4. Aslan
FOUR
ASLAN
The summons comes at dawn.
I’ve barely slept. The dreams came again.
Caius told me to watch her, report back, move on.
Instead I’ve spent every evening finding reasons to patrol past Moonthread Square.
Standing in shadows while she works late, her magic flickering around her like candlelight, talking to crystals like they’re old friends.
Last night, I stayed until her lights went dark, counting the hours until I could justify returning.
The beast disagrees. He thinks we’re being romantic.
The communication crystal on my desk flares with Caius’s voice, clipped and urgent. His office. Now.
I’m dressed and moving before the message ends.
The Den is chaos even at this hour.
Someone’s left a half-eaten plate of bacon on the bar, which is being investigated by a spectral cat who keeps phasing through it with increasing frustration.
Two wolves are arm-wrestling in the corner while their seconds shout suggestions that range from unhelpful to anatomically impossible.
A bear—Torin’s second, Greta—is attempting to fix the jukebox by hitting it with progressively larger objects.
“The percussive maintenance approach,” she explains when I raise an eyebrow. “Works for everything. My grandmother fixed a possessed harpsichord this way. Admittedly, she used an axe, but same principle.”
The jukebox responds by playing what sounds like a polka version of a funeral dirge.
“See? Progress.”
Rhodes Blackthorn sweeps past me, looking like he’s been awake for several days and resenting every moment of it. His locs are pulled back in a style that screams “I have not had time for personal grooming because someone keeps generating paperwork.”
“Aslan.” He nods curtly. “Tell me Caius doesn’t have another incident report. I can’t process another incident report. I’m drowning in incident reports. There are incident reports about my incident reports.”
“I don’t know what Caius wants.”
“It’s definitely an incident.” He sighs like a man who has seen too many forms in his lifetime. “It’s always an incident. Why did I agree to handle Network documentation? I’m a lion. Lions are supposed to be majestic. There’s nothing majestic about filing systems.”
He stalks off toward the coffee station, muttering about alphabetization and the death of dignity.
I leave the chaos behind and head for the stairs.
Caius’s office takes up a corner of the second floor, walls lined with maps and patrol routes and enough yellow incident markers to make any optimist reconsider their life choices. He’s standing at his window when I arrive, scar catching the weak morning light.
“Close the door.”
I do.
“Sit.”
“I’ll stand.”
He turns. Those steel-gray eyes sweep over me with the same calculating assessment he’d give a battlefield.
A muscle ticks in his jaw. He gestures to his desk, where a photograph lies face-up. “Come look at this.”
I move closer. Look.
A sound escapes me—not quite human, not quite controlled.
The image shows crystals arranged in a deliberate pattern—angular, precise, wrong in a way I can’t articulate. My skin prickles.
“What is this?”
“That’s what I need to figure out.” Caius leans against his desk. “Found in the new charm witch’s shop. Whisperwind Charms.”
My hands curl into fists.
Her shop.
“Someone got past her wards without triggering them,” Caius continues. “Rearranged her crystals into this pattern overnight. Left a dead sparrow on her doorstep.”
“Pre-warding technique.” I pick up the photograph.
“The Preservers use methods that predate modern warding frameworks. Her protections were built to detect hostile intent crossing a threshold. Their entry magic is old enough that it doesn’t register as intent at all—it reads as ambient.
Like asking a lock whether a key is dangerous, rather than whether it belongs.
” I set the photograph down. “She did everything right. Her wards aren’t the problem. ”
The same evening I watched her through her window. The same night her lights stayed on too late.
I was right there. Watching from the shadows like some useless—
“You couldn’t have known.” Caius doesn’t look up from the photograph. “The bird was placed during the day.”
“Who is she? What do you know about her?”
“Leire Firesinger. Twenty-eight. Charm specialist.” He pulls out a thin folder. “Complicated history with her former coven. There’s more.” He flips open the folder. “Her old coven had ties to some extremist factions. Nothing proven, but enough rumors that—”
The door bangs open.
Veren Tahann strolls in like he owns the place, which, knowing foxes, he probably thinks he does. His sharp green eyes glitter with barely contained glee.
“Sorry, am I interrupting?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I have information. Dramatic information. The kind that requires appreciation and possibly applause.”
Caius pinches the bridge of his nose. “Veren. We’re in the middle of—”
“Yes, I know. The charm witch situation. I’ve been watching her.
” He produces a small notebook with a flourish.
