Page 11 of Mane Brew

I know this symbol.

It’s in Cordelia Ashworth’s seized documents. In Elio’s intelligence files on the Preserver network. In the photographs from the crime scene where Elder Mathilda died.

“Rhodes?” Zeph appears at my shoulder, her presence a distraction I don’t need. “What is it?”

“Evidence.” I photograph the symbol from multiple angles, my hands steady despite the cold certainty settling in my chest. “Proof of who we’re dealing with.”

She crouches beside me, studying the carving. “I’ve never seen this before.”

“You wouldn’t have. It’s designed to be hidden. A marker—letting other Preserver agents know that this location has been compromised.” I stand, brushing dust from my knees. “This is old. Older than your wards, most likely—cut into the foundation stone itself, not the doors or windows your protections actually cover. They didn’t need to breach anything. They were here before there was anything to breach.”

I close my eyes briefly, running calculations. “They’ve been preparing this for a while. Your brewery wasn’t a random target—it was carefully chosen.”

“Because of my magic.” Her voice is flat. “Because I’m vulnerable.”

“Because your magic is powerful.” The correction comes out before I can stop it. “Unstable and powerful aren’t the same thing. The Preservers don’t waste resources on targets that don’t matter.”

“You almost sound like you’re defending my chaos.”

“I’m contextualizing it.”

She stares at me for a long moment, then laughs—genuine, startled, the sound disassembling my composure regardless of what I tell it.

“I need to report this to Caius.” I break eye contact and gather my documentation. “And coordinate with Elio’s intelligence network. This isn’t an isolated incident—it’s part of a larger pattern.”

“Larger how?”

“I don’t know yet.” I turn toward the door. “But I intend to find out.”

I’m almost to the exit when Grandmother Peach appears.

One moment the doorway is empty, the next, she’s there—ancient, cryptic, holding a dish of cobbler that definitely wasn’t in her hands a second ago. The scent of brown sugar and apples fills the brewery, inexplicably warm despite the cooling evening air.

“Rhodes Blackthorn.” She says my name like she’s been waiting centuries to say it. Which, given certain rumors, she might have been. “You’ve found the symbol.”

“You knew about it.” It’s not a question.

“I know about many things. Most of them I keep to myself because frankly, the explanations are exhausting.” She steps into the brewery, moving past me with the casual confidence of someone who owns every space she enters. “Sit. Both of you. The cobbler is fresh.”

I don’t sit. “With respect, I have reports to file⁠—”

“The reports can wait.” Her gaze pins me in place, ancient and knowing in ways that make me go still. “This conversation cannot. Besides, the cobbler will get cold, and cold cobbler is a tragedy no filing system can fix.”

Zeph is already reaching for the cobbler. “Grandmother Peach makes the best cobbler in Mistvale. Trust me on this. Argue with her, and she’ll just appear at inconvenient moments until you agree.”

“I wasn’t going to argue⁠—”

“You were thinking about it.” Grandmother Peach settles into a chair that I’m certain wasn’t there a moment ago. “Your face does that thing when you’re preparing a logical objection. Very controlled. Very lion. It’s almost cute, in a bureaucratic sort of way.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. My face doesn’t do things.

Does it?

“Sit,” she says again. “Please. My knees are three hundred years old and watching you stand there radiating stubbornness is making them ache.”

I sit. The cobbler appears in front of me, steaming gently. I have no memory of anyone serving it.

“The symbol you found is old.” Grandmother Peach’s voice shifts, losing its playful edge. “Older than the Preserver organization that uses it. They adopted it from the original ritual—the one that created the Severing itself.”