Gary was moving before the woman finished speaking, his centuries of tavern management kicking in alongside something deeper—the protective instincts of someone who'd made this space sacred. His weathered hand found the plain wooden box beneath the bar, fingers tracing the familiar ward-lines carved into its surface.
"Easy now, lass," he said, voice carrying the same steady calm he'd used to talk down drunk wizards and heartbroken adventurers for longer than most could remember. "You're safe here. We're going to help."
The woman's wild eyes darted around the circle of faces, taking in Miriel's pale expression, Dr. Elara's concerned lean forward, the way Pip had gone very still in his chair. Where her gaze lingered, the air itself seemed to fray at the edges—not disappearing exactly, but becoming somehow less real, like looking at the world through worn fabric.
"I can't—I can't control it," she gasped, holding her trembling hands away from her body as if they were weapons. "Everything I touch just stops being. And it's getting worse."
Gary's thumb found the activation rune on the nullification box. "What's your name, child?"
"Kira," she whispered. "I was just trying to fix a storage bag, I swear I was just trying to—"
The device hummed to life with a sound like distant bees, and immediately the fraying at the edges of reality stilled. Kira's shoulders sagged with relief so profound she nearly collapsed.
"There now," Gary said gently. "You're contained, not caged. The magic can't spread, but you're still you." He looked around the circle at his family, reading the mix of fear, concern, and something else in their faces. "Everyone breathe. We've handled stranger things than a storage spell gone sideways."
But even as he said it, Gary caught Miriel's expression—the particular shade of white that meant she was seeing something far too familiar in this magical disaster.
Dr. Elara was already shifting into her clinical mode, leaning forward with the focused intensity that had saved countless lives. "How long have you been experiencing this magical instability?" she asked, her healer's training taking over. "Any pain? Disorientation? Memory gaps?"
Kira shook her head, then nodded, then seemed to give up on coherent responses. "Weeks. Maybe months? It started small—just little things disappearing when I got frustrated. A quill here, a coin there. But now..." She gestured helplessly at her contained form.
"What kind of storage enhancement were you attempting?" Dr. Elara continued, but her eyes flicked toward Miriel as she spoke. Everyone knew Miriel was their magical expert, the one who understood the intricate workings of spells gone wrong.
Miriel's wine glass trembled in her grip. The question hung in the air like incense smoke, heavy and unavoidable. She could feel the weight of expectation, the gentle pressure of being the one person in the room who might have answers.
But all she could see were those edges of reality fraying under Kira's desperate gaze. The way space itself seemed uncertain, unreliable. Like the moment when her teleportation spell had grabbed her companions and scattered them across dimensions instead of simply moving them to safety.
"Miriel?" Gary's voice was gentle, no pressure in it. Just the quiet invitation to share what she was comfortable sharing.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I... it looks like spatial displacement magic. But something about the matrix is..." Her voice trailed off as she really looked at Kira's condition, seeing past her own fear to the technical problem beneath.
"You're our magic expert," Dr. Elara said simply, the statement carrying both respect and hope. "Can you tell what we're dealing with?"
The words hit Miriel like a physical blow. Expert. As if she hadn't spent years refusing to cast the very spells that had once been her specialty. As if she hadn't been too afraid to properly examine magical theory because it reminded her too much of that terrible day when everything had gone wrong.
Across the circle, Kira was watching the exchange with growing despair. The hope that had flickered when Dr. Elara started asking clinical questions was fading as she watched Miriel's obvious reluctance.
"Even the people here to help are afraid of me," Kira whispered, her voice cracking. "Even here, I'm too dangerous, too broken to—"
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to. The defeat in her voice, the way her shoulders curled inward despite the nullification field containing her magic, spoke louder than words.
That was when something shifted in Miriel's chest. The familiar tight knot of her own fear was still there, but seeing Kira's despair—seeing someone else convinced they were too damaged to be helped—unlocked something deeper.
"No," Miriel said firmly, setting down her wine glass with more force than necessary. "You're not too dangerous. And you're definitely not too broken."
She stood up, legs unsteady but determined. "May I... may I examine the magical pattern? I might be able to help stabilize it."
Gary caught her eye, giving her that look that said more than words ever could—the one that offered her every possible exit while somehow also conveying absolute faith in her abilities. The choice was entirely hers, and either way, he would support her completely.
Kira looked up with desperate hope. "You really think you can help?"
Miriel approached the edge of the nullification field, her magical senses automatically reaching out to analyze the contained spell-work. What she found made her breath catch.
It was like looking at her own disaster through a funhouse mirror. Where her teleportation spell had torn holes between dimensions, Kira's storage enchantment was creating pockets of non-space—reality gaps where matter ceased to exist. Different mechanisms, but the same underlying problem: incomplete spell matrices trying to function beyond their design.
