20. Aslan #2
I lean closer. The handwriting is cramped, but the words she’s found are clear enough: the Severing was performed at the site of the Warding Line. Mistvale was chosen because the old magic ran strongest at this boundary. The ritual was anchored here.
We both look up at the same moment. Through the kitchen window, the tree line at the edge of tiger territory is just visible—the direction of the Warding Line.
“It’s been here the whole time.” Her voice is quiet. “The boundary that’s been weakening. The place where the Preservers kept operating. They weren’t just using it as cover. They were—what, maintaining the ritual site?”
“Guarding it.” The pieces settle into place. “If the Severing was performed there, and our claiming cracked it—”
“Then every time a new pairing forms, it cracks a little further.” She closes the folder slowly. “That’s why they were so desperate to stop us. It wasn’t just about us. We were the keystone.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, processing. I see her putting the pieces in order, building a picture of a threat much larger than either of us understood.
“They’ve been doing this for generations,” she says finally. “Hunting witches who could form these kinds of pairings. Preventing something they were terrified of.”
“And failing. At least with us.”
“With us.” She looks up, fierce. “But how many others didn’t make it? How many witches were ‘handled’ before they could find their mates?”
I don’t have an answer. The documents don’t offer one either—just lists and warnings and the cold accounting of a centuries-long campaign.
“The Severing. Mate potential. Ancient conspiracies trying to prevent witch-shifter claims.” She looks at the folder, then up at me. “I just wanted to sell crystals.”
“Too late now.”
“Apparently.” She looks up at me, expression complicated. “This is bigger than us, isn’t it? Whatever the Preservers were doing, whatever they tried to stop—it’s not over.”
“No.” I pull her against my chest. Feel her relax into me, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder.
“But it’s not your burden to carry alone.
It’s not even our burden to carry alone.
Mistvale has the Protection Network. It has the coven.
It has...” I gesture vaguely at the cobbler. “Whatever Grandmother Peach is.”
“That’s oddly comforting.”
“I try.”
Three hours later, we’re at Thornveil Apothecary.
The shop smells the way it does—herbs and potions and a faint floral undertone I’ve never been able to identify.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves hold ingredients with labels I can’t pronounce.
The compounding room in the back hums with quiet magic.
It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into another century.
Shadow is curled in a basket near the fire, looking nothing like the flat-eyed puppet from the Warding Line. His fur is glossy again, his eyes bright and aware. When Leire kneels beside him, he lifts his head and chirps—a soft sound, tentative. Apologetic.
I stay back. Watch. This isn’t my moment.
Anouk appears beside me, silent despite the heavy apothecary boots she wears. “He’s been asking for her since he regained full consciousness.”
“How long did the recovery take?”
“All night. The control spells were layered—years of them, built up like sediment. It took hours to dissolve them all.” She crosses her arms, watching Leire approach her former familiar. “He’s brave. The pain must have been considerable.”
“He had a lot to make up for.”
“Did he?” Her voice sharpens. “He was enslaved. Coerced. Made to betray the person he loved most in the world. What exactly does he need to make up for?” She pauses. “Don’t answer that. It was rhetorical. I’m in a mood. Ignore me.”
“Everything all right?”
“Peachy.” The word drips sarcasm. “Caius showed up at three in the morning to interrogate me about the documents Grandmother Peach copied. Apparently I’m responsible for monitoring ancient matchmaker witches now. Nobody told me that was part of the coven leader job description.”
“I’m sure he was just being thorough.”
“He was being Caius.” She rolls her eyes. “All stern intensity and professional boundaries. Gods forbid he show a human emotion. The man has the warmth of a particularly uptight glacier.”
I say nothing. Anouk doesn’t notice the irony.
“Hey.” Leire’s voice is gentle, pulling my attention back to her reunion. She reaches out, lets Shadow sniff her fingers. “How are you feeling?”
Better. The word appears in the air above his head—faint, shimmering. His familiar bond with Leire is broken beyond repair, but he’s still magical enough to communicate. Clearer. The fog is gone.
“Good.” She scratches behind his ears. “That’s good.”
I tried to warn you. More words form, each one seeming to cost him effort. In the alley. I tried to break free long enough to tell you the truth. But the control reasserted itself before I could manage more than a few seconds.
“I know. I understand now.”
