The first sign of the anomaly was the pigeons.

  Not that they fled. That would have implied intelligence. Instead, they simply… stopped.

  They hovered mid-air, wings beating furiously while the rest of them refused to participate, as though reality had skimmed the instructions and decided effort was optional.

  I stood in the street, staring upward.

  “Well,” I said. “That’s unsettling.”

  Beside me, Lord Bastion Thistlewick was engaged in an entirely separate crisis.

  He was licking something pink.

  Something glistening.

  Something I recognised with a sense of growing dread.

  “Is that –” I began.

  “Yes,” he said, without looking up. “And before you ask, it was inadequately defended.”

  “That’s Mrs Calder’s prize-winning salmon.”

  “Formerly prize-winning,” he replied. “Now it’s lunch.”

  One pigeon rotated slowly upside down, like an abandoned thought.

  “Reality is malfunctioning,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re committing fish-related crimes.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not even pretending to care.”

  He paused, salmon dangling from his mouth, and regarded me as one might a slow-moving child. “I care deeply. I simply prioritise correctly.”

  “You prioritised fish over an anomaly.”

  “Over this anomaly,” he corrected. “Which is thaumic, not spatial.”

  I stared. “You knew that immediately.”

  “Obviously.”

  “And you chose not to mention it.”

  “You didn’t ask a useful question.”

  I inhaled. Exhaled. Resisted the urge to throw something at him.

  “Lord Bastion Thistlewick,” I said calmly, “the town is beginning to unravel.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “Mm,” he said, chewing. “Yes. It does that when the seams loosen.”

  The air hummed, low and wrong. The pavement shimmered as though it were reconsidering its molecular commitments. A lamppost bent left, then right, apparently undecided about its career.

  A scream echoed from down the street.

  I spun. “That was a person.”

  “Yes,” Bastion said mildly. “Humans are very vocal about distress.”

  I rounded on him. “Get off your arse.”

  “I am sitting,” he replied.

  “Use your magic.”

  “I am eating.”

  “You are ancient,” I hissed. “You are powerful. You are absolutely capable of –”

  “– multitasking?” He swallowed the last of the salmon. “I try to avoid it. That’s how continents misalign.”

  The air cracked.

  A seam opened between the houses opposite us – not a hole, exactly, but a mistake. Light bent around it. Sound warped. The scream cut off mid-note.

  I ran.

  The seam pulsed, widening, shadows bleeding out like ink dropped into water. Shapes shifted within it, half-formed, indecisive, as though the anomaly itself was still negotiating what it wanted to be.

  I raised my wand, pulse roaring in my ears. “Containment circle. Now.”

  Bastion ambled to my side.

  “Oh no,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

  I stared at him. “Explain why before I scream.”

  “That would stabilise it,” he said.

  “Yes. That is literally the goal.”

  “And then it would anchor,” he replied. “You’d be stuck with it. Like mould. Or an aggressively managed council.”

  I gaped. “Then what do we do?”

  “We wait.”

  “We do not wait.”

  “We do,” he said pleasantly, “if you want it to tell us what it actually is.”

  The anomaly shuddered. Tendrils brushed the pavement, and where they touched, cracks appeared – not breaks, but possibilities.

  My throat tightened. “People could get hurt.”

  “They already have,” Bastion said.

  I turned sharply.

  His tone had shifted. The mockery had drained away, leaving something precise and watchful beneath it.

  “You’ve seen this before,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Longer ago than you’d like.”

  “And what happened?”

  “The witch panicked.”

  The anomaly surged.

  “And then?” I pressed.

  “She tried to dominate it.”

  My grip tightened on my wand. “And?”

  “And it noticed.”

  The air screamed.

  The seam widened, shadows spilling faster now, knitting themselves into something almost solid.

  I swallowed hard. “Then tell me what to do.”

  Bastion studied me – not teasing, not smirking. Assessing.

  “Don’t command it,” he said. “Invite it.”

  “That’s lunacy.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But it works.”

  I stepped forward.

  The anomaly pulsed, attention snapping to me. Magic hummed painfully under my skin.

  “Hello,” I said, steady through sheer irritation. “You’re not meant to be here.”

  The thing hesitated.

  Behind me, Bastion’s presence changed.

  His magic rose – vast, coiled, held in check with terrifying restraint.

  “For once,” he said softly, “I will intervene.”

  I blinked. “You will?”

  “Do savour the novelty.”

  Darkness surged.

  Light flared.

  Bastion did not move.

  Reality did.

  The world bent around him, subtly, respectfully – as though acknowledging something old and profoundly inconvenient. The anomaly recoiled, its form collapsing in on itself.

  “Ah,” Bastion said pleasantly. “There you are.”

  The thing shrank.

  I stared at him. “What are you?”

  He smiled, slow and sharp. “A problem solver.”

  The seam snapped shut.

  Silence fell.

  The pigeons dropped out of the sky.

  I collapsed onto the pavement.

  Bastion sat beside me, fur immaculate, eyes bright.

  “That,” I gasped, “was horrifying.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I warned you.”

  “You absolutely did not.”

  “I strongly suggested.”

  “You could have stopped it sooner.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you chose not to.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  He looked away. “If I intervene too freely, far worse things take interest.”

  Cold settled in my chest.

  “That wasn’t the worst thing,” I said.

  “No,” he agreed. “It was not.”

  A beat.

  Then, brightly, “Also, the salmon was exceptional.”

  I stared at him.

  “You are unbearable.”

  He purred.