3. Leire #2
“The witch network is surprisingly efficient.” She picks up a piece of black tourmaline, turns it over in her hands.
“Word travels fast when someone with real talent arrives in town. I’m Iskra Sable.
” She sets down the tourmaline and offers her hand.
Her grip is firm, professional. “I’m on the town’s welcoming committee.
We try to make sure new residents feel at home in Mistvale. ”
“A welcoming committee. How delightfully small-town.” I keep my tone light, pleasant. “Do you bring casseroles, or is that too on the nose?”
“We considered it, but the logistics were a nightmare. Too many dietary restrictions in a town full of magical beings.” She continues her circuit of the shop, examining everything with what seems like genuine interest. “Your work is beautiful. Did you train formally, or are you self-taught?”
“Both, in a way. Formal training to learn the rules, self-teaching to figure out which ones to break.”
“Fascinating.” She stops in front of my workbench, studying the half-finished protection charm. “This is advanced work. The layering here—very sophisticated. You don’t see craftsmanship like this often.”
I paste on my best professional smile. “Thank you. Is there anything specific I can help you find today?”
“Actually, yes.” She turns to face me fully. “I heard you specialize in custom protection work. Charms, wards, that sort of thing.”
“I do. Though I should warn you, my current turnaround time is about two weeks. Apparently everyone in Mistvale wants protection.”
“Don’t they always?” Her smile doesn’t waver. “I’d love to place a commission order. Nothing too elaborate—just a small piece for my front door. To keep out... unwanted visitors.”
The irony isn’t lost on me.
“I can definitely help with that. What do you have in mind?”
We spend the next twenty minutes discussing specifications. She wants subtle—nothing that screams “magical protection” to anyone passing by. Effective but elegant. I quote her a price; she doesn’t blink.
“Perfect.” She pulls out a slim leather wallet and hands me a deposit. “Take your time. I’m in no rush.”
I write up a receipt, jot down her contact information. She has an address in Lakeside—the nice residential area along Stillwater Lake. A neighborhood where families settle, where people put down roots.
She lingers by the door, examining a display of tumbled stones I set up near the entrance. Her fingers trail over them with casual interest, but her attention seems focused elsewhere. On me, maybe. Watching for a reaction I’m not giving her.
“I love what you’ve done with the space.” Her voice is warm, conversational. “It feels very... personal. Like you put a piece of yourself into every corner.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Must have taken a lot of work. Starting over, I mean. From scratch.” She picks up a piece of tiger’s eye, holds it to the light. “Especially alone.”
The word lands with precision. Alone.
“I manage.” I keep my voice neutral, pleasant. Professional. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“One more thing.” She sets down the tiger’s eye and meets my gaze. That warm smile still firmly in place. “I heard you came from the Thornwick Coven. In the valley, yes?”
Every nerve in my body goes tight.
I haven’t mentioned my old coven to anyone. Haven’t even thought the name in months. How does this stranger, this welcoming committee member I’ve never met, know where I came from?
“Where did you hear that?”
“Oh, you know how it is.” She waves a hand vaguely. “Witch networks, like I said. Information has a way of finding those who need it.”
She’s gone before I can respond, the door swinging shut behind her, the bell chiming cheerfully like nothing is wrong.
I stand frozen behind my counter, blood rushing in my ears, every instinct screaming.
I grab my phone and pull up the photos from this morning. The symbol on my floor. The rearranged crystals. The careful, precise arrangement that felt like a message.
My hands are shaking again. I clench them into fists and force myself to breathe.
But the timing. The way she mentioned it so casually, right before leaving. The flicker of coldness behind her smile that didn’t match her words.
I spend the rest of the afternoon jumping at every sound. The protection charm sits half-finished on my workbench, mocking me with its incompleteness.
When six o’clock rolls around and no more customers have appeared, I flip the sign to Closed with profound relief.
I grab my jacket and head for the door again.
The sparrow is positioned precisely in the center of my welcome mat.
Small. Brown. Utterly ordinary, except for the angle of its neck—twisted sharply to the left, clearly broken, not a mark on it otherwise. Its eyes are closed, its feathers unruffled. Peaceful, almost, if you didn’t know what it meant.
But I know.
I know exactly what it means.
I don’t scream. Don’t gasp. Don’t make a sound.
I just stand there, staring at this tiny dead thing that someone placed on my doorstep with deliberate care, and feel the last two years come crashing back.
I back away from the door, my breath coming fast and shallow. The mist has thickened with the approaching evening, turning the square into a maze of gray shapes and uncertain shadows. Anyone could be watching. Anyone could be out there, waiting to see my reaction.
I make myself bend down. Make myself pick up the bird with hands that won’t stop trembling. It weighs almost nothing—a handful of feathers and hollow bones and a message I can’t ignore.
I carry it inside, lay it gently on my workbench. Later, I’ll bury it properly. Give it the respect it deserves, this innocent creature killed just to make a point.
But right now, I have other priorities.
I lock the front door. Check the back. Seal every window with layers of protective magic that drain my already depleted reserves. My wards flare as I reinforce them.
My phone buzzes. Sakura, wondering where I am. I stare at the message—all cheerful emoji, the simple assumption that I’m coming, that this evening will be normal, that we’ll drink magical beer and maybe become actual friends.
My legs give out.
I slide down the wall behind my counter and sit on the cold floor, knees drawn to my chest, phone clutched in my hand. The shop is dim around me, lit only by the faint glow of crystals that sense my distress and pulse in sympathy.
The tears come before I can stop them. Hot and silent, streaming down my face, dripping onto my purple-stained shirt. I cry for the sparrow. For the life I thought I was building here. For the stupid, stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Long enough for the mist to darken to full night. Long enough for my phone to buzz twice more with increasingly worried messages from Sakura. Long enough for my tears to dry and my breathing to steady.
I pull myself off the floor. Wipe my face with the back of my hand. Text Sakura a quick apology—rain check, sorry, the beer can whisper to someone else tonight—and put my phone away.
Then I get to work.
I pull every protection text I own off my shelves. Cross-reference the symbol from this morning with everything I can find. Search for mentions of sparrows, of warnings, of groups that might target witches who’ve broken from their covens.
Nothing. Nothing useful, anyway.
The symbol doesn’t appear in any of my references. Neither does the crystal arrangement I photographed. Whatever message someone is sending, it’s in a language I don’t speak.
I work through the night, fueled by cold tea and stubborn fury. By the time dawn starts to light the windows, I have a plan.
Sort of.
More like a list of things I need to find out and a growing suspicion that I can’t do this alone.
The admission tastes bitter. And where has it gotten me?
I make myself eat. Make myself shower and change into clean clothes. Make myself look like a functioning person instead of a paranoid mess running on no sleep and pure spite.
Then I sit behind my counter and wait.