Page 69 of Mane Brew

His shields flicker out entirely. He slumps against the wall.

“How—”

“Documentation.” I turn toward the stairs, toward the ritual chamber below. “I document everything.”

The first of my pride members reaches the corridor—Kira, one of my best fighters, her lion form streaked with blood that isn’t hers.

“Alpha.” She shifts to human, barely winded. “The upper floors are secured. Vespera is contained. The remaining Preservers are surrendering or fleeing.”

“Hold this position. No one gets past.”

“Rhodes.” She stops me at the top of the stairs. “She’s down there? The witch?”

“Yes.”

Kira’s expression softens into approval. Understanding.

“Go. We’ll hold.”

I go.

The stairs descend into darkness.

Ancient stone worn smooth by centuries of feet. Symbols carved into the walls that glow with faint, pulsing light—colors that don’t quite exist in the normal spectrum. The air tastes old. Heavy with magic that predates the Registry, the town, perhaps civilization itself.

Something primal paces beneath my skin, restless and certain. Whatever name I give it, it doesn’t care about categories.

She’s down there. And I’m not beside her.

I take the stairs three at a time, ignoring the protests from my wounded shoulder. Blood drips onto ancient stone. My own contribution to two hundred fifty years of history.

The stairs open into a circular chamber.

The walls curve upward in a dome carved with symbols that hurt to look at.

The Withering.

I feel it pressing against the barrier. Not physically—there’s nothing physical about it. Just the awareness of vast hunger, patient rage, grief transformed into desire.

The wrongness of it makes something deep in my chest revolt.

But the Withering isn’t what captures my attention.

Zeph stands at the northern point of the circle.

Alone.

Her wild auburn curls are disheveled. Her magic sparks around her in visible currents—chaotic, beautiful, alive.

She’s magnificent.

And she’s looking at the entrance with desperate hope that transforms into relief when she sees me.

“You came.”

“Told you I would.” I cross the chamber toward her, my wounds forgotten, my exhaustion irrelevant. “I’m late.”

“I’ll note the exception.” Her voice cracks on the words. Her eyes trace the blood on my shoulder, the scratches across my face, the evidence of what I’ve been doing while she waited. “Rhodes, you’re⁠—”