The inn is warmerthan I expected, and significantly more crowded.
I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene. The main room has been rearranged since I last stepped foot in here eight years ago, the tables pushed together to form a rough circle, chairs filled with people who all seem to know each other. A fire crackles in the hearth. The smell of mulled cider hangs in the air, mixed with woodsmoke and magic.
Cadeon is a solid presence behind me, close enough that I can feel the cold radiating off him. He insisted on coming. Well, no, he didn't insist. He simply appeared by the door when I was putting on my coat, dressed in dark clothing, and said, "I will accompany you."
I didn't argue. The thought of walking into a room full of powerful mages alone made my stomach twist.
"Iris!" Thea waves from across the room, her smile bright and genuine. "Come sit!"
I weave through the tables toward her, hyper-aware of the way conversations pause as I pass. Eyes follow me. Assessing. Judging. Comparing me to the legend I'll never live up to.
Cadeon follows like a shadow. Silent. Watchful.
"I'm so glad you came," Thea says, pulling out a chair beside her. "Everyone, this is Iris Ashwood. Elspeth's granddaughter."
"We know who she is," says a man at the far end of the table. He's older, maybe seventy, with iron-gray hair and the kind of face that suggests he's never smiled in his life. "The question is whether she belongs here."
"Magnus," Thea says sharply. "She was invited."
"By you. Not by the council." Magnus leans back in his chair, studying me like I'm a particularly disappointing specimen. "Your grandmother was a founding member of this gathering. A war mage of considerable power. You are... what, exactly? An apothecary's assistant?"
My face goes hot. "I work in an apothecary, yes. I specialize in..."
"Kitchen magic." He finishes, saying it like it's a disease. "Herb sachets and love potions. Tell me, girl, can you even maintain your familiar bond? Or has it already begun to slip?"
Behind me, Cadeon freezes. Which is saying something since the man is definitely not a fidgeter.
It's not that he moves or makes a sound. It's that the temperature in the room drops about ten degrees, and the sense of danger that suddenly radiates from him is palpable.
Through the bond, that gossamer-thin thread I can barely feel most of the time, I feel it. Cold fury. Protective rage. The first strong emotion I've felt from him since the bond activated.
"My bond is fine," I lie, because what else can I say? "And I'd be happy to help research what's happening to the bonds. Grandmother had an extensive library. If there are historical records..."
"Your grandmother," Magnus interrupts, "would have solved this already. She had discipline. Control. The kind of will necessary to maintain a proper bond." His gaze slides to Cadeon,dismissive. "I suppose we'll see if the vampire goes feral when yours inevitably breaks."
The fury through the bond spikes so sharply I actually gasp.
"That's enough, Magnus." A new voice, crisp and authoritative. A woman in her forties with clever eyes and ink-stained fingers stands from her seat. "Iris has agreed to help. That's more than some have offered." She extends her hand across the table. "Petra Blackwood. I run the bookshop in the village. I've been coordinating our research efforts."
I shake her hand gratefully. "Nice to meet you."
"Your grandmother had impeccable taste in reference materials," Petra continues, settling back into her seat. "I'd love to compare notes on bond theory. Have you found Elspeth’s personal journals yet, it might also help pinpoint a timeframe on her end as well."
"Some of them, yes." I'm acutely aware of Cadeon standing behind my chair, radiating menace like a particularly murderous statue. "I haven't read through everything yet."
"No rush. Though time is a factor." Petra pulls out a leather-bound notebook. "Let me catch you up on what we know so far."
The meeting lasts two hours, and by the end, my head is spinning.
The facts, as far as anyone can tell: bonds across the region started weakening about two months ago. The effect is gradual but accelerating. Mages report losing the ability to sense their familiars' emotional states or locations. Commands take longer to "stick." Some familiars describe feeling "untethered," like they're floating.
No one has died yet. No familiars have gone feral. It's unsettling rather than dangerous.
But no one knows why it's happening.
"The timing suggests a connection to the solstice," Petra says, making notes. "The weakening accelerated as we approachedMidwinter. There are historical precedents for magical fluctuations during solstice periods, but nothing quite like this."
"Could it be intentional?" asks a younger mage I haven't been introduced to. "Someone breaking bonds deliberately?"
