5. Leire
FIVE
LEIRE
Three days of Aslan Nexis being everywhere.
He doesn’t speak. Barely acknowledges my existence, actually.
Just... appears. Leaning against the fountain in Moonthread Square when I open the shop.
Browsing the window display at Thornwick Books when I step out for lunch.
Sitting on a bench near Honeyveil Tea House, newspaper in hand, looking for all the world like a perfectly normal citizen enjoying a perfectly normal afternoon.
Except he’s not normal. And neither is the way my skin prickles every time I feel his attention on me.
“You know I can see you, right?” I call across the square on day two, arms full of supplies from the apothecary.
He doesn’t respond. Just folds his newspaper with infuriating precision and watches me unlock my door.
I’ve given up pretending I’m not aware of his presence every single second. My magic has developed other ideas entirely.
The citrine on my counter pulses when he walks past the window. The wind chimes near my door—not enchanted to respond to anything except ill intent—tinkle softly whenever he’s within fifty feet. And my wards...
My wards are acting drunk.
Not failing, exactly. Just... enthusiastic. They flare whenever he gets close, then settle into a warm humming when he stays put. Like they’re happy to see him. Like my magical defenses have developed a crush on the tiger shifter assigned to protect me.
This morning, I’m reorganizing my back room for the third time this week—nervous energy has to go somewhere—when I hear the bell chime. Customer. Finally. I smooth my hair, paste on my professional smile, and step through the curtain.
Not a customer.
Aslan stands in the center of my shop, filling the space in a way that should be illegal. Dark clothes, sharp cheekbones, those eyes taking in every detail of my displays. He’s holding a paper bag in one hand.
“This is new.” I stop behind my counter, maintaining distance. “You’re inside. Has hell frozen over, or am I just special?”
The barest hint of movement that might, in another universe, be called the beginning of a smile appears on his lips. “Grandmother Peach sends these.”
He sets a paper bag on my counter—scones, from the smell of it—and he’s already moving toward the door. “She says you haven’t been eating enough.”
“How does she—” I start, but he’s gone, the bell chiming behind him.
The man communicates in pastry. The rose quartz on my counter hums smugly. I ignore it.
The scones are perfect. Obviously. Sunny Clearwater’s baking is legendary, and whatever mood-enhancing magic she works into her pastries is definitely affecting me, because I’m almost cheerful by the time the bell chimes again at noon.
“Hello! Welcome to Whisper—oh.”
The woman in my doorway is not what I expected.
Tall. Elegant. Skin the color of warm earth, dark hair pulled back in a severe twist that somehow manages to look effortlessly beautiful.
She’s dressed in deep burgundy—practical but expensive—and she carries herself with the quiet authority of someone who’s never had to raise her voice to be heard.
I know who she is before she speaks. Everyone knows who Anouk Darkwater is.
Coven leader of Mistvale. Owner of Thornveil Apothecary. The witch everyone respects and no one quite dares to approach casually.
And she’s standing in my shop, examining my crystal displays with an expression I can’t read.
“Leire Firesinger.” Her voice is cool, measured. “I’ve been meaning to visit.”
“Have you?” I resist the urge to straighten my already-straight display cases. “Should I be worried? Is there a coven inspection I didn’t know about? Because I’m pretty sure my business license is current—”
“This isn’t an inspection.” The corner of her mouth lifts. Barely. “Consider it a welcome. Overdue, but genuine.”
She moves through the shop with the easy grace of someone accustomed to magical spaces. Her fingers trail over crystals without quite touching them. She’s reading my work without disturbing it. A professional’s instinct.
“Your attunement is impressive.” She pauses at the smoky quartz cluster, studying it with the eye of someone who could have made it herself. “Most witches your age are still fighting their materials. You’ve stopped fighting yours.”
“A month of arguing with that particular piece before it agreed with me.” I’m watching her carefully, trying to figure out the angle. People like Anouk Darkwater don’t just drop by to compliment inventory. “Can I help you find anything?”
“The apothecary’s wards need strengthening.
” No preamble, no working up to it—she says it the way she probably runs her coven, direct and unhurried.
Those dark eyes are assessing, intelligent, and more tired than her perfect composure suggests.
“The standard protocols are adequate, but with the recent...” She pauses.
Chooses her words carefully. “Instabilities. I’d like more comprehensive protection. ”
Recent instabilities. The thin spots in the Warding Line. The things people whisper about but don’t say outright.
