“Mimicry of a circle witch’s charm,” he says, in a low, bored drawl. “Clever for a small-town apothecary owner. But cleverness without permission is just another form of rebellion.”
“Mmh,” is all I can respond with.
“The data is needed sooner or later, Damon,” he continues, his eyes locking with mine, a cold, calculating fire in their depths. “And you have no idea how the Council reacts to towns that defy its orders.”
He sets the vial down on my desk. “There was a town once. Oakhaven. Small place, not unlike Willowbrook, situated on a minor ley line. They decided the Council’s directives were… optional. Refused to provide census data on their magical population. Thought they could handle their own affairs.”
He pauses, letting the silence hang in the air. “The Council doesn’t like to be defied. They sent in an enforcer team. Within a month, Oakhaven had a new mayor. A Council-appointed mayor. Their town council was dissolved. Their local governance was stripped away, replaced by a bureaucratic nightmare of Council-approved officials who couldn’t find their own asses with both hands and a map. The town withered. Its magic faded. It’s a ghost town now, Damon. A cautionary tale whispered about in Council chambers.”
I grunt, a noncommittal sound in my throat. I know the story. Every small-town sheriff with a Rift on their doorstep knows the story. It’s the Council’s favorite bedtime story for unruly children.
“I hate that I had to fly down here for this,” Silas says, straightening his already perfect tie, “but I need the numbers, Damon. I need them yesterday. So you best make sure you talk to your townspeople and make sure they understand why this is important. This isn’t a request. It’s a requirement.”
He walks over to my chair and sits, uninvited, leaning back as if he owns the place.
“Are you coming to the meeting?” I ask.
Silas shakes his head, a flicker of amusement, or perhaps contempt, in his eyes. “I have paperwork to get started on. Preparations. I trust you can handle your constituents.”
We leave the office, the air thick with unspoken threats. Outside Town Hall, the town square is already starting to fill up, a nervous energy radiating from the small groups of people gathering. Word has already spread that the Council's representative has been making the rounds all day, introducing himself to business owners and reminding people that cooperation isn't optional.
The sky overhead is a dull, sullen gray, as if reflecting the mood of the town.
That’s when I see him. Fire Chief Noah, his face etched with worry, his uniform slightly rumpled, like he’s been up all night.
“Damon, we’ve got a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” I ask, my gut already twisting.
“Rosehill had an emergency, a structural collapse at the old mill. They called our guys back to help. They’re gone. Most of our team is out of town,” he explains, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “And I’m concerned, Damon. Everyone is spooked. The rumors flying around, the Council’s presence… scared people do stupid things. They panic. They make rash decisions. They start casting spells they shouldn’t.”
I nod, my mind already racing. A town on edge, a depleted emergency response team, a Rift that’s been unusually active. It’s a perfect storm.
“I will handle it,” I say, trying to project a confidence I don’t entirely feel. “I’ll talk to them at the meeting. I’ll calm them down.”
Noah lets out a breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Good. Good. Because the last thing we need right now is a magical incident on top of everything else.”
“Got it.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Keep me in the loop.”
“I will,” I promise, watching him walk away, his shoulders slumped.
I turn my attention back to the growing crowd in the square. They’re my people. My responsibility. And I’m about to walk into a lion’s den, with Silas Thorn’s threats echoing in my ears and the fate of my town hanging in the balance.
Ten minutes later, the Town Hall is packed, a sea of anxious faces turned toward me. The air is tainted with the metallic tang of magic on the edge.
Every chair is filled, people are standing along the walls, and the tension in the room is a physical presence, a low thrum thatvibrates through the floorboards and up into my bones. I stand at the podium, my hands braced on the worn wood.
I scan the crowd, and my eyes catch on familiar faces—Martha Hartwell, her arms crossed over her chest; Oscar Dune, looking pale and nervous; Benny from the tavern, his jaw set with determination.
And then I see her. Caroline.
She’s sitting near the front, her hands clasped in her lap, her face pale but composed. The sight of her sends a jolt through me, a complicated mix of desire and guilt that I immediately push down. But it’s not just her. It’s the woman sitting next to her, an older woman with Caroline’s same auburn hair, though streaked with silver. Her face is softer. I recognize her from years ago.
That’s Eleanor West. Caroline’s mother.
I haven’t seen her in years, not since Edmund died. She keeps to herself. I think she’s a seamstress or something. Seeing her here, out in the open, is a shock to my system.
