Page 48 of Mane Brew

“Tell me about it.”

“Caring about someone more than practical concerns defies logical prioritization.”

“It really does.”

“And yet.” I step closer. Close enough that her magic brushes against my skin, alive and chaotic and increasingly necessary. “I find myself similarly afflicted.”

Her breath catches. “Similarly afflicted?”

“That’s what you’ve done to me. Made me care about more than protocols and procedures and proper filing systems.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“It’s an observation.” My hand lingers at the curve of her jaw. She leans into the touch—slight, almost unconscious. “One I’m still learning to categorize.”

“Let me know when you figure out the proper file.” Her words come softer now. Breathless. “I’d hate to be miscategorized.”

“Never.” The word comes out rough. Certain. “You’re in a category all your own.”

We stand there in the misty street, my hand on her face, her eyes searching mine. The mist wraps around us—protective, curious, as invested in this moment as any Mistvale resident.

I should kiss her.

The thought arrives with startling clarity. I should close the distance between us, press my lips to hers, let the patterns we’ve been dancing around finally resolve into action.

But we’re standing in a public street. I’ve been awake for thirty-two hours. And somewhere in this town, there’s a traitor who may or may not be my childhood friend.

I walk her back to Thornveil Apothecary. We part with nothing more than a brush of fingers, a shared look, a promise implicit in everything we don’t say.

11

ZEPH

The brewery is trying to behave.

None of us have really slept. The raid ended less than twelve hours ago—Preservers zip-tied and hauled off, and the warehouse sealed for evidence collection. Everyone’s running on adrenaline and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that makes ordinary things feel strange. Maybe that’s why the quiet doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like held breath.

I stand in the middle of the damaged brewing room, surrounded by scaffolding and construction dust and the skeleton of what used to be my eastern wall, and I watch my magic do absolutely nothing chaotic.

Tank four bubbles gently. Appropriately. At the exact temperature it’s supposed to maintain. The temporary fermentation vessels the Network delivered yesterday hum with quiet industry, producing exactly the flavors my recipes intended without any unexpected additions or spontaneous transformations.

It’s deeply unsettling.

I circle tank four like it might attack. My grandmother’s old copper still—rescued from the explosion damage and polished back to working order—sits in the corner, its surface gleaming in the morning light streaming through the plastic sheeting that covers the missing wall. Even that ancient piece of equipment, which has been known to produce batches that made people temporarily speak in rhyming couplets, seems content to simply... work.

My magic hums contentedly beneath my skin. Settled. Stable.

Two words that have never applied to me in my entire thirty years of existence.

“You’re frowning at functioning equipment.” Leire leans against the intact doorframe, arms crossed, watching me watch my well-behaved brews. “Most people would consider this a positive development.”

“Most people don’t understand brewing magic.” I crouch down to examine the temperature gauge on tank four. Spot on. “My magic doesn’t behave. It hasn’t behaved since Havoc died. Not really. Not fully⁠—”

My throat tightens. I push through.

“The point is, behaving is not what my magic does. Behaving is what my magic specifically refuses to do.”

“And yet.” Leire gestures at the peacefully bubbling vessels. “Behavior.”