2. Aslan #2
“And you?” Veren’s attention shifts to me with predatory focus.
“The charm witch. You’ve been remarkably silent about your assignment.
Suspicious silence. The kind that suggests either boredom or barely suppressed interest.” He taps his chin.
“Given that you have the emotional range of a particularly stoic rock, I’m going to guess... interest.”
“I walked past her shop.” I keep my voice flat. “She was working late.”
“That’s it? That’s your entire report?”
“It’s a preliminary report.”
“That’s it? That’s your assessment?” Veren throws his hands up. “I’m disappointed, Aslan. Truly.”
“I’m not done looking.”
“Clearly.” He leans back, sharpness entering his gaze. “She’s scared, you know. The witch.”
The temperature in the room drops. Or maybe that’s just me.
“Running from something?” Elio’s smooth voice cuts through the sudden tension.
“Running from someone.” Veren’s usual levity fades. “I don’t know who. Not yet. But she didn’t come to Mistvale for the charming weather and excellent cobbler. She came here to hide.”
The thought surfaces before I can stop it. I push it down.
“The unusual readings.” Rhodes changes the subject—deliberately, I suspect. “What exactly triggered the Registry’s flags?”
“Unknown.” I drain my whiskey and set down the glass. “That’s what I’m supposed to find out.”
Veren opens his mouth—probably to make another comment about my emotional unavailability—but Torin cuts him off with a look. The bear may be soft, but he’s not stupid. He knows when a topic has been pushed far enough.
The conversation drifts to other topics—patrol rotations, the upcoming Harvest Convergence, Rhodes’s ongoing frustration with the amount of paperwork the Network generates.
“There are forms for the forms,” he mutters. “Who designs a system where you need to file documentation about your documentation?”
“Someone who wanted to ensure job security for bureaucrats everywhere.” Veren raises his glass in mock salute.
I give him a look.
Veren grins and raises both hands before I’ve even finished it. “Saving it for a larger audience.”
Torin mentions a poetry reading at Thornwick Books, and Rhodes’s incredulous response makes even Elio laugh.
“You’re going to a poetry reading?” The lion sounds personally offended. “Voluntarily?”
“Berry Thornwick is a friend. She asked me to come. That’s what friends do.” Torin pauses. “You do have friends, don’t you, Rhodes?”
“I have colleagues. And responsibilities. And apparently, far too many forms to fill out.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” Veren clutches his chest. “Rhodes, we need to find you a hobby. No paperwork or disapproval. I’m thinking... interpretive dance? Competitive flower arranging?”
“I will end you.”
“See, that’s the spirit! Channel that energy into creativity.”
I participate enough to avoid suspicion. Offer observations when expected. But my mind keeps circling back to the same place.
Rhodes pours another round. The whiskey sits warm in my chest.
It’s getting late. Rhodes finally calls an end to the drinking, citing an early patrol shift and the mountain of paperwork waiting on his desk.
“The paperwork never ends,” Veren sighs dramatically. “It’s like a hydra. Cut one form, two more take its place.”
“You’ve never filed a form in your life.”
“Exactly. I outsource my bureaucratic nightmares to people who enjoy suffering.” Veren rises, stretching with feline grace that’s somehow irritating coming from a fox.
“Well, gentlemen. This has been illuminating. Torin, good luck with your weather witch. Try not to get struck by lightning.” He turns to me.
“Aslan, good luck with your crystal witch. Try not to get... charmed? Hexed? What do charm witches even do to people?”
“They make protection amulets.”
“Boring. I was hoping for love potions at minimum.” He vanishes through the door with a wave, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be watching. I’m always watching. It’s unsettling and you should all be aware of it.”
Elio follows shortly after, disappearing with a knowing smile that suggests he’s off to gather more information for his endless games.
Torin claps me on the shoulder, his grip warm and heavy.
“You’re distracted.” His voice is low, meant only for me. “But if something’s wrong—”
“It’s not.”
Torin holds my gaze for a moment, then nods. He’s too good a friend to push when I’m clearly not ready to talk. It’s one of the things I appreciate about him—the patience, the willingness to wait until I’m ready.
He keeps his voice low. “Whatever it is—you don’t have to carry it alone.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m standing in the empty Stone Circle, the fire burning low, the silence pressing against my ears.
But I do. I always have.
It’s the only way I know.
The mist thickens as I walk through Ironwood Row, tendrils curling around my boots with every step. The streets are quiet—most shifters are home by now, or gathered in the main room of The Den for drinking and stories. I could join them. Should, probably.
Instead, my feet carry me west. Toward The Hollow. Toward Moonthread Square.
The Den’s noise fades behind me as I cross Warden’s Crossing, the bridge’s old stones solid under my feet. Ahead, The Hollow opens up—narrow streets, buildings leaning into each other, the heavy presence of accumulated magic pressing against my senses.