the kind I do without thinking.

It comes. And it doesn’t flicker.

Not the thin, unreliable thread I’ve been managing since the exile, the magic that guttered like a candle in a draft and made every working a careful negotiation. This is full. Steady. A river at proper depth.

Whatever this bond is—not yet named, not yet claimed, but no less real for that—it’s already rewriting what my magic thinks it’s allowed to be.

I stand there with both hands around a piece of malachite, power flowing through me the way it was always supposed to, and I cry for approximately thirty seconds. Not from sadness. Just from the sudden absence of an ache I’d gotten so used to I’d stopped noticing it.

Then I dry my face and get back to work.

Small moments. Normal interactions. The everyday magic of a town that doesn’t know it’s about to become a battlefield.