3. Leire
THREE
LEIRE
Dawn comes too early.
I’ve been awake for hours anyway, staring at the ceiling, listening to the mist press against my windows.
I drag myself out of bed as the first light seeps through the curtains, pull on yesterday’s clothes, and pad downstairs to start the day. Coffee first. Then I’ll open the shop, pretend everything is fine, and try not to think about mysterious silhouettes or bells ringing in the night.
The stairs creak under my feet. Familiar sounds. Safe sounds.
Then I reach the bottom, and everything stops.
My crystals.
They’ve been moved.
I stand frozen in the doorway, pulse spiking, my magic surging instinctively toward the wards. They’re intact. Undisturbed. No sign of forced entry, no residue of hostile magic, no indication that anyone crossed my threshold during the night.
But someone was here.
The amethyst cluster I positioned by the east window now sits in the center of my main display case.
The rose quartz has been relocated to the front counter, arranged in a perfect circle with five smaller stones I don’t even remember putting out.
The citrine—my abundance stone, my good luck charm—lies on its side near the door, pointing outward like an accusation.
My selenite wands have been grouped in a configuration that makes no sense from an energy perspective but forms a deliberate pattern when viewed from above.
The smoky quartz cluster—my most expensive piece, the one that took a month to attune—has been rotated exactly forty-five degrees from its original position.
And in the middle of the floor, drawn in what looks like salt, is a symbol I don’t recognize.
Three interlocking triangles with a vertical line through the center. Simple. Geometric. Completely meaningless to me.
My hands are shaking. I pull out my phone and photograph everything—the symbol, the crystal arrangement, the careful precision of it all. Whoever did this wasn’t rushed. They took their time. Moved through my space like they belonged here.
Panic claws at my throat. I shove it down, bury it beneath fury that burns hot and clean.
“You want to play games?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Fine. Let’s play.”
I spend the next hour searching every inch of the shop. Behind the display cases. Under the workbench. In the storage closet I haven’t fully organized yet. Nothing else has been disturbed. Nothing taken, nothing added—just the crystals rearranged and that symbol on my floor.
The salt—or whatever it is—dissolves when I try to sweep it up, leaving no trace on the hardwood. My wards remain stubbornly silent, insisting that nothing crossed them. Either someone found a way to bypass my protections entirely, or...
The thought makes my skin crawl.
By the time I finish my sweep, the sun has risen properly and the mist has thinned to its daytime shimmer. I’m exhausted and wired.
I put the crystals back where they belong, speaking to each one as I work. Apologies for the disruption. Reassurances that they’re safe.
“I know. Believe me, I didn’t like it either. But look on the bright side—you got a field trip.”
The collision happens approximately thirty seconds after I step outside for air.
One moment, I’m standing on my doorstep, gulping down the cool morning mist, trying to convince my nervous system that danger isn’t imminent.
The next moment, something crashes into me with the force of a small hurricane, and I’m going down in a tangle of limbs and cardboard boxes and what sounds like shattering glass.
“Oh, fantastic—”
The voice is familiar. Bright, exasperated, accompanied by a sudden gust of wind that scatters packing peanuts across the cobblestones.
“Sakura?”
She’s sprawled on top of me, surrounded by the remains of what looks like an entire studio’s worth of supplies. Crystals rolling across the square. Incense sticks scattered everywhere. Purple and viscous liquid leaking from a cracked jar.
“Leire!” She pushes herself up, brushing hair out of her face with an irritated huff. “Well, this is not how I planned to start my morning, but here we are.”
“On the ground. Covered in...” I sniff. “Lavender?”
“Meditation oil. Very expensive meditation oil that is now decorating the cobblestones and—” She glances at my shirt. “Oh no. Your blouse. That’s going to stain.”
I look down. There is indeed a large purple splotch spreading across my favorite cream-colored top.
“At least I’ll smell relaxing.”
She snorts, finally managing to get to her feet and offering me a hand up.
Her grip is surprisingly strong. “Silver linings. I like it.” She surveys the destruction around us with her hands on her hips—boxes everywhere, glass glittering on the stones, that purple puddle spreading toward the gutter.
“You know what? This is the universe telling me I need to invest in a cart. Or maybe a pack mule. Do they sell pack mules in Mistvale?”
