Chalk dust clung to Ivy Ace’s fingers, ground into the fine lines of her palms as she stood at the center of the back room. The antique shop was closed to the public now, shutters drawn, lights low, the air thick with the smell of salt and burnt resin. Symbols spread across the wooden floor in deliberate symmetry, circles within circles, each line precise, unbroken, humming faintly with contained power.

Ivy moved with practiced economy, long strides measured, dreadlocks pulled back to keep them from brushing the spellwork. Her presence anchored the room. Magic flowed toward her, not wild or eager, but obedient, responding to structure, to rules laid down with certainty. Every ward she reinforced settled into place with a subtle pressure change, like a lock clicking shut.

She paused, sensing the shift before sound announced it. A footstep where there shouldn’t be one. The wards rippled, alert but unbroken, feeding her information in familiar pulses. Someone had crossed the threshold without triggering the outer alarms. That narrowed the list considerably.

Ivy straightened slowly, chalk still between her fingers, gaze fixed on the final sigil rather than the doorway behind her. She exhaled through her nose, jaw tightening just enough to signal focus rather than irritation. Interruptions were dangerous, not because they startled her, but because timing mattered.

Without turning, she pressed her thumb to the edge of the circle, sealing it with a quiet, final intent.

“If you’re going to stand there,” she said evenly, “you might as well step inside the ward. I don’t repeat myself.”