2. Aslan
TWO
ASLAN
The Stone Circle is exactly as uncomfortable as it was designed to be.
I shift on the carved granite seat, feeling every edge dig into muscle and bone.
The seven chairs form a rough ring in the back room of The Den, each one hewn from local mountain rock centuries ago by someone who clearly believed suffering built character.
They weren’t wrong. Meetings here never run long.
Caius Sternwolf stands at the center, because of course, he does.
The wolf alpha commands attention without trying—broad shoulders squared, gaze sweeping across each of us in turn.
A scar cuts across his jaw, old and faded, a reminder of the Warding Line breach that almost cost him his life years ago.
“The eastern patrol reported another thin spot last night. Third one this month.”
Rhodes Blackthorn leans forward, his dark locs swaying with the movement. The lion’s resting expression hasn’t changed—unimpressed, as usual—but there’s tension in the set of his shoulders. “Location?”
“Near the old mill ruins. Same area as the last two.”
“Pattern.” Elio Frostheart’s smooth voice cuts through the room. The panther lounges in his stone chair like it’s a throne, somehow making discomfort look elegant. “Someone’s testing specific points.”
Kief Alban grunts from his seat. The mountain lion looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, which is accurate. He attends these meetings because someone has to represent the mountain cats, not because he enjoys politics. “Or something.”
Veren Tahann’s sharp gaze gleams with interest. The fox leans forward, all contained energy and barely hidden cunning. “You’ve seen anything?”
“Tracks. Nothing I recognized.” Kief shrugs. “Could be from beyond the Line. Could be nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” Torin Weylin’s deep rumble fills the room. The bear takes up more space than any three of us combined, hands resting on his knees, kind expression gone serious. “The wards are weakening. We’ve all felt it.”
He’s right. We have.
I say nothing. Caius catches my eye. We’ve known each other long enough that words aren’t necessary.
I give him the barest nod.
The meeting continues for another twenty minutes. Patrol schedules are adjusted. Territory concerns are raised and addressed. Veren reports on rumors filtering through his network—nothing concrete, but whispers of movement beyond the Warding Line. Creatures gathering. Watching.
By the time Caius calls the formal session to a close, my spine is protesting every minute I’ve spent on this godforsaken chair.
“One more thing.” Caius’s gaze sweeps the room. “Two new witches arrived in Mistvale this month. Both unanchored. Both showing unusual magical signatures.”
Rhodes straightens. “Unusual how?”
“The Registry flagged them. Grandmother Peach has been... attentive.”
That gets everyone’s attention. When the matchmaker witch takes interest, it usually means trouble. Or destiny. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.
Elio’s tone is casual, but I catch the flicker of calculation in his gaze. “Assignments?”
“Torin, you’ll monitor the elemental witch.
Sakura Tempest. She’s causing weather disturbances—nothing dangerous yet, but her magic is unstable.
” Caius turns to me. “Aslan. The charm witch. Leire Firesinger. There have been unusual readings near her shop. Preliminary assessment and observation only. Do not engage unless necessary.”
Strangeness stirs beneath my skin.
It’s subtle—a shift, a prickle of awareness that I haven’t felt in five years. I keep my expression neutral, give nothing away.
“Understood.”
Caius holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. He knows things are off. He’s too good not to notice. But he doesn’t push.
The formal meeting ends. Most of the older alphas filter out—Kief practically sprints for the door, muttering about “too many people, not enough mountain.” Caius lingers for a moment, exchanging quiet words with Torin, before he too disappears into the main room of The Den.
Which leaves four of us.
And Veren, who I could have sworn left with the others but has somehow materialized against the doorframe with a bottle of very good whiskey.
“So.” He starts pouring without asking. “Who wants to discuss how Caius just assigned half the leadership council to babysit witches? And how none of us are going to admit we’re delighted about it?”
Rhodes makes a sound of disgust. “We were not assigned to—”
“You weren’t.” Veren’s grin widens as he pours five glasses. “But our dear tiger and teddy bear certainly were.”
“Don’t call me that.” Torin’s voice holds no real heat. He’s heard worse from Veren, and will again.
“Would you prefer honey bear? Sugar bear? Snuggle—”
“I would prefer you stop talking.”
Veren places a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
We’ve migrated to a rough cluster, glasses in hand, the fire crackling warmth across the room.
“To another month of not dying.” Torin raises his glass.
“Your optimism is inspiring.” I take a sip. The whiskey burns going down, warm and sharp.
