Page 31 of Mane Brew

This is what I’m fighting for.

“The hands,” Leire wheezes. “I’m putting that in my speech at your claiming ceremony.”

“We’re not having a claiming ceremony.” I throw a bar towel at her head.

They leave at midnight, stumbling into the mist with promises to text when they get home safely. Sakura goes first, weather magic keeping the chill at bay. Leire follows, still laughing. Anouk lingers.

“The charm Grandmother Peach gave you.” She’s serious now. Sober despite the wine. “Keep it close. She wouldn’t have offered it without reason.”

“You think the Preservers⁠—”

“I think forces are moving that none of us fully understand. I think the Severing is breaking, and not everyone wants it to break.” She touches my shoulder. “And I think you’re more important to what’s coming than you realize.”

“Because of Rhodes?”

“Because of you.” Her grip tightens. “Your magic matters, Zeph. Independent of him, independent of the Severing. Whatever you choose—the power you carry is real, and it matters. Don’t forget that.”

She’s gone before I can respond. Swallowed by the mist, leaving me alone in my brewery with three empty wine bottles and a peach pie and a charm that won’t stop buzzing against my skin.

I close up slowly. Check the tanks. Adjust the temperatures. Go through the motions of routine because routine is safe and familiar and doesn’t require me to think about ancient matings or the way Rhodes’s hands looked wrapped around a glass of my best beer.

His hands. Gods.

I’m never living that down.

But underneath the embarrassment, underneath the laughter and the wine and the relentless teasing, a wall I didn’t know I’d built has cracked. Light filtering through where there wasn’t light before.

He sees me. Rhodes, with his documentation and his patterns and his impossible attention to detail.

Fifty-three pages of documentation.

His secret concern in the depths of my grief, and a card that said more about who he is than all his proper procedures combined.

I touch the charm in my pocket. Feel the old magic humming against my palm.

Some patterns repeat. Some magic remembers what it’s lost.

I’m not sure what I am to Rhodes. I’m not sure what he is to me. But I know one thing with sudden, terrifying certainty:

Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And I’m not sure I want it to.

8

RHODES

The intelligence report sits in my hands, and every line makes something primal pace faster.

Elio delivered it ten minutes ago. No pleasantries. No smug observations about my documentation habits. Just a folder and a warning: “They’re moving. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But they’re close to something.”

I’ve read the report four times. The pages are already creased from handling—a failure of documentation standards I’d never normally permit. Each reading confirms what my instincts have been screaming for days.

My office in the Sunridge territory is precisely organized. Files alphabetized. Incident reports cross-referenced by date, location, and severity. Fifteen years of leadership distilled into systems that make sense.

None of it matters right now. Right now, the only file that matters is the one detailing coordinated surveillance on a building I’ve been walking past at three in the morning for longer than I care to admit.

The Preserver cell isn’t just monitoring Zeph anymore. They’re planning direct action. The surveillance patterns Elio’s network identified show coordinated focus on Duskfire Brewery—entry points mapped, ward weaknesses cataloged, timing windows calculated.