I’m sorry. The letters shimmer. I tried to fight it. Every day, I tried. For two years, I screamed against the cage they put me in. But the magic was too strong. I couldn’t—
“I know.” Leire’s voice cracks. “I know you didn’t choose it. I know you fought. Shadow...” She takes a breath. “I forgive you. Really forgive you. Not just saying the words—meaning them.”
The cat stares at her. His whole body seems to soften. The tension he’s been carrying since the moment he regained consciousness finally bleeds away.
I can never be your familiar again.
“I know.”
The bond is too broken. Even if we wanted to reform it, the magic won’t allow it. We’re too different now.
“I know that too.”
But I can be your friend. A pause. If you’ll have me. I can stay in Mistvale. Watch over your shop. Help you when you need it. Another pause. If you want.
Leire laughs—watery, raw. “I’d like that. I’d really like that.”
She gathers him into her arms. He presses his face against her neck, purring. The sound fills the small room, warm and healing.
I look away. Give them privacy.
Anouk appears at my elbow again. “The control spells are completely dissolved. He’ll need time to recover, but there’s no permanent damage.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” She studies my face with cool, assessing eyes. “The claiming took. I can feel it from here.”
“Is that a problem?”
“The opposite.” Something moves across her expression—quick as a shadow, gone before I can name it.
The look of someone who has done the accounting and found themselves on the wrong side of a ledger.
“You’re the first successful witch-shifter claiming in recorded memory.
Whatever Leire has—this mate potential—it’s rare.
Possibly unique. The Preservers spent considerable resources trying to prevent this. ”
“And failed.”
“And failed.” A slight smile. “Good for them.”
She doesn’t say what she’s thinking. Neither do I. But I saw her face when Shadow’s broken bond came up—the way her jaw tightened, the careful stillness of someone who knows exactly what it costs to lose that kind of connection.
I look back at Shadow, curled against Leire’s side. He’ll need months to fully recover what was taken from him—the Preservers don’t leave clean damage. But he’s fighting his way back, one day at a time, and Leire will be there for each of them. Some bonds survive worse than what they endured.
The afternoon brings chaos.
Leire’s shop—what’s left of it—becomes ground zero for a celebration no one planned. Sakura arrives first, practically bouncing, clouds literally parting above her head as her mood lifts. Then Zeph storms in with a crate of bottles that glow an alarming shade of purple.
“Celebration brew!” She starts uncorking bottles with reckless enthusiasm. “I made it special. No weird side effects, I promise.”
“Define ‘weird.’” Leire eyes the bottles suspiciously.
“Temporary. Any side effects are temporary.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Reassurance is for cowards. Try it.”
“What are the potential side effects?”
“Minor. Probably minor.” Zeph waves a hand dismissively. “Slight tingling. Possible temporary color changes. Brief episodes of enhanced hearing. Nothing permanent. Almost nothing permanent. One person’s hair turned blue for a week, but that was a feature, not a bug.”
“I’m going to pass.”
“Your loss.” Zeph downs half a bottle herself, belches spectacularly, and grins. “So. You mated the murder cat. How was it?”
Sakura makes a strangled sound. “Zeph!”
“What? We’re all thinking it. I’m just saying it out loud like a normal person.”
“Normal people don’t ask about their friends’ intimate activities within thirty seconds of arriving.”
“Normal people are boring.” Zeph turns back to Leire. “Well?”
Leire’s face is red, but she’s smiling. “I’m not answering that.”
“The non-answer is an answer. Look at her blush. It was good. It was definitely good.”
“Zeph.”
“Multiple times, I’m betting. Tiger stamina. Am I right?”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Worth it.”
Leire surveys the damage to her shop. The bay windows are shattered. Display cases lie in broken heaps. Her carefully arranged crystals are scattered across the floor, some cracked, some whole, all covered in magical residue from the battle.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Sakura offers.
“It looks like a war zone.”
“Okay, it’s exactly as bad as it looks. But we can help rebuild!”
Anouk arrives with boxes of supplies. Practical as ever, she immediately begins assessing what can be salvaged.
“The structure is sound. The wards held, despite everything. Most of the crystals are still viable.” She holds one up to the light.
“This one’s actually stronger than before. Interesting.”
“War crystals.” Zeph takes a swig from one of her bottles. “You should market them. ‘Survived an ancient conspiracy—now even more protective!’ I’ll design the labels. I’m excellent at labels.”
“Your brewery labels all have questionable puns on them.”
“‘Ale Be Seeing You’ is comedy gold.”
“It’s really not.”
“You have no appreciation for art.”