“I feel like you’d find that at the goblin market.”
“Noted. I’ll add it to my list, right under ‘fire-resistant curtains’ and ‘waterproof everything.’” She starts gathering scattered items, her movements quick and efficient despite the chaos.
“The delivery guy has started leaving my packages on the doorstep and literally running away. I choose to believe he’s just very busy and not actively afraid of me. ”
“Definitely the first one.”
“You’re a terrible liar, but I appreciate the effort.” She grins, bright and unbothered.
Before I’ve decided to, I’m kneeling beside her, collecting the unbroken pieces. A bundle of sage, miraculously intact. Several tumbled stones that rolled under a nearby bench. A small brass singing bowl that somehow survived the impact without a scratch.
“Your studio is opening soon, right? Radiant Aura?”
“If I can get through a single day without causing a weather event inside a building, yes.” She holds up a cracked crystal sphere, examining it critically.
“The contractor finally agreed to come back. I had to promise—in writing, with a witness—not to express any strong emotions while he’s working.
Apparently ‘mild frustration’ counts as a strong emotion when it makes the ceiling fan spin backward. ”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Genuine, unexpected.
“The ceiling fan?”
“The ceiling fan, both windows, and somehow the toilet. Don’t ask me how wind affects plumbing.
Physics and I are not on speaking terms.” She tosses the cracked sphere into a box with cheerful resignation.
“But I figure if I can master not having feelings for eight hours a day, I can master anything.”
“That sounds psychologically healthy.”
“Oh, it’s definitely not. But neither is accidentally making it hail indoors, so we’re working with what we’ve got.
” She stands, brushing off her knees, and fixes me with a look that’s sharper than her bubbly demeanor suggests.
“Speaking of which—you okay? You look like someone rearranged your entire world while you weren’t looking. ”
“Rough morning. Someone broke into my shop and redecorated without asking. Very rude. Zero stars.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? Are you okay? Was anything taken?”
“Just my peace of mind, which, let’s be honest, was already on thin ice.” I hand her the singing bowl. “Nothing stolen. Just... moved. Rearranged. Left a creepy symbol on the floor like some kind of interior design serial killer.”
“That’s...” She pauses, visibly processing. “Really unsettling, actually. Do you need help? I can do a cleansing, or—well, I can try to do a cleansing. Results may vary. There might be a light breeze involved.”
“I’ll take you up on that. After drinks.” I hear myself say it before I can second-guess.
“Tonight? There’s this place called Duskfire Brewery. The beer has magical effects—allegedly the purple one gives you interesting dreams, the green one does something no one will explain to me, and there’s apparently a golden one that makes you briefly fluent in dead languages.”
“That sounds either amazing or like a terrible decision.”
“Why choose? Seven o’clock?”
“Seven o’clock.”
We finish gathering her scattered supplies, load them back into boxes that are only slightly crushed, and she heads off toward her studio with a wave and a trail of packing peanuts in her wake.
I watch her go, feeling lighter than I have all morning.
“Oh!” Sakura spins around, walking backward. “If anyone asks, that purple stain is a fashion statement. Very avant-garde. You’re welcome!”
She nearly trips over a cobblestone, catches herself with a dramatic arm flourish, and disappears around the corner.
I flip the sign to Open at nine o’clock, right on schedule, and pretend my hands aren’t still shaking.
The bell above my door chimes at half past two.
I look up from the protection charm I’ve been working on—stronger than my usual fare, with extra layers of warning magic woven in—and find myself face-to-face with a woman I’ve never seen.
Mid-thirties, maybe. Warm brown skin, dark hair pulled back in an elegant twist. Her smile is friendly, open, the kind of expression that invites trust. She’s dressed simply but well, and she carries herself with the easy confidence of someone who belongs wherever she happens to be.
Everything about her screams safe. Welcoming. A potential friend.
“You must be Leire.” She moves through the shop like she’s already familiar with it, trailing her fingers along display cases, pausing to admire the crystal arrangements. “I’ve heard wonderful things.”
“Have you? I’ve been here three weeks and I’m averaging about a hundred fifty a day. The wonderful things must be traveling faster than my actual sales figures.”
She laughs, warm and delighted, like I’ve said something genuinely funny instead of mildly self-deprecating.