Page 55 of Impawssible Magic

“Shadow?”

No response. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, but his eyes remain fixed on some middle distance I can’t see. The emptiness I noticed in the square is worse here. Complete. Like someone carved out everything that made him himself and left only the shell.

“The control magic.” Aslan crouches beside me. “I can see it. Wrapped around him like chains.”

I look closer—not with my eyes, but with my magical senses. And there it is. Threads of foreign magic wound through Shadow’s essence, binding him, suppressing him, overwriting every impulse with commands from somewhere far away. The magic is old—years old, layered, reinforced every time he tried to fight it.

“This has been here since before the betrayal.” My voice shakes. “They’ve been controlling him this whole time. He never chose to testify against me. He couldn’t choose anything.”

I touch his head. His fur is rough, unwashed, but still soft underneath. Familiar. I know this fur. I’ve buried my face in it a thousand times, crying, laughing, just breathing in the comfort of knowing I wasn’t alone.

For a moment—a single, heartbreaking moment—his eyes flicker. Recognition surfaces in that flat emptiness. Desperation. Apology. The Shadow I knew, trapped somewhere deep inside, fighting with everything he has to reach me.

I’m sorry, those eyes say. I tried. I couldn’t stop them.

Then the control magic yanks him back under, and his eyes go blank again.

I crack.

The walls I’ve built—the sarcasm, the self-deprecation, the armor of humor I’ve worn since the exile—they crumble like wet paper. Two years of grief hits me all at once. Two years of hating the one creature who loved me unconditionally. Two years of believing I was unworthy of love because even my familiar turned against me.

All of it, manufactured. All of it, a lie.

The sob that tears out of me is ugly. Gasping. Not the pretty crying of movie heroines but the real thing—snot and tears and sounds that come from somewhere so deep they scrape on the way out.

I don’t care. I can’t stop.

Arms wrap around me. Solid. Warm. Aslan pulls me against his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other pressed flat between my shoulder blades. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t offer empty platitudes about how everything will be okay.

He just holds me.

I cry into his shirt until I can’t anymore. Until the sobs fade to hiccups and then to silence. Until the grief has carved out everything it wants and left me hollow. His heartbeat is steady under my ear. His arms don’t waver.

“I hate them.” My voice is wrecked. Barely recognizable. “Whoever did this—the Preservers, the people in my old coven who helped them—I want to destroy them.”

“We will.” His voice rumbles through his chest into mine. “We’re going to find them. Every single one. And we’re going to make them pay for what they took from you.”

The certainty in his voice steadies me. Not hope—I’m not ready for hope. But purpose. Direction. A target for all this rage to point at.

I pull back. Wipe my face with my sleeve. Look at Shadow’s still form.

“Can we break the control?”

Aslan studies the magical bindings. “Not here. Not without preparation. The magic is too old, too layered. We’d need Anouk—her expertise, her supplies. A proper ritual. Maybe tomorrow morning.”

“But we can take him with us?”

“Yes.”

I gather Shadow into my arms. He’s lighter than he should be—they haven’t been feeding him properly, or the control magic is consuming his life force along with his will. His body is limp, unresponsive, but warm. Still alive.

Still fighting, somewhere deep inside.

“I’m going to fix this.” I press my face against his fur, breathing in the familiar scent beneath the neglect. “I’m going to get you back. I promise.”

He doesn’t respond. But I feel something—a whisper of the familiar bond we used to share. Faint. Fragile. But there.

Aslan helps me stand. His hand lingers at my elbow, supporting without crowding.