Page 33 of Impawssible Magic

“The archives are unhinged.”

“That too.”

The breakthrough comes in a book so damaged, I almost set it aside—but there, in faded ink, is the symbol. The exact pattern. And beneath it—words barely legible, ink faded to near-nothing:

...those who carry the old potential must not be permitted to anchor... the Severing holds only so long as the pairings do not... each claiming weakens the working by degrees... should a true bond form, the whole of what was built...

The surrounding text is half-destroyed, as if someone deliberately scraped the pages clean. The page ends there. Torn away deliberately.

The amethyst in my coat pocket gives one sharp, indignant pulse—the way it does when it recognizes something old and wrong. I press my palm flat against the fabric.

“The Severing.” Aslan’s voice is quiet. “That word keeps appearing. No one knows what it means.”

“Someone does.” I trace the torn edge. “Someone who didn’t want this found.”

We photograph everything legible and make our way back through the labyrinth. Grandmother Peach is waiting with more cobbler.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Pieces.” Aslan accepts a second bowl without argument. Even stoic tiger shifters can’t resist her baking.

“The Preservers.” Her voice is light, conversational. “A very old faction. Very dedicated. They believe certain things should remain separate.” She serves me with practiced elegance. “Witches and shifters, for instance.”

“You knew about them.”

“I know many things.” Her smile hasn’t changed, but there’s a sharpness behind it. “If they’re active again... perhaps the world is changing.”

“They targeted Leire specifically.” Aslan’s tone has gone hard. “Why her?”

“That, I cannot tell you. But I suspect it has to do with what Miss Firesinger is. Not what she’s done.”

“What I am?” The words come out sharp. “I’m a charm witch. Nothing special.”

Grandmother Peach meets my eyes and holds.

“Everyone is special, dear. Some people just haven’t discovered that yet.”

She ushers us toward the door before I can demand clarification.

“Come back anytime. And Mr. Nexis—” She opens the entrance door. “The lavender bath salts. Very wise choice.”

Aslan goes completely still. “I don’t—how did you⁠—”

“I hear things.” Her smile is serene. “Now run along. You have work to do, and I have a cobbler competition to prepare for. Sunny Clearwater will not best me this year.”

The door closes, and we’re standing on the Registry’s front step, blinking in afternoon light.

He walks beside me back to Moonthread Square, and despite everything—the terrifying information, the cryptic warnings, the very real possibility that an ancient faction is trying to kill me—I’m fighting back a smile.

We stop at my door. The moment stretches.

“Thank you.” The words feel inadequate. “For the coffee. The research. Taking this seriously.”

“I take everything seriously.”

“I’ve noticed.” I look him over. “It’s kind of your thing.”

Something shifts in his expression—a fraction of tension releasing along his jaw, his eyes holding mine a half-second longer than his usual watchfulness allows.