Page 3 of Mane Brew

“That was one time!”

“You made Torin compose sonnets about cheddar for three days.”

“The sonnets were beautiful!” Torin Weylin protests from his corner booth, one massive hand resting on Sakura’s pregnant belly. “I stand by my artistic vision.”

“Your artistic vision rhymed ‘brie’ with ‘ecstasy.’” Caius’s voice is drier than old parchment.

“It worked.”

Sakura pats his arm. “It was very moving, honey. In a cheese-related way.”

Three mated pairs. The impossible made ordinary—or at least, as ordinary as anything gets when one of them is a pregnant weather witch whose emotional state directly correlates to indoor precipitation levels.

Sakura’s been causing minor rain showers every time she craves pickles. Torin follows her around with an umbrella and a devotion that borders on religious.

What would that feel like? Having someone whose presence makes your magic settle instead of spark?

Not helpful. Focus on the beer.

“One round of Revelation Red.” I distribute bottles to outstretched hands. “On the house, in exchange for honest feedback.”

“Define honest.” Caius studies the shifting colors with lupine intensity.

“Brutally so. If it makes you speak in rhyming couplets again, I need to know before I sell it to paying customers.”

Leire nearly chokes on her first sip. “Again?”

“It was one batch. Four years ago. And the poetry was excellent, actually.”

“The lion didn’t think so.” Elio’s tone carries that particular casualness that means he’s being deliberately provocative. He swirls his bottle, watching the colors shift. “I believe he filed a formal complaint. Over a dozen pages, if memory serves.”

The lion.

I keep my expression carefully neutral. “Rhodes Blackthorn files formal complaints about dust particles. I stopped taking it personally when he sent me documentation corrections on my thank-you notes.”

“You sent him thank-you notes?” Aslan’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline.

“Sarcastic ones. He corrected my grammar.”

“That tracks.” Elio’s gaze feels sharp even when he’s not looking directly at me. “He’s very... thorough.”

“He’s very annoying.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” The panther’s smile has too many teeth. “In fact, some might say⁠—”

Sunny bursts through the door before he can finish whatever uncomfortable observation he’s building toward. She’s breathless, flushed, her eyes too wide. Biscuit has puffed up to twice his normal size, which is his equivalent of screaming.

“Zeph!” She gasps for air. “The mist outside is doing strange things, and I think⁠—”

The first hallucination hits.

The mist floods in.

Not from outside—from inside, from the glasses and bottles and the very air itself. It swirls with colors I’ve never seen, carrying images that don’t belong to this century.

I see Mistvale, but not. Older. Different. The streets are the same, but the buildings shine with magic so dense it’s visible, threads of power woven through every stone. The Registry stands taller, more vibrant, bells ringing with joy rather than the occasional lonely toll they make now.

Witches walk alongside shifters—not carefully, not with the polite distance of separate communities sharing space. Intertwined. Hands clasped. A wolf with frost in his fur walks beside a witch whose breath mists even in summer. A bear shifter carries a child while his witch partner’s hands glow with protective wards.