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Present-day.

The apothecary smelled like over-steeped mugwort, scorched thyme, and just a hint of existential dread.

Rowan, witch, alchemist, and semi-functional adult disaster, stood barefoot on the creaking floorboards of her shop and contemplated arson. Again.

“No one ever talks about how potioncraft is ninety percent waiting and ten percent things catching fire,” she muttered, squinting at a bubbling cauldron that had started to hiss in a tone she did not like.

The tonic inside, meant to lull restless sleepers into soft, herbal dreams, was vibrating in its flask like it was auditioning for a role as an earthquake.

She prodded it with her wand.

The potion shrieked , turned bright magenta, and exploded with a noise like a frog being stepped on. Rowan yelped, threw her arms over her head, and ducked behind a nearby workbench as glass, vapor, and glittery smoke rained down.

The glitter, naturally, clung only to her.

She surfaced a moment later, coughing, hair full of sparkles, and smelling like a lavender candle that had died screaming.

“Perfect,” she wheezed. “Brilliant. A triumph of the arcane sciences. Truly, what the ancestors dreamed of when they laid the ley lines.”

From the high shelf near the door, a disdainful hrrrmph issued.

Mottle, her familiar, peered down at her through his tiny round spectacles.

He was a toad, enchanted, eternally disgruntled, and the only creature she’d managed not to drive away in the last ten years.

Probably because he had nowhere else to go and enjoyed judging her too much to leave.

“That’s the third sleep tonic you’ve murdered this week,” Mottle said, blinking slowly. “Shall I alert the dreams tribunal?”

Rowan pulled glitter out of her hair.. “That batch was warded. It should’ve held.”

“Should it?” Mottle asked, arching an invisible toad brow. “Because I recall the last time you said that, we ended up with an apothecary full of hallucinating chickens.”

“That was not entirely my fault,” Rowan sniffed, attempting to look dignified while scraping potion goo off her cheek. “Gertrude brought her hens in unscheduled. Unscheduled poultry voids all warranties.”

“Uh-huh.” Mottle adjusted his spectacles with one webbed foot. “Are we doing accountability today, or are we just going to glower at things and burn the toast again?”

Rowan pointed a glittery spoon at him. “You’re on thin ice, toad.”

The shop, Blackthorn Apothecary , looked quaint if you squinted.

It was housed in a crooked stone building that leaned slightly to the left, nestled between the bakery which was always too cheerful and a tailor’s shop that mostly catered to cryptid clients.

Inside, dried herbs hung from the rafters like the ghosts of better days, and every surface was stacked with jars, books, and failed good intentions.

The shelves were slightly askew. The doorbell jingled with a noise like a startled bell sprite. And the whole place was wrapped in so many protective wards, it could probably survive a small meteor strike or, worse, a visit from the Witch Council.

Rowan lived in the attic flat above, where her bed was unmade, her windowsill was full of stormglass bottles, and her coffee pot hissed like it wanted to file for magical emancipation.

She brewed her potions behind three layers of anti-chaos wards. Not out of prudence, but because the local fire brigade had firmly requested it after the Dandelion Incense Incident.

And even then, things still shuddered around her magic. Slipped. Sparked. Broke.

It hadn’t always been like this. Once, her magic had been steady, if a little sharp at the edges. Once, people had called her prodigy. Now they mostly called her that one , followed by a whisper and a hasty sign against misfortune.

And really, it wasn’t her fault her magic backfired with the enthusiasm of a sugared-up raccoon wielding a fire wand. Not entirely. Not technically .

She wiped her hands on her apron and sighed. “You know,” she said, voice echoing around the scorched rafters, “some people’s familiars offer encouragement. Or affection. Or, gods forbid, a smidgen of emotional support.”

Mottle croaked. “You have glitter on your nose.”

“Excellent. That’ll really sell the ‘reliable hedgewitch’ vibe I’m going for.”

She reached for another flask, then stopped when the floorboards shivered . The wards fluttered. Somewhere, deep in the earth, something tugged.

Rowan went still.

Magic. Magic was tugging , like an invisible hand catching on a loose thread. A wrongness whispered at the edge of her senses. The ley lines didn’t usually move this way. And they certainly didn’t ripple like overfilled teacups.

Rowan closed her eyes. Reached with the part of her that still knew how to listen.

Veins of power, spidered under Briar’s Hollow like roots. Familiar. Quiet. And beneath that, strain . Like roots being pulled too tight. Like something deep unraveling.

The wards hiccuped again.

She opened her eyes.

“Oh, hells ,” she muttered.

Just then, the shop bell gave an apologetic little ding, and a frantic voice called from the front room. “Rowan? Rowan Blackthorn? You’d better come quick!”

It was Junie, baker’s apprentice and town gossip funnel. She was red-faced, wide-eyed, and smelled faintly of burnt sugar and crisis.

Rowan trudged out, trying not to look like she’d recently exploded herself. “Unless this is about someone finally exploding the scone cart, it can wait.”

Junie waved a crumpled scroll. “It’s a Council missive. Official. They’ve sent a flock of messenger crows.”

“Oh, good,” Rowan muttered, “it’s never ominous when birds start delivering death notes.”

Junie thrust the scroll into her hands. “Magic’s going weird again. Wards are failing. Glamours slipping. Even Mrs. Withers’ hexed begonias tried to bite the vicar. And now the Council’s panicking.”

Rowan cracked the wax seal. Read the message. And then read it again, because surely the world couldn’t be that perverse.

The Council, in all its infinite wisdom, had decided to summon help .

Not just any help. Outside help.