Page 12 of Impawssible Magic

Three interlocking triangles with a vertical line through the center. Simple. Geometric. Completely meaningless to me.

My hands are shaking. I pull out my phone and photograph everything—the symbol, the crystal arrangement, the careful precision of it all. Whoever did this wasn’t rushed. They took their time. Moved through my space like they belonged here.

Panic claws at my throat. I shove it down, bury it beneath fury that burns hot and clean.

“You want to play games?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Fine. Let’s play.”

I spend the next hour searching every inch of the shop. Behind the display cases. Under the workbench. In the storage closet I haven’t fully organized yet. Nothing else has been disturbed. Nothing taken, nothing added—just the crystals rearranged and that symbol on my floor.

The salt—or whatever it is—dissolves when I try to sweep it up, leaving no trace on the hardwood. My wards remain stubbornly silent, insisting that nothing crossed them. Either someone found a way to bypass my protections entirely, or...

The thought makes my skin crawl.

By the time I finish my sweep, the sun has risen properly and the mist has thinned to its daytime shimmer. I’m exhausted and wired.

I put the crystals back where they belong, speaking to each one as I work. Apologies for the disruption. Reassurances that they’re safe.

“I know. Believe me, I didn’t like it either. But look on the bright side—you got a field trip.”

The collision happens approximately thirty seconds after I step outside for air.

One moment, I’m standing on my doorstep, gulping down the cool morning mist, trying to convince my nervous system that danger isn’t imminent. The next moment, something crashes into me with the force of a small hurricane, and I’m going down in a tangle of limbs and cardboard boxes and what sounds like shattering glass.

“Oh, fantastic⁠—”

The voice is familiar. Bright, exasperated, accompanied by a sudden gust of wind that scatters packing peanuts across the cobblestones.

“Sakura?”

She’s sprawled on top of me, surrounded by the remains of what looks like an entire studio’s worth of supplies. Crystals rolling across the square. Incense sticks scattered everywhere. Purple and viscous liquid leaking from a cracked jar.

“Leire!” She pushes herself up, brushing hair out of her face with an irritated huff. “Well, this is not how I planned to start my morning, but here we are.”

“On the ground. Covered in...” I sniff. “Lavender?”

“Meditation oil. Very expensive meditation oil that is now decorating the cobblestones and—” She glances at my shirt. “Oh no. Your blouse. That’s going to stain.”

I look down. There is indeed a large purple splotch spreading across my favorite cream-colored top.

“At least I’ll smell relaxing.”

She snorts, finally managing to get to her feet and offering me a hand up. Her grip is surprisingly strong. “Silver linings. I like it.” She surveys the destruction around us with her hands on her hips—boxes everywhere, glass glittering on the stones, that purple puddle spreading toward the gutter. “You know what? This is the universe telling me I need to invest in a cart. Or maybe a pack mule. Do they sell pack mules in Mistvale?”

“I feel like you’d find that at the goblin market.”

“Noted. I’ll add it to my list, right under ‘fire-resistant curtains’ and ‘waterproof everything.’” She starts gathering scattered items, her movements quick and efficient despite the chaos. “The delivery guy has started leaving my packages on the doorstep and literally running away. I choose to believe he’s just very busy and not actively afraid of me.”

“Definitely the first one.”

“You’re a terrible liar, but I appreciate the effort.” She grins, bright and unbothered.

Before I’ve decided to, I’m kneeling beside her, collecting the unbroken pieces. A bundle of sage, miraculously intact. Several tumbled stones that rolled under a nearby bench. A small brass singing bowl that somehow survived the impact without a scratch.

“Your studio is opening soon, right? Radiant Aura?”

“If I can get through a single day without causing a weather event inside a building, yes.” She holds up a cracked crystal sphere, examining it critically. “The contractor finally agreed to come back. I had to promise—in writing, with a witness—not to express any strong emotions while he’s working. Apparently ‘mild frustration’ counts as a strong emotion when it makes the ceiling fan spin backward.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Genuine, unexpected.