Page 4 of Roaring Spell

“Word travels fast in Mistvale.” She reads my expression with unsettling accuracy. “Sunny at the bakery heard from Marcus at the coffee shop who heard from Berry at the bookstore that the new weather witch was having ‘atmospheric complications.’ I figured you could use backup.”

“I appreciate it.” I take a long sip. The coffee is perfect. Probably magically enhanced for comfort. “But you should probably keep your distance. I’m clearly cursed. Or jinxed. Or just fundamentally broken in some way that defies explanation.”

“Bullshit.”

The word is so casual, so matter-of-fact, that I actually laugh. It comes out wet and slightly unhinged, but it’s still a laugh.

“I mean it.” Leire bumps her shoulder against mine. She’s warm, even soaking wet. Some of that tiger-shifter heat bleeding through, maybe, or just the confidence of someone who’s figured their shit out.

“Your magic isn’t a problem. It’s just... expressive.”

“Expressively destructive.”

“Look, I get it. I spent years thinking I was too much trouble to be worth anything. Too cursed, too complicated, too likely to bring disaster wherever I went.”

“What changed?”

“I stopped running from what I was and started figuring out what I wanted.” She shrugs. “Turns out needing people isn’t weakness. I fought the mate thing for weeks. Thought I didn’t need anyone, especially not some overprotective tiger shifter who thought he knew what was best for me.”

“How’d that work out?”

Leire’s smile softens into a private expression. One that makes my chest ache with longing I can’t name. “Now I have a home. A mate. A life I actually want to wake up for.” A wicked glint enters her eyes. “Also, he’s very attractive. That helped.”

I laugh again, less wet this time. Outside, the rain is finally starting to ease. “I don’t think a hot shifter is going to solve my weather problems.”

“Maybe not solve them.” She tilts her head, considering. “But maybe someone who doesn’t run from storms would help. Someone who can stand in the rain you make and not flinch.”

“That sounds like a fairy tale.”

“Most of magic does, until you’re living it.” She finishes her scone and brushes crumbs from her fingers. “I didn’t believe in any of this either. Fated mates. Claiming. The whole mystical destiny thing. Seemed ridiculous.”

“But now you believe?”

“Now I think there are things in this world that don’t need us to believe in them to be real.” She meets my gaze. “Your magic isn’t broken, Sakura. It’s just looking for an anchor.”

Before I can respond to that unsettling thought, she changes the subject. “Grandmother Peach mentioned a bear to Aslan. Not sure what that means, but she’s usually right about these things. Annoyingly right.”

“A bear.” I keep my voice carefully neutral, and don’t mention that Peach said something about a bear to me too. That’s a thread I’m not ready to pull on. “Cryptic old ladies. What can you do?”

“Huh.” Leire stands, brushing crumbs from her rain-damp jeans. “In my experience, when Grandmother Peach mentions a specific animal, it’s not random. Might want to pay attention.”

“Pay attention to what?”

“You’ll know when you see it.” She grins at my frustrated expression. “Sorry. That’s the Mistvale answer.” She pulls out her phone. “Don’t forget girls’ night at the brewery, end of the week.”

“I could use a night that doesn’t involve accidental weather.”

“That’s what we’re for.” Leire heads for the door. “Anouk will pretend she’s too busy for two days before she shows up anyway, and Zeph will have something new and questionable on tap. You’re not alone here, Sakura. I know it still doesn’t always feel like that. But you’re not.”

After she leaves—with promises of wine and the kind of female friendship I still don’t quite trust is going to stick—I clean up the evidence of my meltdown. Wipe down the counters. Straighten the crystals. Right the fallen rose quartz, which immediately tilts crooked again.

“Fine.” I glare at it. “Be that way.”

The storm has passed completely. Late afternoon sun slants through the glass walls, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. The mist outside has returned to its normal soft silver, swirling lazily around the cobblestones of Moonthread Square.

I should close up. Go home. Crawl into bed and pretend this day never happened.

Instead, I linger. Walking through my treatment rooms, touching the massage tables, adjusting displays that don’t need adjusting. This is mine. This space I built with my own hands and my own magic and my own stubborn refusal to give up.