4. Aslan #2
I leave before she can tell me about the ghost’s favorite variety.
Moonthread Square opens up ahead—cobblestones gleaming, the Whisper Oak spreading its ancient branches, fairy lights still twinkling in shop windows.
A construction crew is working on Radiant Aura across the way, and I can hear them discussing weather patterns with the resignation of men who’ve learned that magical mishaps are just part of the job description.
“She sneezed and it hailed,” one of them says. “Inside. Hail. In July.”
“Could be worse,” his partner replies. “Remember the fire witch on Lakeside? She got startled by a spider and took out three mailboxes.”
Whisperwind Charms sits on the corner, bay windows throwing rainbows across the morning fog. The hand-painted sign sways slightly in a breeze that doesn’t quite exist.
Three nights. I told myself it was duty. It wasn’t.
I cross the square before I can talk myself out of it.
The bell above her door chimes when I push inside, and her scent hits me like a physical blow. Warmth and copper and defiance wrapped in skin.
She’s behind the counter, glaring at a crystal like it’s her sworn enemy.
“I know you don’t like the east window,” she’s saying. “But the morning light is optimal for charging and I will not have this argument again. You’re a crystal. You don’t get to have preferences.”
The crystal doesn’t respond. Obviously. It’s a crystal.
But she nods like she’s heard it. “Fine. We’ll try the south window. But if you complain about the afternoon glare, I’m putting you in storage.”
She turns—and freezes.
Three nights of watching her through windows. Three nights of telling myself the pull I felt was nothing. All of it gone the moment she turned around and looked at me.
Those eyes. Forest deep and fire bright, with an edge that says she’s already assessing how much of a threat I pose.
The answer: considerable.
“The shop doesn’t open until—” She stops. Looks me over with the kind of thorough assessment that would make some men uncomfortable.
I am not some men. I let her look.
She stares at me. “You.”
“Me?”
“Who are you?”
“Aslan Nexis.” I don’t offer my hand. Touching her right now would be a mistake. “Protection Network. I’ve been assigned to keep you alive.”
“My what?”
“Liaison. Given the recent incidents at your shop—”
“What incidents?” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You mean the creepy crystal rearrangement and the dead bird delivery? That’s just Tuesday around here. Last week a ghost tried to sell me insurance. Mistvale is weird.”
“The rearrangement wasn’t random. That symbol has some type of meaning.”
Her expression flickers. Fear, quickly buried. “The Protection Network has opinions about my interior decorating?”
“The Protection Network has concerns about your safety.”
We stare at each other. The air between us crackles with more than her unstable magic.
She crosses her arms. “I have conditions.”
“Name them.”
“You don’t interfere with my business. You don’t scare off my customers—what few I have. And you don’t make assumptions about what I need based on what happened before.”
Before. The familiar. The betrayal.
“Agreed.”
She blinks. “Just like that?”
“I’m not here to make your life harder. Just to make sure you keep living it.”
Her expression turns softer for just a moment. Then the armor comes back up.
“Fine. We have a deal.” She reaches for a scrap of paper and scribbles. “My phone number. In case of emergency or if you decide to upgrade from lurking to actually communicating like a normal person.”
I take the paper. Our fingers brush.
The spark that jumps between us is definitely not professional.
She yanks her hand back. “Right. So. Was there anything else, or...”
“I’ll be around.”
“Fantastic. A large, silent shadow following me everywhere. Every witch’s dream.”
“You won’t always see me.”
“Somehow that’s creepier.”
I turn to leave. Stop at the door. “The scones.”
“What?”
“Sunny at Moonpetal Bakery sent scones.” I hold up the paper bag. “They’re supposed to improve your mood.”
“And you’re... giving them to me?”
“You seem like you could use mood improvement.”
“Wow.” She takes the bag, looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. “That’s... unexpectedly thoughtful. For a professional lurker.”
“Security professional.”
“Right. That.” She opens the bag, sniffs. “They smell like butter and happiness.”
“Sunny’s specialty.”
“Tell her thank you.”
She waves the bag at me. “But these scones help. So. Thank you. For the borderline creepy protection detail and the pastry delivery.”
“You’re welcome.”
I leave before I get myself into trouble and acknowledge the spark that’s still tingling in my fingers where we touched.
The bell chimes behind me. The morning sun catches the shop windows, throwing rainbows across the square.
And the beast, the traitor, is practically purring.
Elio Frostheart finds me in the square that afternoon, appearing at my shoulder with the particular silence of someone who has spent decades practicing it.
“Grandmother Peach knows about the symbol.”
His silver-gray eyes are fixed on the shop across the square. His expression reveals nothing. It never does.
“What does she know?”
“She called it a Preserver mark. Refused to elaborate.” His voice carries carefully measured frustration. “Said it wasn’t time yet. Gave me cobbler and somehow I ended up telling her about my childhood fear of butterflies.”
“Butterflies.”
“Don’t ask.” He pauses. “The witch. She’s significant somehow. Grandmother Peach gets that look when she talks about her. The one she had before the Thornback situation. And the Stillwater incident. And—”
“Every time the Registry starts ringing more than usual.”
“Yes.”
We stand in silence.
The corners of his mouth lift. On Elio, that’s practically hysterical laughter. “Veren’s taking bets. On how long before you crack.”
“I’m not going to crack.”
“He’s giving you two weeks.”
“Tell Veren to focus on his own disasters.”
“I would, but watching yours is more entertaining.”
He melts into the shadows before I can respond. Panthers. Always dramatic.