"Tell me about the book you were working from," Miriel said, her professional curiosity finally overriding her personal fear.
"It was old, written in Old Themic," Kira said eagerly, sensing she finally had someone who understood. "I thought I'd translated it correctly, but there were some symbols I wasn't sure about. I tested it on small objects first—it seemed to work perfectly. The storage space expanded just like it was supposed to. But then..."
"Then you tried to use it when it mattered," Miriel finished softly. "And the incomplete matrix couldn't handle the stress."
The parallel hit her like a physical blow. She'd found her teleportation spell in an ancient grimoire too, incomplete and missing crucial stabilization runes. She'd tested it on objects as well, watching them vanish and reappear exactly where she'd intended. It had seemed perfect.
Until the day her companions needed rescuing, and she'd poured desperate energy into an unstable spell, and instead of bringing them to safety, she'd scattered them across dimensions she couldn't even name.
"I can see a path to stabilization," Miriel heard herself saying. "Not a cure, necessarily, but a way to stop the deterioration and maybe give you some control back."
The Zone of Truth pulsed gently around her words, confirming what she'd said. She did see a path forward. She could help.
Kira's eyes filled with tears of relief. "Really? You can really help me?"
"We can try," Miriel said, surprised by the steadiness in her own voice. "But first, I need to understand exactly what symbols you mistranslated. Can you remember them?"
As Kira began describing the ancient runes she'd struggled with, Miriel felt something she hadn't experienced in years: the excitement of solving a complex magical problem. Not the fear-driven analysis she'd been limited to, but genuine scholarly curiosity combined with the desire to help.
Behind her, she could sense the group's careful attention. Gary's quiet pride. Dr. Elara's professional interest in the diagnostic process. Pip's relief that someone knew what to do. Korven's thoughtful silence as he watched someone else choose to face their fears. Thorne's steady presence, like a mountain offering its strength.
For the first time since the Scatter, Miriel felt like a mage again.
Working through Kira's translation errors took the better part of an hour. Miriel found herself sketching rune structures on napkins, explaining the difference between expansion matrices and void creation, gently correcting Kira's understanding of spatial magic theory.
Slowly, carefully, she began weaving a stabilization framework around the damaged spell. Not healing it—that would require more power and risk than she was ready for—but creating a containment structure that would prevent further deterioration.
"There," she said finally, stepping back from the nullification field. "The reality tears should stop spreading. You'll still have the storage space, but it won't randomly delete things anymore. And with practice, you should be able to control when it activates."
Gary deactivated the nullification device, and everyone held their breath. Kira examined her hands, flexed her fingers. The air around her remained stable and solid.
"It worked," she breathed. "It actually worked."
The gratitude in her voice was overwhelming, but what struck Miriel most was the look in Gary's eyes. Not surprise—he'd never doubted she could do it. Pure pride, the kind a father shows when his child takes their first steps.
"Thank you," Kira continued, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you for not giving up on me. For seeing that I could be helped instead of just... contained."
She looked around the circle at all of them. "I heard there was a place here for people like us. People who've done terrible things with magic. I was afraid it might just be a rumor."
"Not terrible things," Gary said gently. "Magical accidents. Experiments gone wrong. The kind of mistakes that happen when brilliant people push the boundaries of what's possible." He raised his ale mug. "You're welcome here anytime, Kira. Though I suspect you'll be just fine on your own now."
As Kira gathered herself to leave—with promises to visit again and Gary's assurance that she'd always have a place at their table—Miriel sank back into her chair. The magical exertion had left her drained but oddly energized at the same time.
"How do you feel?" Dr. Elara asked quietly.
Miriel considered the question seriously. How did she feel? Tired, certainly. A little shaky from the magical work. But underneath that...
"Proud," she said, surprising herself. "And... capable. Like maybe I'm not as broken as I thought I was."
Around the circle, she could see the impact of her words. Korven leaning forward slightly, as if her experience might offer insights into his own struggles with self-worth. Thorne nodding slowly, understanding the weight of choosing courage over safety. Pip grinning openly, delighted to see someone else embrace their abilities instead of hiding from them.
And Gary... Gary looked like he wanted to throw his own little celebration but was containing himself to a pleased smile and the internal equivalent of a fist pump.
"You used big magic tonight, lass," he said softly. "Complex magic. Magic that mattered."
The words settled into Miriel's chest like warm honey. She had used big magic. She'd stepped outside her comfort zone, faced something that reminded her of her worst trauma, and chose to help anyway.
Maybe that was what healing actually looked like—not the absence of fear, but the willingness to act despite it.
"To the Waystone Tavern," Gary said, raising his mug again. "Where we learn that being broken doesn't mean we can't still help fix things."
Five glasses rose to meet his, and for the second time that evening, the weight in the room lifted. But this time, it didn't feel like the calm before a storm.
It felt like the quiet after victory.