The dead bird on my doorstep.
“I’d be happy to consult.” I grab my order pad, to have it in my hands. “I can come by this week to assess the existing wards and develop recommendations—”
“Tomorrow would be ideal.” It’s not quite a command, but close. “However, that’s not the only reason I’m here.”
She reaches into her bag and produces a small envelope. Heavy cream paper, elegant script. Old-fashioned in a way that feels deliberate.
“The coven hosts informal gatherings periodically. Tonight’s is at Duskfire Brewery. Nothing formal—just an opportunity for newer members to connect with the community.” She sets the envelope on my counter. “I’d like you to come.”
I stare at the invitation. At her. Back at the invitation.
“Is this... mandatory?”
“Nothing about coven participation is mandatory.” There’s amusement in her voice. “But I think you’d benefit from the company. Being new in Mistvale can be...” She pauses again. “Isolating.”
The word lands with unexpected force. Because she’s right. Three weeks in this town and my only real friend is Sakura, who has her own chaos to manage. The dead bird. The crystal rearrangement. The feeling of being watched by more than just my assigned protector.
Isolation breeds vulnerability. Maybe it’s time to change that.
“What time?”
“Seven.” She’s already moving toward the door. “Zeph runs the bar. She’s... enthusiastic. Don’t let her mix your first drink.”
“Ominous advice.”
“You’ll understand when you meet her.” Anouk pauses at the threshold, and for just a moment, warmth shows through the cool exterior. “I’m glad you came to Mistvale, Leire Firesinger. Whatever brought you here—I believe you belong.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m left holding an invitation to a gathering I’m definitely terrified to attend.
The mist has thickened with evening, turning the streets into a labyrinth of silver and shadow.
I pass through Moonthread Square, empty except for the Whisper Oak creaking in a breeze I can’t feel.
Past Thornwick Books, where the lights are still on and something moves in the window that might be Berry’s semi-sentient shelves rearranging themselves.
Past the Crescent Cup, where a vampire couple is setting up for the night shift, their pale hands moving in perfect synchronization.
I spot Aslan three blocks before the brewery.
He’s not hiding tonight. Leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed, watching the foot traffic with predatory attention. When he sees me, there’s a shift in his expression. Not quite a greeting. More like... acknowledgment.
“Going somewhere?” There’s an edge under the casual words, pitched low enough that it lands somewhere south of my ribs.
“Brewery. Coven thing.” I keep walking. “Unless that violates some protection protocol I don’t know about.”
He falls into step beside me. I catch his scent—warm and wild underneath the more mundane notes of soap and leather. My magic surges toward him before I can stop it, and I feel the crystals in my pocket pulse in response.
“I’ll be nearby.”
“Of course, you will.” I glance at him sideways. “Do you ever actually go home? Sleep? Do tiger things?”
“Tiger things?”
“I don’t know. Prowl. Hunt. Take aggressive naps in sunbeams.”
The sound he makes might be a laugh. Or a cough. Hard to tell with him. “I sleep. When necessary.”
Before I can ask what that means, he steps back. Dissolves into the shadow between two buildings so smoothly that I barely catch the movement.
“Dramatic,” I call after him. “Very intimidating. Ten out of ten exit strategy.”
No response. But I swear I hear another almost-laugh.
I push open the door.
Duskfire Brewery is chaos with a liquor license.
Copper brewing equipment gleams in the back, pipes and vats and contraptions that definitely weren’t designed by anyone with a safety certification.
The front is all rustic charm—mismatched stools lining a battered wooden bar, tables scattered without pattern, fairy lights tangling with hop vines that climb the exposed brick walls.
A chalkboard menu hangs crooked behind the bar, listing drinks with names like “Liquid Courage,” “Memory Lane Ale,” and “Thursday’s Mistake. ”
Several items are crossed out with aggressive slashes. One just says “DON’T” in red chalk.
The place is half full—witches and a few shifters scattered at tables, conversation humming underneath what might be jazz but sounds more like two cats having an argument near a piano. There’s warmth here, despite the chaos. Comfort. The kind of place that becomes familiar after the first visit.
“New blood!”
The shout comes from behind the bar, where a woman with wild dark hair and a grin too wide to be entirely trustworthy is waving a bottle that’s glowing purple.
Zeph Grimwood. Has to be.