“Then we have proof he’s lying.” Avine’s eyes brightened. “Dahlia, that’s brilliant.”
“It’s a starting point.” Dahlia squeezed Avine’s hand. “I need to do some research. Find out exactly where the stones are, what kind of magic was used, how to read them properly.”
“I can help with that.” Junie was already pulling out her phone. “Grandmother’s grimoire has a whole section on territorial wards. I’ll dig it out tonight.”
“And I’ll talk to the Elders.” Avine stood, brushing off her skirt. “Sue Tidewell might be difficult, but she knows everything about this town’s magical history. If anyone remembers the original boundary agreements, it’s her.”
Dahlia nodded, grateful beyond words for these women. For their immediate, unconditional support. For the way they’d pivoted from shock to action without missing a beat.
“Go,” she told them. “I’ll catch up. I need to?—”
“Ms. Moon.”
Magnus’s voice cut through the noise of the dispersing crowd. Dahlia turned to find him standing three feet away, his Ironwood enforcers flanking him like living walls.
“A moment of your time.”
Junie’s magic flared. Avine stepped closer, protective. Dahlia held up a hand, stopping them both.
“It’s fine. Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
They didn’t want to leave. She could see it in their faces, in the rigid set of their shoulders. But they trusted her judgment—or at least trusted her to scream if anything went wrong.
The room emptied around them. Magnus waited, patient as stone, until the last stragglers had filtered out.
Then he smiled.
“You’re a spirited woman, Ms. Moon. I appreciate that.” He gestured for his enforcers to step back, creating an illusion of privacy. “Most people in this town are too afraid to challenge me directly.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No.” That calculating stare tracked over her face, assessing. “You’re not. Which is why I wanted to speak with you privately.”
Dahlia crossed her arms, refusing to be intimidated by his size or his presence or the quiet menace that radiated from him. “I’m listening.”
“You seem like a sensible woman.” Magnus’s tone shifted—less public performance, more private negotiation. “Practical. Someone who understands that sometimes the wisest course is adaptation rather than resistance.”
“If you’re trying to flatter me into surrender, you’re wasting your time.”
“I’m trying to offer you a choice.” He stepped closer, looming over her. Dahlia held her ground, though every instinct screamed at her to back away. “My claim will succeed, Ms. Moon. The documentation is airtight. The Regional Council will validate it within months, if not weeks.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I am certain.” No smile now. Cold, absolute conviction. “And when my claim succeeds, you will have a decision to make. Join Ironwood. Acknowledge our authority over your land. Continue operating your bakery without interruption.”
“And if I refuse?”
Magnus tilted his head, studying her the way a cat studied a mouse it hadn’t yet decided to kill. “Then you will have thirty days to vacate. To find new premises. To rebuild everything your grandmother built, somewhere else.”
The words landed like blows. Dahlia felt them in her stomach, in the cold sweat that broke out along her spine, in the sudden tightness of her lungs.
“That bakery has been in my family for sixty years.”
“And it can remain in your family for sixty more.” Magnus spread his hands, the picture of generosity. “All you have to do is be reasonable.”
“What you’re describing isn’t reason. It’s coercion.”
“What I’m describing is reality.” His voice hardened, enough to remind her what he was—what he was capable of. “The Ursa sleuth is dying. Their alpha is bedridden. Their heir spent a decade and a half running from his responsibilities. They have no power, no allies, no resources. Who exactly do you think is going to protect you, Ms. Moon?”
