Page 60 of Impawssible Magic

Through it all, I feel Aslan. Not his thoughts, not his emotions—just his presence, somewhere across town. Watching. Waiting. Ready. That awareness that’s become as natural as breathing over the past week. I know he’s close without looking. Know he’s alert. Know he’s working, and that he’ll be back.

The afternoon drags. Customers come and go, each one making me tense until I confirm they’re not Preservers in disguise. The mist thickens as the sun moves across the sky, pooling in the streets like liquid gold. Through my window, Mistvale shifts into its evening routine, oblivious to what’s coming.

I stay in the shop. I wait.

I’m getting very good at waiting.

SIXTEEN

ASLAN

Whisperwind Charms glows soft through the mist. I push through the door—the wards let me through, which still feels strange—and the bell chimes overhead.

Leire is on the floor behind her workbench, Shadow cradled in her lap. She looks up when I enter, green eyes shadowed but determined. Her hair is pulled back in a messy braid, and there’s a smudge of herbs on her cheek. She looks exhausted. Beautiful.

I thought this would get easier to look at. It hasn’t.

“How was the war council?” Her voice is lighter than her eyes suggest. “Did the alphas puff up their chests and growl at each other?”

“Only a little. Veren made approximately fourteen unhelpful comments, Rhodes threatened to throw him out a window, and Torin had to physically separate them at one point.” I crouch beside her. Shadow’s breathing seems stronger. His fur looks cleaner—she’s been grooming him. “How is he?”

“Anouk came by.” Leire strokes Shadow’s fur with absent tenderness. “She thinks she can break the control magic, but it’ll take time. Days, maybe longer. The spellwork is old. Layered.”

“But she can do it?”

“She thinks so. She’s coming back with supplies.” Leire’s hand stills. “Which means I can help draw out the Preservers while she works. They still think I’m desperate and alone.”

I set the basket on her workbench. “Grandmother Peach sends her regards.”

“Of course, she does.” Leire peeks under the cloth and groans. “Oh no. It’s cobbler. I’m going to eat this entire thing and gain fifteen pounds and it will be her fault.”

“She’d probably consider that a success.”

We sit in silence for a moment. The crystals around us hum their soft songs. Leire’s ridiculous crystal family, bearing witness to whatever this is becoming.

“This ends soon.” I reach for her hand. Her fingers are cold—she’s been sitting on this floor too long, working too hard. I wrap them in mine, sharing warmth. In my head, I hear Dorothea’s voice, clear as the night I dreamed it—let someone else set a place at that table—and for once it doesn’t hurt. It just feels like permission. “I need you to know that whatever happens—whatever comes after—I’m not leaving. Not because of duty. Not because of the Network. Because I choose this. I choose you.”

Her breath catches. I watch her throat work as she swallows.

“That’s a lot of choosing for someone who spent five years avoiding feelings.”

“I’m making up for lost time.”

Her laugh is small but real. “Torin’s been giving you advice again, hasn’t he?”

“Torin. Veren. Grandmother Peach and her terrifying cobbler.” I raise our joined hands to my lips. Press a kiss to her knuckles. Her pulse jumps against my fingers. “Apparently the whole town has opinions about my emotional availability.”

“Small towns.” But her voice is softer. Her free hand rises to my face, fingers tracing the line of my jaw, the white streak at my temple. “I’m not leaving either. In case that wasn’t clear.”

“It wasn’t. I’m bad at reading signals.”

“Liar.” She’s almost smiling now. “You read everything. You just pretend you don’t so you don’t have to deal with it.”

She’s right. She’s always right. It’s infuriating.

I lean in. Stop an inch from her lips. Giving her the choice. Giving us both a moment to breathe before we cross whatever line we’ve been dancing around for weeks.

“This could go badly.” Her whisper brushes my mouth. “We could lose. I could⁠—”