Page 32 of Mane Brew

They’ve been watching her the way I’ve been watching her.

The thought makes possessive fury curl through my chest. Dark. Feral. Entirely inappropriate for a pride leader conducting a professional investigation.

She’s not yours to protect.

Something in me disagrees. Has disagreed for longer than I want to say.

I check my watch. Late afternoon. The mist outside my office window has gone thin and pale—almost absent. According to every record I’ve compiled over fifteen years, that particular quality of mist means danger approaching.

I’m out the door before the thought fully forms.

The streets of Mistvale blur past as I move. Not running—lions don’t run unless hunting. But my pace is faster than strictly necessary. More urgent than professional concern would justify.

The cobblestones are slick with remnants of mist. Shops are closing for the day—Berry waves from Thornwick Books, a stack of volumes balanced precariously in her arms. The bookshop’s display window has changed again. Self-help titles, mostly. One catches my eye: “When Denial Isn’t Just a River: A Guide to Acknowledging Your Feelings.”

I walk faster.

Sunny pulls in the pastry display at Moonpetal Bakery, her toad familiar Biscuit perched on her shoulder looking unimpressed by everything. When she spots me, her eyes brighten with the particular gleam of someone about to say what I don’t want to hear.

“Heading somewhere specific, Alpha Blackthorn?”

“Routine patrol.”

“At this hour? In that direction?” Her smile is suspiciously innocent. “The brewery doesn’t close for hours, you know. Plenty of time for a thorough... inspection.”

“I’m inspecting the Warding Line.”

“The Warding Line is east. You’re heading west.”

I don’t dignify that with a response.

“Biscuit says you’ve been ‘patrolling’ past the brewery fourteen times this week,” she calls after me. “He’s keeping count!”

The toad croaks. It sounds judgmental.

The brewery appears through the thinning mist, all stone and timber and warm light spilling from those tall windows. The old mill has stood on this spot for longer than anyone remembers, its foundations buried deep in ground that predates Mistvale itself. The sign out front reads “Open-ish” today.

Her magic must be in a decent mood. That could change when she sees me.

I push through the front door without knocking. The bell above it chimes—bright and cheerful, completely at odds with the weight in my chest.

She’s behind the bar, wiping down glasses. Her hair is particularly wild today, auburn curls escaping the loose knot she’s attempted. There’s a smudge of hop dust across her cheek. Her sleeves are pushed up past her elbows, revealing freckled forearms and hands that never stop moving.

She looks up at my entrance. Surprise flickers across her face, then wariness, then that particular brand of exasperation she reserves specifically for me.

“Let me guess.” She sets down the glass. “My condensation levels are off again.”

“You need to close early tonight.”

That gets her attention. The exasperation fades into alarm. “Excuse me?”

“Elio’s intelligence network identified coordinated surveillance on this building. The Preserver cell is planning imminent action.” I pull out the report, then realize I’m standing in the middle of her taproom clutching paperwork. Professional. Very professional. “You need to⁠—”

“I need to do nothing.” She crosses her arms. The motion pulls her shirt tight across her shoulders, and I absolutely do not notice. “This is my brewery. I’m not closing it because your spy network got jumpy.”

“They’re not jumpy. They’re accurate.” I move closer. Closer than necessary for this conversation. “The surveillance patterns match pre-attack protocols from three previous incidents. Same methodology as the Valesh operation. Same timing windows as the dead zone attacks.”

“So they’re watching me. They’ve been watching me for weeks. That’s not news.”