“Someone has to balance out your brooding.” The bear grins, and despite myself, I do too. Torin has that effect on people. It’s annoying.
“Speaking of brooding—Aslan, you’ve been quiet. More than usual. Care to share with the class?”
“No.”
“Excellent. I’ll speculate wildly instead.” He swirls his whiskey. “The charm witch. Leire Firesinger. Arrived a few weeks ago. Registered three days later. Opened a crystal shop on Moonthread Square.” His sharp gaze finds mine.
“You’ve been watching her.”
“I watch everyone. It’s my job.” He takes a sip. “Also my hobby. Also my calling. I’m very good at it.”
“Humble, too,” Rhodes mutters.
“False modesty is for people who aren’t as talented as I am.” Veren waves a dismissive hand. “But we’re getting off topic. The witch. What’s your assessment, oh fearless one?”
“I’m looking into it.”
“That’s not an answer. That’s a dodge.” Veren leans forward, eyes glinting with the particular light of someone who’s caught an interesting scent. “Come on. First impressions. Is she dangerous? Boring? Secretly a chaos demon wearing a very convincing human suit?”
“She makes protection charms.”
“Riveting. Truly. I’m on the edge of my seat.”
“Coincidence.” Rhodes’s tone suggests he doesn’t believe in coincidences.
“Nothing about the Registry is coincidental.” Elio sets down his glass. “Grandmother Peach doesn’t flag witches for monitoring unless she has reason.”
“She also doesn’t explain her reasons.” I lean back in my stone chair, ignoring the way it digs into my shoulders. “Ever.”
“The mysteries of the matchmaker witch.” Torin shakes his head. “My grandmother used to tell stories about her. Said she’s been running that Registry since before Mistvale was founded.”
“That would make her—”
“Old.” Torin grins. “Very old. And very good at not answering questions.”
Veren snorts. “I tried to get information out of her once. She smiled, gave me peach cobbler, and I somehow ended up telling her about my first crush, my worst fear, and a deeply embarrassing incident involving a chicken and a minor explosion.” He shudders.
“I still don’t know how it happened. The woman is a menace. ”
“You got outmaneuvered by a little old lady?” Rhodes actually sounds impressed.
“She is not a little old lady. She is an ancient being of terrifying power who happens to bake excellent desserts.” Veren drains his glass. “Never underestimate anyone who can make cobbler that good. There’s definitely dark magic involved.”
The fire crackles in the massive hearth that dominates the room’s far wall.
Outside, the sounds of The Den drift through the closed door—laughter, the clink of glasses, someone’s terrible attempt at a drinking song.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds. The kind that make you forget, briefly, that the wards protecting this town are slowly failing.
“So.” Rhodes turns his attention to Torin. “The weather witch. What do you know?”
Torin’s expression softens in a way that makes me immediately suspicious. “Sakura Tempest. Elemental affinity. Strong, apparently—she’s been causing localized storms without meaning to. Moved here hoping the town’s ambient magic would help stabilize her.”
“Has it?”
“I’m taking her muffins tomorrow.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “She seems like she could use some kindness.”
“Muffins.” Rhodes’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “You’re taking a potentially dangerous weather witch muffins.”
“Blueberry. My grandmother’s recipe.”
“And what happens when she gets emotional about the muffins and accidentally summons a tornado?”
Torin waves a massive hand dismissively. “Then I’ll help her clean up. That’s what neighbors do.”
“You’re not her neighbor. You’re her assigned monitor.”
“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.” Torin takes a long pull of his whiskey. “Besides, have you ever tried to intimidate someone into magical stability? Doesn’t work. Trust me.”
“He has a point,” Veren chimes in. “Remember when Caius tried the intimidation approach with that pyromancer who kept accidentally setting things on fire? How did that work out?”
Rhodes grimaces. “The Den lost an entire wing.”
“And Caius lost his eyebrows for a month.” Veren grins. “Kindness and baked goods. Much safer approach.”
Rhodes opens his mouth to argue further, then closes it. He’s too honorable to admit Torin has a point, but I can see him quietly changing his mind about it.
Elio catches my eye across the circle, amusement flickering in his expression. We’ve both seen this before—Torin adopting a new project, Rhodes objecting on principle, Veren making everything worse with his commentary, the bear winning through sheer stubborn kindness.
I watch the exchange, saying nothing. Torin has always been the soft one among us—patient, nurturing, the kind of male who adopts wounded things and nurses them back to health. It’s not weakness. I’ve seen him angry exactly twice, and both times I was grateful to be on his side.