11. Sakura
ELEVEN
SAKURA
Three days after Torin absorbs a magical explosion and shrugs it off as “seemed like a good idea,” the studio is wrong before I even open the door.
I feel it—a disturbance in the air, a wrongness that prickles against my skin like static electricity. The wind chimes that usually jingle a greeting are silent. Still. Dead.
My hand freezes on the door handle.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re being paranoid. Maybe—
I push the door open.
Glass crunches under my feet.
The crystals. My beautiful crystals, carefully arranged and charged over weeks of work—shattered. Scattered across the floor like broken teeth. The salt room’s door hangs crooked on its hinges. Treatment tables overturned. Plants torn from their pots, soil scattered across the floorboards.
And on the wall, scrawled in what looks like charcoal but smells like burned magic:
LEAVE MISTVALE OR YOUR STORMS WILL BE THE LEAST OF YOUR PROBLEMS.
I don’t cry.
I don’t scream.
I stand in the wreckage of everything I’ve built, and a cold fury settles over me like frost. My magic, usually so chaotic, goes eerily still. Not calm—controlled. Focused.
They did this. They came into my space—my safe space—and they destroyed it.
They will regret this.
The weather outside doesn’t change. No thunder. No lightning. No dramatic storms to announce my feelings to the entire town.
Just silence. Just cold.
Just rage that has nowhere to go yet.
I pull out my phone. My fingers are steady as I type.
Me: Someone destroyed my studio.
Three seconds pass. Then my phone explodes with responses.
Torin: On my way.
Leire: What? Are you okay? Don’t touch anything—
Zeph: I’m bringing alcohol and violence. Not necessarily in that order.
Anouk: Document everything. I’m contacting the Network.
I put the phone away. Look at the destruction around me.
They think this will scare me away.
They’re wrong.
Torin arrives in four minutes.
I know because I count. It’s a coping mechanism. Counting things when everything else feels out of control.
He fills the doorway—massive, solid, his expression carefully blank in a way I’ve learned to read. The blankness isn’t calm. It’s containment. A predator deciding how to respond.
His eyes sweep the room. Take in the shattered crystals. The destroyed plants. The message on the wall.
When they land on me, standing in the center of the wreckage, his expression shifts.
Not softer. Colder.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. I wasn’t here when it happened.”
“Good.” The word is clipped. Precise. “Who did this?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll find out.”
I believe him absolutely. Not because he’s making a promise—because he’s stating a fact. We will find out. And whoever did this will wish they hadn’t.
He moves through the space with careful precision, examining the damage without disturbing it. His bear is close to the surface—I can see it in the way he moves, the way his nostrils flare as he scents the air.
“The wards were bypassed.” His voice is low. Controlled. “Not broken—bypassed. Someone knew the signature.”
“How is that possible?”
“Official coven access. The wards were registered when you opened the studio.” He straightens, and his eyes are cold in a way I’ve never seen before. “Someone with authority used that registration to walk right through your protections.”
Valesh.
The name surfaces unbidden. The councilor who’s always so helpful. Always asking questions. Always appearing at exactly the right moment.
“The Preservers,” I say quietly.
“The Preservers.” He nods once. “This isn’t random vandalism. This is a message.”
“Leave or else.”
“You’re not leaving.”
It’s not a question. He doesn’t ask if I want to stay, if I’m scared, if maybe it would be safer to find another town. He just states it as fact.
“No.” My voice is steady. Cold. “I’m not leaving.”
His expression flickers—approval, pride, and underneath it all, a fierce protectiveness that makes my eyes sting.
“Then we make them regret this.”
The town arrives in waves.
Sunny Clearwater appears first, carrying a basket of pastries that seems far too large for the situation.
“I heard. The mist told me. Also, Anouk sent a group message, but mostly the mist.” She surveys the destruction with the pragmatic assessment of someone who’s seen worse.
“Lavender scones for the shock. Chocolate croissants for the anger. Emergency lemon bars for the fury—the acidity, you know. Very clarifying for the emotions.”
“Thank you.” My voice sounds strange. Hollow.
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m also here to help clean.” She sets down the basket and rolls up her sleeves. “Biscuit will supervise.”
Her familiar toad emerges from her apron pocket, regards the destruction with deep disapproval, and croaks once. It sounds like judgment.
Berry Thornwick arrives next, arms full of cleaning supplies. She sets them down without a word and starts sweeping broken crystal into a pile, her expression full of quiet, determined sympathy.
