Tristan pocketed the vial. "If you think of anything else, anything at all that seemed off in the days before the incidents started, let me know."
"Will do."
The forge was next. Silas wasn't there, but his apprentice was a young bear shifter named Carter who still looked shaken from the lantern explosion.
"It turned blue," Carter said, wringing his hands. "Just went from normal to blue to cold. Fire shouldn't be cold, you know? That's wrong."
"Did you see anyone near the forge before it happened?"
"No. Just us working. And then..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "My dad says shadow witches can't be trusted. Says their magic comes from dark places and always goes bad eventually."
"Your dad's wrong." Tristan kept his voice calm despite the irritation building in his chest. "Shadow magic is just magic. It's what you do with it that matters."
"But the fire here was shadow work. I saw the patterns."
Tristan examined the scorch marks on the wall, comparing them to his sketches from previous incidents. "See how the pattern's geometric? Perfect angles, precise lines. Natural shadow work doesn't do that. It's organic, fluid."
Carter leaned closer, squinting. "I guess. But how do you know someone's copying her instead of her just being really controlled?"
"Because I've seen her magic work. It doesn't behave like this." Tristan photographed the marks from multiple angles. "Whoever's doing this has knowledge of shadow theory but not the instinctive understanding that comes from bloodline work. It's painted on instead of grown from within."
He spent the next two hours checking every incident site, collecting samples, documenting patterns. The fountain. The cracked mirror in the child's bedroom. The wards at Thomas Wells's shop.
Every single one showed the same shadow signature that looked right on the surface but fell apart under close examination. Too precise. Too deliberate. Too calculated to be natural magic responding to its wielder's instinct.
Someone was faking it. Someone with enough magical knowledge to be dangerous but not enough innate power to do it perfectly.
By noon, Tristan had samples from six different locations and a growing headache from trying to make the pieces fit into something coherent.
He stopped at Griddle & Grind for coffee and information. Twyla took one look at him and poured something dark and bitter.
"You look like death warmed over," she said, her fae-touched features creasing with concern. "When's the last time you slept?"
Instead of answering, Tristan downed half the coffee in one go, welcoming the burn. "You hear anything useful? People talk in here."
"They do. And what they're saying is that Maren's dangerous, cursed, going to destroy the town if she's not stopped." Twyla'sexpression soured. "Fear talk. The kind that leads to violence if someone doesn't step in."
"I'm stepping in."
"I know. But one man can't hold back a whole town if they decide to act." She refilled his cup without asking. "Find your evidence fast, tiger. Time's running out."
He left the café and headed toward the residential areas where the vandalism had occurred. Thomas Wells's shop first, then the houses reporting cracked wards.
The patterns became clearer the more he looked. Boot prints that didn't quite match any single person but rotated between three or four different sizes. Spell residue that suggested multiple casters working together rather than one powerful witch. Tool marks on damaged wards that indicated physical force alongside magical interference.
This wasn't one person. This was coordinated.
A group working together to frame Maren while making it look like her power was destabilizing. But why? What did they gain from her exile or imprisonment?
Tristan crouched near Thomas Wells's door, examining the shadow marks burned into the wood. His fingers traced the pattern, feeling for magical resonance.
There. A secondary signature underneath the obvious shadow work. Faint but present, like someone had laid one spell over another to hide their tracks.
He pulled out his magnifying glass, studying the marks under enhancement. The secondary signature felt wrong. It wasn’t shifter, witch, or fae. Something else entirely, or something deliberately obscured.
"Find what you're looking for?"
Tristan spun, hand going to his knife. Thomas Wells stood behind him, arms crossed, expression hostile.
