Page 7 of Mane Brew

“I’ll have Anouk analyze this.” He replaces the vial and reaches for his clipboard. Capable hands. Stop noticing. “Her expertise in ingredient manipulation may identify the source.”

He finishes his documentation in efficient silence, moving through my brewery with methodical precision. Every detail recorded, every anomaly noted. I watch him work and hate that I’m impressed. Hate even more that I keep noticing the way he moves—controlled, purposeful, with the contained power of a predator choosing not to strike.

“I’ll return tomorrow to complete the assessment.” He pauses at the door, clipboard tucked under his arm. “In the meantime, don’t brew anything. Don’t modify your stores. Don’t⁠—”

“Breathe? Think? Exist?”

“—compromise potential evidence.” The muscle in his jaw flexes again. “This is serious, Miss Grimwood.”

“I know it’s serious. I’ve been taking it seriously. But forgive me if I don’t prostrate myself with gratitude for the opportunity to have you judge my every brewing decision.”

For a long moment, he looks at me. Something shifts in his expression—a fractional softening he would probably deny.

“Your brewery is a safety violation waiting to happen. Your organizational system defies logic. Your experimental batches have caused more documented incidents than any other magical establishment in Mistvale’s history.”

“And?”

“And your Revelation Red was the best beer I’ve ever tasted.” He says it grudgingly, like the admission costs him. “For what it’s worth.”

Then he’s gone, the door closing firmly behind him.

I stand in my disrupted brewery, surrounded by tampered ingredients and unanswered questions.

Rhodes Blackthorn complimented my beer.

Rhodes Blackthorn, who shut me down four years ago over a batch that made people speak in rhyming couplets. Who sent me multiple pages of documentation violations after the sentient foam incident. Who has filed more formal complaints about my establishment than any other individual in Mistvale’s administrative history.

He said my beer was the best he’d ever tasted.

I press my hand against the copper tank, feeling the magic settle into something restless and alive. The humming has changed—softer now, questioning.

“I know,” I tell the brewery. “I don’t understand it either.”

The sign above the door flickers, cycling through options before settling on: “Open (Under Investigation).”

At least my magic still has a sense of humor.

The shadows haven’t left. I’m not sure they will.

Whatever I’ve stumbled into, it’s bigger than tampered moonflower and mysterious visions.

And apparently, I’m going to have to figure it out with Rhodes Blackthorn breathing down my neck.

His neck is surprisingly nice, actually. Strong. The kind of neck that⁠—

I shake the thought away. Not helpful. Focus on the mystery.

The tanks hum sympathetically. At least someone understands my pain.

2

RHODES

The file on my desk is three inches thick.

I added forty-seven pages last night alone—incident reports, witness statements, preliminary magical analysis. Every detail of the Revelation Red incident documented with the precision it deserves. The precision everything deserves.

My office occupies the highest point of Sunridge territory, morning light streaming through windows that overlook the golden hills. File cabinets line every wall, organized by date, category, and threat level.