Impawssible Magic (The Mistvale Files #1)

1. Leire

ONE

LEIRE

A FRESH START (SORT OF)

The amethyst cluster goes to the left of the window. Obviously. Anyone with half a brain knows amethyst needs morning light to properly charge, and this window faces east, so—

“Don’t give me that look.” I set the rose quartz on the counter with more force than necessary. “You’re going in the love corner and that’s final.”

The crystal doesn’t respond. Because it’s a crystal. And I’m talking to rocks at seven in the morning like a completely normal, well-adjusted witch who has her life under control.

Whisperwind Charms. My shop. My fresh start. My chance to prove that one catastrophic betrayal doesn’t define an entire life.

Three weeks in Mistvale, and the place is finally starting to look like an actual business instead of a storage unit that had a breakdown.

Display cases gleam under carefully positioned fairy lights.

Shelves line the walls, each one holding crystals I’ve personally cleansed, charged, and probably had at least one conversation with.

The back room is set up for custom work—my specialty, the thing that’s going to make this whole gamble pay off.

Crystals and copper wire and silver, yes, but also the botanical materials that anchor intention in organic matter: dried herbs, resins, pressed flowers whose properties have been documented for centuries.

I pick up a piece of citrine and hold it to the light streaming through the bay windows. The golden glow catches, fractures, throws tiny rainbows across the aged hardwood floor. Pretty. Hopeful. Everything I’m pretending to be.

“You’re going right by the register.” I turn the stone, watching light dance through its facets. “Abundance energy for the money corner. Let’s manifest some actual customers, shall we?”

The citrine warms slightly in my palm. I choose to interpret that as agreement.

The thing about crystals is they don’t lie. They don’t pretend to be your friend while secretly plotting to ruin your life. They don’t curl up in your lap for years, let you pour your magic into them, and then—

I slam that mental door shut so hard the wards on the shop walls flicker.

The wards. Right. I should check the wards.

I close my eyes and reach out with my senses, feeling for the magical barriers I spent the first several days here constructing.

They hum at the edges of my awareness, gossamer-thin layers of protection woven into the very bones of this old building.

Keep out ill intent. Deflect harmful magic. Alert me to danger.

They’re fine. Functional. Also about sixty percent weaker than they should be.

Because I’m not anchored anymore.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, counting to ten in three different languages. It doesn’t help. It never helps. But the alternative is screaming into a pillow, and I’ve already done that twice this week.

“Enough.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “Soft opening today. Focus.”

I spend the next hour arranging and rearranging displays, adjusting the angle of every crystal until the morning light hits them just right.

The shop window showcases my best pieces: a massive smoky quartz cluster that took me a month to properly attune, several palm-sized selenite wands, and a collection of handcrafted charm bracelets that each took about forty hours of focused magical work.

By nine, the fairy lights are twinkling, the incense is burning (sage with a hint of sweetgrass, welcoming but not overwhelming), and Whisperwind Charms looks exactly like the kind of place that belongs in a magical town called Mistvale.

The Familiar Registry sits on the corner of Moonthread Square straight out of a fever dream.

Three stories of robin’s-egg blue Victorian architecture, climbing roses scrambling up the walls despite the fact that it’s not exactly rose season, and windows that somehow manage to look both welcoming and vaguely menacing.

I stand on the sidewalk for a solid minute, just staring at it.

The bell above the door jingles when I push it open, and I’m immediately hit with the smell of old paper and a sweetness underneath. Brown sugar, maybe. And... peaches?

Inside, the Registry is chaos barely contained.

File cabinets line every visible wall, their drawers labeled in a script I can’t read but somehow understand—a neat trick of translation magic I’ve never seen before.

Mismatched chairs cluster in what might optimistically be called a waiting area.

A spectral cat lounges on top of the front desk, transparent enough that I can see the wood grain through its striped fur.

“Hello?”

A harried-looking clerk pops up from behind a stack of folders, wire-rimmed glasses askew on their nose. “Oh! Registration? New to Mistvale? Have a seat, I’ll be right with you, just need to file these before they start reorganizing themselves—”

She disappears again, muttering about alphabetical systems and sentient paperwork.

I eye the chairs. They look... mobile. Like they might shuffle around when I’m not looking.

