Page 67 of Mane Brew

Rhodes.

She’s talking about Rhodes.

I take my place in the circle. The other couples join hands with their partners—mated magic flowing between them in visible currents of power.

I stand alone at the fourth point.

My brewing magic rises to meet the ritual’s call. It knows what to do, even if I don’t—this magic that has always worked by instinct rather than instruction, that has created things I never intended and sometimes exactly what someone needed. It reaches toward the circle’s energy like yeast reaching toward sugar. It knows.

But my position in the circle feels incomplete. Like a fermentation missing a crucial ingredient. Like a recipe that almost works but doesn’t quite achieve perfection.

Above us, the sounds of combat continue.

Rhodes is still fighting.

And I’m waiting—waiting for him to finish holding the line, waiting for him to choose to descend into this chamber and stand beside me.

Waiting for my anchor.

The seal pulses beneath my feet. The Withering presses against the barrier, aware that something is happening.

15

RHODES

The Enforcer’s magic hits me like a battering ram.

I dig my claws into ancient stone and hold my ground. Pain flares along my shoulder—the spell cut through fur and muscle, a wound that will need attention later. Much later. When the woman I’m protecting is safe.

Zeph.

She descended those stairs three minutes ago. Three minutes of combat, three minutes of holding the line, three minutes of refusing to let a single Preserver past me.

Three minutes that feel like hours.

Another agent rushes the entrance. I catch him mid-leap, claws raking across his torso before he can complete his attack spell. He crumples. I’m already turning to face the next threat.

The Enforcer rises from where my last strike sent him sprawling. Blood streams from a gash across his cheek—my work, marked in the wet crimson on my claws. His combat magic crackles around him, reforming shields, gathering for another assault.

“You can’t hold forever, lion.” The calm certainty of a man who’s won battles before. “Eventually, you’ll tire. Eventually, we’ll break through. And then⁠—”

I don’t let him finish.

Pride leaders don’t believe in monologues. Neither do I.

The impact drives him back against the wall. His shields shatter under the force—not because I’m stronger than his magic, but because I’m not fighting for territory or dominance or any of the things he expects.

I’m fighting for her.

The distinction matters more than I can explain.

Three more agents pour through the upper corridor. I spin to meet them, my mane matted with blood—some mine, most theirs. The narrow passage works in my favor, forcing them to come at me one at a time.

Hold the line. Buy her time. Trust that she’ll break the Severing.

Trust.

The word sits strangely in my mind. I’ve spent fifteen years as pride leader preparing for every contingency, trusting no one but myself to ensure things were done correctly.