“Did you know she talks to her crystals? Not just talks—has full conversations. The amethyst is apparently ‘being difficult’ about its placement near the window. Very relatable. I too would be difficult if someone tried to move me toward morning light.”
“This is relevant how?” I ask.
“Context, Aslan. Context is everything.” Veren perches on the edge of Caius’s desk, ignoring the wolf’s growl of displeasure. “She’s scared. Not the obvious kind—she hides it well. But she checks her wards every few hours. Looks over her shoulder when she walks. Jumps at shadows.”
His voice loses some of its theatrical edge. “Whoever’s leaving her these little presents is good. Patient. They’ve been at this for a while.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’m always certain. It’s annoying, I know.” He grins, sharp and knowing. “Also, your tiger has been circling her shop like she’s hiding fresh meat. Half the town has noticed. Sunny at Moonpetal Bakery asked me if you’d gone feral again.”
Again. Because of the Starfall Incident, which we don’t discuss, ever.
“I am not to engage. I was keeping an eye on her.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Veren’s grin widens. “Keeping an eye on her. Sure. Four hours in the same shadow watching a woman argue with a crystal. Very normal.”
“Veren.” Caius’s voice holds a warning.
“Fine, fine. I’ll stop torturing the emotionally constipated tiger.” He slides off the desk. “The point is—she’s in danger. Real danger. The kind that requires actual protection, not whatever brooding thing Aslan’s been doing.”
Caius sets down the photograph. “That’s why I’m assigning him to protection detail.”
Veren’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. “Him? The man who just spent three days lurking outside her shop like a Victorian ghost with boundary issues?”
“I don’t lurk.”
“You absolutely lurk. You have resting lurk face. It’s your whole aesthetic.”
Caius intervenes before I can respond. “Aslan is the best I have. Quiet. Observant. Intimidating without being threatening.”
“Debatable on that last one,” Veren mutters.
“She needs someone who won’t spook her,” Caius continues, ignoring him. “Aslan, you’re officially assigned. Time to engage. Introduce yourself this afternoon. Don’t be...” He gestures vaguely at me. “Whatever this is.”
“Brooding,” Veren supplies helpfully. “The word you’re looking for is brooding. With a side of emotionally unavailable and a garnish of tragic backstory.”
“Get out of my office.”
“Leaving! But I expect updates. Detailed updates. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened since Rhodes got his mane tangled in Grandmother Peach’s rose bushes.”
He vanishes before I can ask, leaving a lingering impression of fox-grin and barely contained chaos.
Caius sighs like a man who has dealt with Veren Tahann for far too many years and is considering retirement. “The symbol. The Archives might have information, but Grandmother Peach guards those records like a dragon guards gold.”
“I’ll introduce myself to the witch. This afternoon.”
“Aslan.” His voice stops me at the door. “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
I don’t turn around. I know exactly what he means.
A ghost drifts past me as I leave The Den, clutching a to-go mug from The Crescent Cup, the vampire-run coffee shop that apparently serves specters now. I don’t stop to think too hard about the logistics.
Sunny Clearwater is outside Moonpetal Bakery, sweeping her doorstep with more enthusiasm than the task requires. Her familiar—a grumpy toad named Biscuit who I’ve never seen look anything other than homicidal—sits on a nearby planter, judging everyone who dares to exist within his line of sight.
“Aslan!” Sunny beams like I’ve made her entire morning just by existing. “You’re out early. Want a scone? I made blueberry today. They’re enchanted for mood improvement, but honestly, I think it’s just the butter content. Sixty percent butter. It’s basically a heart attack in pastry form.”
“I’m fine.”
I accept the bag because arguing with Sunny is like arguing with sunshine—pointless and vaguely guilt-inducing.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome! Tell the charm witch I said hello. I’ve been meaning to stop by—I hear her crystal work is incredible.”
Biscuit croaks what might be agreement or might be a death threat. Hard to tell with toads.
“How do you know I’m going to see—”
“Oh, honey.” She pats my arm with the energy of someone comforting a confused puppy.
Sunny Clearwater has been feeding me scones since I first arrived in tiger territory, and in years of acquaintance, she has never once failed to know things she shouldn’t.
It’s less mystical than it sounds—she just pays attention, which most people don’t.
“There’s no—I’m not going to—”
“Uh huh.” She waves me off. “Go protect your witch. Tell her about the shop’s history! The building used to be a cheese shop in the 1800s. Very romantic. Allegedly haunted by a ghost who just really liked Gouda.”