I stay standing.

The spectral cat opens one glowing eye, regards me with an expression of supreme feline judgment, and goes back to napping. Some things transcend death, apparently.

“You must be the new charm witch.”

The voice comes from behind me, which is impossible, because I’m standing with my back to a wall. I spin around anyway.

The woman who definitely wasn’t there a second ago smiles at me.

She’s ageless in that unsettling way—could be sixty, could be six hundred.

Silver hair swept up in an elaborate arrangement that looks like it should require architectural support.

Eyes that are definitely too bright, too knowing.

She’s dressed like a Victorian governess who raided a fairy’s closet, all high collars and impossible lace and fabric that shimmers between colors.

And she smells like brown sugar and ripe peaches.

“I’m Grandmother Peach.” The name makes perfect sense even though it shouldn’t. “Welcome to Mistvale, dear. We’ve been expecting you.”

I blink. “You have?”

“The Registry has a sense for these things.” She gestures vaguely at the chaos around us. “When a witch is meant to be here, we know.”

“I’m just here to complete my registration.” I try to project professional competence and probably fail. “Leire Firesinger. I opened a shop. Whisperwind Charms. I need to be on file with the local magical authority, and your Registry was listed as the primary—”

“Yes, yes, paperwork.” She waves a hand like bureaucracy is a minor inconvenience barely worth acknowledging. “The clerk will handle all that. But first...”

She reaches into her sleeve—a sleeve that definitely shouldn’t be able to contain anything based on its dimensions—and pulls out a small charm. A piece of polished moonstone wrapped in delicate copper wire, simple but beautifully made.

“Protection.” She presses it into my palm before I can object. “You’ll need it.”

The stone is warm. Too warm, like it’s been sitting in sunlight, even though her sleeve was in shadow.

“I—thank you, but I really can’t accept—”

“Nonsense.” Her smile widens. “Consider it a housewarming gift. From one magical practitioner to another.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already moving away, disappearing through a door that I’m almost certain wasn’t there a moment ago.

“She does that.” The clerk reappears with a stack of forms. “Don’t try to understand it. Just fill these out.”

I spend the next forty-five minutes answering questions about my magical specialty, my previous coven affiliations (I write “none” with more force than strictly necessary), and my familiar status.

That last question makes my pen hover over the paper for a long, long moment.

Current familiar: None.

Previous familiar: Dissolved.

Reason for dissolution: I don’t write

I write: Circumstances.

The clerk doesn’t ask for clarification. Maybe they see the look on my face. Maybe they’re just used to witches showing up in Mistvale, looking for somewhere to start over.

The spectral cat stretches on the desk, its translucent body rippling like heat haze. It yawns, showing teeth that shimmer between solid and not, and settles back down with a sigh that sounds far too human.

“That’s Quill.” The clerk notices my stare. “Been here longer than anyone can remember. Don’t try to pet him—your hand will go right through and it’s incredibly unsettling for everyone involved.”

Good to know. I finish the last few questions. Magical specialties. Emergency contacts. Whether I have any outstanding warrants with other covens.

The last one makes me pause, but I check no with a clear conscience. They didn’t file charges. They didn’t have to. Exile and disgrace were punishment enough.

“All done.” The clerk shuffles my paperwork into a folder.

“You’re officially registered. The welcome packet has information about the coven structure, the Protection Network, and local magical resources.

Sunny at Moonpetal Bakery does loyalty spells that actually work, if you’re looking for return customers.

And don’t drink the purple beer at Duskfire Brewery unless you want very interesting dreams.”

“Good to know.”

I pocket the moonstone charm without thinking about it—it’s still warm, still humming—and head for the door.

The bell chimes as I leave.

Behind me, another bell rings. The inner door, the one Grandmother Peach vanished through. But when I glance back, nobody’s there.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of minor victories. Two customers actually come in—a young witch looking for a study focus charm and an older gentleman who spends twenty minutes examining my crystal selection before buying a piece of black tourmaline “for his wife’s garden.”

I make exactly thirty-seven gold.

By the time evening settles over Mistvale, the mist has thickened to a soft golden haze that turns the streetlights into fuzzy halos. I lock the front door, flip the sign to Closed, and retreat to my workbench in the back room.