Page 70 of Mane Brew

“Fine.” I reach her position, take my place beside her. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding everywhere.”

“Superficial. The injury report can wait until after we save the world.”

Her laugh is half sob, half relief. “That’s the second most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I have extensive notes on more romantic statements. They’re filed under ‘pending conversations.’”

Around us, the other couples watch with varying degrees of amusement and impatience.

“As touching as this reunion is,” Anouk calls from her position at the southern point, Caius’s massive wolf form pressed against her side, “we’re on a schedule.”

“The seal is weakening,” Grandmother Peach adds from the center of the chamber. Two hundred fifty years of waiting presses through every word. “We need to begin.”

“I’m already the fourth point. But we’re not mated.” Zeph’s hand finds mine. Holds tight. “The fifth point needs more than just showing up. Peach said it requires choice—chosen, freely, both of us. We haven’t. We’re not⁠—”

“You can.” Peach’s ancient eyes find mine, and I see knowledge there that spans generations.

“Choice matters as much as magic,” Peach continues. “Perhaps more. The Severing was cast by those who chose fear over love. It can be broken by those who choose differently.”

“We choose differently.” The words come out before I can second-guess them. “I choose her.”

Zeph’s grip tightens. “I choose him.”

“Then let’s begin.”

The ritual isn’t words.

I expected incantations. Formal declarations. The kind of structured ceremony I could categorize and prepare for.

Instead, it’s intention.

The three mated pairs—Leire and Aslan, Sakura and Torin, Anouk and Caius—channel their power into the circle. I can see it flowing between them, visible threads of magic that weave through the air in patterns that defy description.

Partnership magic. The kind of power that comes from two people who’ve chosen each other, claimed each other, built lives around each other.

The kind of power that was supposed to be impossible for Zeph and me.

Except.

Her hand in mine. Her chaos reaching toward my order. The way her magic has been responding to my presence for weeks—stabilizing, focusing, finding direction in my proximity.

“Your turn.” Peach’s command carries across the chamber. “Add your power to the circle. Don’t think about what you are or aren’t. Think about what you choose.”

Zeph closes her eyes. Her brewing magic rises and flows into the ritual like a river finding its course.

I have no magic.

Shifters don’t work that way. We are what we are—predators, guardians, creatures of instinct and territory. We don’t cast spells or channel power.

But I can be a foundation.

I can be the structure her chaos needs. The order that gives her creativity direction. The steady presence that lets her magic know it’s safe to reach, to grow, to transform.

I close my eyes and focus on that.

I choose her. I choose to be her foundation. I choose to stand beside her, not because fate demands it, but because I want to.