Page 52 of Impawssible Magic

There’s a side door with a narrow staircase, the wood worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. When we climb it, Elio is waiting at the top.

He’s exactly as described in Mistvale gossip—dark skin, eyes that shine like polished silver coins in the dim light, geometric designs shaved into his close-cropped hair with artistic precision. His suit is immaculate despite the early hour, charcoal gray with subtle pinstripes that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. He moves like smoke, all subtle elegance and contained power.

“Aslan.” His gaze slides to me. Assessing. Taking my measure in a single glance. “Miss Firesinger.”

The office is surprisingly sparse—a desk of dark wood, two chairs upholstered in leather, walls lined with filing cabinets that probably contain enough secrets to bring down half the magical world. A single white orchid sits on the windowsill, catching the pale morning light. No personal photographs. No decoration. Nothing that would give away who Elio Frostheart really is beneath the political polish.

He doesn’t sit. He moves to one of the filing cabinets, his long fingers finding the right drawer without hesitation. He pulls out a folder—thick, worn at the edges, marked with symbols I don’t recognize—and sets it on the desk between us.

“The Preservers.” He taps the folder with one manicured nail. “I’ve been tracking them for years. Something about Mistvale’s history didn’t add up. Too many gaps in the records. Too many convenient silences. Too many questions no one seems willing to answer.”

“And you couldn’t resist a mystery?” Aslan’s voice is dry.

Elio’s mouth curves into a real smile this time. “You know me so well.”

I reach for the folder. Inside: photocopied documents, handwritten notes in faded ink, fragments of what look like centuries-old texts written in languages I don’t recognize. The symbol from my crystals—the one rearranged overnight, the one in the Registry archives—appears on nearly every page.

“What are they?”

“A faction.” Elio’s voice is smooth, measured, giving nothing away. “Ancient. Predating Mistvale itself. Dedicated to what they call ‘witch purity.’ They believe magical beings should remain separate. Witches with witches. Shifters with shifters. No mixing. No mating across species lines. No deviation from what they consider the natural order.”

My stomach drops. “The Registry matches⁠—”

“An abomination, according to their doctrine.” He pulls out another sheet—a list of names written in different hands across different centuries. Most are crossed out. Some have death dates. Some just have single words beside them: eliminated, neutralized, silenced. “They’ve been systematically identifying witches with what they call ‘mate potential.’ The rare ability to form true mating bonds with shifters.”

“And doing what with them?”

Elio’s silver eyes meet mine. Cold. Knowing. “Eliminating the threat. By any means necessary. Sometimes through death. More often through discrediting, isolation, exile. A dead witch might become a martyr. A broken witch is just a cautionary tale.”

The room goes cold. Aslan scoots beside me, his presence a wall of heat at my back. I feel him there—the solid awareness of his location. Close. Protective. Ready.

“You’re saying they targeted me specifically.”

“You’re on the list.” Elio taps a name near the bottom. My name. Written in fresh ink, added recently. “Your potential was identified years ago—before you even knew you had it. The Preservers infiltrated your old coven. Placed their agents in positions of trust. And when the time was right, they manufactured the circumstances that led to your exile.”

I stare at my name on the paper. Black ink on yellowed parchment. A target painted on my back before I even knew there was a war. Before I knew there was an enemy. Before I knew anything at all.

“Why not just kill me?”

“Easier to discredit. Easier to isolate. A dead witch draws attention, prompts investigation. An exiled witch is forgotten.” Elio slides another document forward—this one more recent, typed rather than handwritten. “But you came to Mistvale. To the one place their influence doesn’t reach as easily. The one place with its own protections, its own power structures, its own resistance to outside interference. And now...”

He trails off, looking at Aslan.

“Now she’s here. With me.” Aslan’s voice is flat. Controlled. The voice he uses when he’s barely containing rage.

“Precisely.” Elio closes the folder. “The witch-shifter pairings they fear most? The ones that could unravel centuries of their work? You’re living proof that such matches are possible. That their entire doctrine is built on a lie.”

The silence stretches. I should be terrified. I should be furious. Instead, I’m thinking about Shadow. About the flat emptiness in his eyes. About the way he didn’t respond when I called his name.

“My familiar.” The word catches in my throat. “Shadow. If they infiltrated my coven years ago...”

Elio’s expression shifts. Almost sympathetic, though it’s hard to tell with him. “It’s possible—likely, even—that he was compromised long before your exile. Familiar bonds can be manipulated. Overwritten with control magic strong enough to turn a loyal companion into a weapon against the witch they’re anchored to.”

I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved. The chair scrapes against the floor. My hands are shaking.

“I need to find him.”

Aslan rises beside me. “Leire⁠—”