Page 49 of Roaring Spell

“I’m fine. He’s—” I gesture helplessly at Torin. “He almost died.”

“He almost died protecting you. There’s a difference.” She pulls back. “In his mind, that’s a win.”

“That’s insane.”

“That’s bears.” Leire’s voice softens. “That’s love, actually. Even if neither of you is ready to call it that.”

Zeph appears behind her. “Aslan sent word. I came as fast as I could.” She looks at Torin, then at me, with unusual seriousness. “You look like you’re about to shatter into a thousand anxiety-shaped pieces.”

I am about to shatter. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind shaky exhaustion.

“The trap knew our patterns.” Anouk finishes bandaging. “Whoever placed it anticipated our response. Knew we’d locate the siphon. Knew we’d try to destroy it.”

“Valesh.” Leire’s voice hardens, her earlier warmth shifting to fierce intelligence. “She’s been asking questions about Sakura’s abilities. About how you found the first siphon. I thought she was just being nosy. Council members are always nosy. But this is different.”

“She’s on the welcoming committee.” Anouk’s expression is grim. “Has access to new resident files. Knows everyone’s routines. Every schedule. Every pattern.”

“She brought me cookies when I first arrived.” The memory surfaces. “Spent an hour asking about my magic. My history. I thought she was being welcoming.”

“She was being strategic.” Leire’s jaw tightens. “Twenty years of strategic. Twenty years of being in exactly the right place to know exactly what we’re doing.”

“She’s been watching us.” My voice is barely a whisper. “All of us.”

“For two decades.” Anouk moves to wash her hands. “Every investigation, every protective measure—she’s known. She’s been one step ahead because she’s been in the room when we made our plans.”

“She knew he’d protect me.” My throat tightens. “She designed the trap to hurt him specifically.”

“The Preservers want to prevent witch-shifter pairings.” Anouk’s voice is clinical. “Torin has been... obvious about his attachment. They would consider him a primary target.”

“Obvious is an understatement.” Zeph’s voice is gentler than usual. “The man brings you coffee every morning and looks at you like you personally hung every star in the sky.”

The room spins. I reach for the counter.

“Easy.” Leire catches my arm. “Sit. Breathe. Process one crisis at a time.”

“He’s hurt because of me⁠—”

“He’s hurt because someone wanted to hurt him. That’s not your fault.” Leire steers me toward a chair near Torin’s bed. “And we’re going to make them pay for it.”

“When he wakes up,” Zeph adds, “he’s going to be insufferably smug about the heroic sacrifice. Brace yourself. Bears love being right about things.”

“He’s not going to be smug⁠—”

“He absolutely is. I’ve known Torin for five years. He’s going to be writing poems about this for weeks.” She affects a dramatic voice. “‘I threw myself in front of magic / She looked at me like I was tragic / But I survived to tell the tale.’”

Despite everything, I choke out a laugh. “That doesn’t even rhyme properly.”

“Neither do his actual poems. It’s very on brand.” Zeph’s brief grin flickers through her concern.

“Stay with him tonight.” Anouk’s voice gentles. “He’ll need monitoring. And you want to be here. Stop fighting both of those things.”

“I shouldn’t⁠—”

“You absolutely should.” Leire squeezes my shoulder. “Trust me. I did it with Aslan.”

They leave in waves—Zeph with promises of breakfast in the morning, Leire with a fierce hug and whispered encouragement, Anouk rattling off a list of things to watch for that I will absolutely have memorized by morning.

Then it’s just me.