Page 70 of Impawssible Magic

The Preserver stumbles—winded, off-balance, suddenly aware that her hostage isn’t helpless at all.

I’m already on the flankers.

The first one dies trying to cast. His hands are rising, dark magic gathering, when my jaws close around his arm. I pull—a savage, wrenching motion that tears limb from socket. He screams, blood fountaining, and I release him to drop in a heap of shock and agony.

The second one runs.

Smart. But not smart enough.

I catch her in three bounds, take her down with a swipe to the back of the legs, and end it with a bite that crunches through her spine. Clean. Efficient. The way a tiger handles prey that can’t fight back.

Three. Four.

I spin, claws digging furrows in the earth, and find Leire and the leader locked in struggle.

The Preserver is taller, stronger, magically enhanced. But Leire has crystals—she has crystals—and the ones she’s throwing are charged with desperate power. One catches the woman in the shoulder and detonates in a flash of white light. The Preserver staggers, arm going limp, a scream torn from her throat.

Another crystal flies—smaller, sharper, aimed with the precision of someone who’s been practicing. It catches the Preserver in the knee. She buckles.

That’s my witch.

Pride surges through me, fierce and hot. Not helpless. Never helpless. Whatever they expected when they grabbed her, it wasn’t this.

“You—” The woman’s voice is ragged, pain cracking through the cold certainty. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Yeah.” Leire’s voice is steadier than it has any right to be. “I fought back. It’s kind of my thing.”

The Preserver raises her good hand. Dark energy spirals around her fingers, gathering for one final strike.

I shift mid-leap.

Human hands catch the Preserver’s wrist before the spell can finish forming. Human strength—fueled by tiger instinct and protective fury—forces that arm down, down, until bones grind against each other.

“No.”

The word is barely human.

The Preserver’s eyes go wide. She’s seeing what Iskra saw, what everyone sees when I stop pretending to be civilized—the predator underneath the man. The killer who wears politeness like a costume.

“The Preservers will send more.” Her voice cracks. “This isn’t over. It will never be⁠—”

I hit her. Hard.

She crumples.

Silence.

The Warding Line hums beside us. Behind us, I can hear voices—Torin shouting, wolves howling, the Protection Network finally catching up to a fight that’s already over.

Leire stands in the trampled grass, breathing hard.

She’s bruised. Scraped. A thin line of blood traces down her neck where the knife got close—not deep, not dangerous, but enough that my tiger snarls every time I look at it. Her hair has come completely loose from its braid, copper strands wild around her face. Her clothes are torn. Her hands are shaking.

She has never looked more beautiful. Not despite the blood and the bruises—because of them. Because she’s standing.

“You came.” Her voice is hoarse. “I knew you would, but—you came.”

“I will always come for you.” The words scrape out of my throat. “Every time. Any distance. Any enemy.”