Ember stopped by from Eternal Flame Candles with a box of handmade candles, keeping careful distance from the wreckage this time. She’d learned. The lavender scent drifted through the studio—calming, probably on purpose.
More people arrive. The vampires send blood-free snacks with a note: “We’ve had our shop vandalized too. It’s very rude. Solidarity in commercial trauma. - M&T” The basket includes cookies shaped like bats and a bottle of wine with a label that reads “For Processing Feelings (Vampire Approved).”
A pair of younger bears from Torin’s sleuth appear with toolboxes. “Elder Torin sent word. We’re here to secure the perimeter.” One of them surveys the damage, winces. “Also to help clean up. Our moms sent cleaning supplies.”
They’re barely adults—nineteen, maybe twenty—and they look at Torin with the kind of respect that borders on worship. When they catch me watching, they both duck their heads shyly.
“The whole sleuth knows,” Torin says quietly, appearing at my side. “About you. About us. They’re... invested.”
“Invested how?”
“The cubs have started asking me for romance advice.” His voice is dry. “Apparently I’m now an expert because I ‘finally found a mate.’ Their words. Very enthusiastic words.”
“You haven’t—we haven’t—”
“I know. Try explaining that to teenagers who think any interaction between adults automatically leads to claiming.” He almost smiles. “They wanted to know if I was going to write you more poetry.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That it was none of their business.”
“Very diplomatic.”
“I also may have admitted that yes.” His eyes find mine. “If that’s acceptable.”
“It’s acceptable.” More than acceptable. The thought of him writing more verses about my storms makes my chest warm despite the devastation around us. “I’d like that.”
Rhodes appears to document everything, his lion’s expression grim as he photographs the message on the wall. “Official Network investigation. Everything you say may be used as evidence.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“It’s meant to be procedurally correct.” He produces a notebook. “When did you last see the studio intact?”
“Before Torin was hurt three days ago.”
Rhodes’s expression flickers—curiosity, assessment, the slightest hint of knowing. “I see. And when did you discover the damage?”
“This morning. Eight-forty-seven.”
“Precise.”
“Yes.”
He nods, writes that down.
Aslan arrives with Leire, his tiger’s intensity focused and sharp. “The wards were definitely bypassed using official signatures. Anouk is pulling access logs, but whoever did this covered their tracks carefully.”
“Valesh,” Torin says.
“Probably. But we need proof before we can act.”
“We need to act before they try again.”
“We will.” Aslan’s hand finds Leire’s, squeezes once. A grounding touch. A reminder that he understands—his mate was targeted too. “We’ll find them, Sakura. This town protects its own.”
Its own.
I’m part of this town now. Part of a community larger than myself. The realization is strange and warm and terrifying all at once.
The investigation takes hours.
By the time the last official leaves—Rhodes, still writing in his notebook—the sun is setting and my fury has settled into exhaustion. The studio is still a disaster, but at least it’s been documented. Photographed. Officially recognized as a crime.
Leire appears in the doorway. “Girls’ night. My place. Now.”
“I should stay and—”
“You should come drink wine and process emotions with friends.” She crosses her arms. “Anouk’s already there. Zeph is bringing questionable alcohol. This is happening.”
“I don’t think I can—”
“Sakura.” Her voice softens. “You don’t have to be strong right now. That’s what friends are for.”
I look at Torin, who’s been a silent presence throughout the afternoon. Standing guard. Watching. Waiting.
“Go,” he says. “I’ll stay here. Make sure no one comes back.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” His eyes hold mine. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
When you get back.
Not if. When.
“Okay.” I let Leire pull me toward the door. “Thank you.”
He nods once. And I could swear his expression softens—just for a moment—before the mask slides back into place.
Leire’s apartment above her store is warm and cluttered and smells like cinnamon. Even though she lives with Aslan in his cabin, she’s kept up the apartment for times like this.
It still feels like a home—photographs on the walls, soft blankets on the couch, a reading nook by the window where the light pools golden in late afternoon. It feels lived in. Loved.
Anouk is already there, elegant even in casual clothes, a glass of wine in her hand.
“The access logs are inconclusive. Whoever bypassed your wards used a generic authorization—one that could belong to any of the Elder Council members. Councilor Faine has been particularly active in the Registry access logs lately, but I can’t tie it to your ward breach yet. I’m watching him.”
“But you suspect Valesh.”
“I suspect everyone at this point.” She picks up her wine. “But Valesh has been... particularly interested in your abilities. Your episodes. Your relationship with the Protection Network.”