Page 74 of Mane Brew

Another thing that resists documentation. Another thing I’m learning to accept.

Around us, Mistvale settles into recovery.

The Severing is broken.

Witch-shifter matings will happen naturally again.

16

ZEPH

The next day, the town is still celebrating.

I hear the noise from three streets away—music and laughter spilling out of every building, the mist swirling with hints of gold that haven’t faded since we broke the Severing yesterday. Berry Thornwick’s semi-sentient bookshop has started shooting sparks of celebration from its chimney. Ember’s been on fire for six hours straight, which she insists is joy-based combustion and therefore doesn’t count toward her monthly flame incident quota.

I pass The Crescent Cup on my way through town. Marcus and Thalia are serving coffee to exhausted revelers, their vampire pallor somehow managing to look smug.

“Heading somewhere specific?” Thalia asks as I hurry past.

“Just... walking.”

“Toward Sunridge territory.” Marcus’s smile shows the faintest hint of fang. “How unexpected.”

“We’ve been married three centuries.” Thalia examines her nails with theatrical disinterest. “We recognize that particular walk. That’s the walk of a woman about to make very interesting choices.”

I flip them off without breaking stride. Their laughter follows me down the street.

Mistvale is happy.

The Preservers are defeated. The Severing is broken. Witch-shifter matings will happen naturally again, the way they were meant to before forty years of conspiracy and two hundred fifty years of suppression.

And I’m walking away from the party toward Sunridge territory, because there’s a conversation pending.

About possibilities.

Something electric hums through my veins, restless in a way that has nothing to do with instability. It’s anticipation. Want. The same restless, bubbling energy that’s been building since Rhodes caught me in the ritual chamber and looked at me like I was worth holding the line for.

The path up to his territory is steeper than I remembered. Or maybe I’m just nervous.

Nervous. Me. Zeph Grimwood, who once drank an entire barrel of her own Liquid Courage on a dare and then gave a speech about fermentation methodology to a room full of disapproving elder witches. Who told Rhodes Blackthorn to his face that he needed to loosen up approximately forty-seven times over the past four years.

Nervous about a conversation.

But this isn’t just a conversation, is it? This is the conversation. The one we’ve been circling since a batch of Revelation Red gave everyone hallucinations. Since he reorganized my supply closet without being asked. Since he kissed me on the Registry steps and promised after.

After is now.

The Pride Center is quieter than the town below. A few lions lounge on the sunning rocks, their golden forms catching the afternoon light. The territory is organized in ways that make my chaotic soul twitch—every path maintained, every building in its proper place, every blade of grass apparently filed alphabetically.

Kira—the fighter who held the line with Rhodes—lifts her massive head to watch me pass. Her golden eyes track my movement with that particular lion intensity that makes prey animals nervous.

I wave awkwardly. “Just, uh. Looking for your alpha.”

She shifts to human form—a scarred woman with close-cropped hair and the easy confidence of someone who’s won more fights than she’s lost. “He’s been waiting for you.”

“What?”

“The Archive Building. He’s been in there since dawn, supposedly recording yesterday’s events.” Her smile carries knowing edges. “But he keeps looking out the window. Toward town. Every five minutes, if my count is accurate.”