Page 42 of Mane Brew

Instead, I reach across the table. Take his hand.

His fingers close around mine immediately. Strong. Certain.

“I don’t know what this is,” I admit. “I don’t know what it means or where it’s going. But I know that my magic has been more stable in the past week than it’s been in two years. And I know that when you’re around, the chaos doesn’t feel like such a burden anymore.”

“That’s not nothing.”

“No.” I squeeze his hand. “That’s definitely not nothing.”

We sit there as the sunset fades to twilight, hands intertwined across a table covered in paperwork, while the mist outside glows amber and gold and the ancient magic beneath Mistvale stirs with renewed awareness.

Grandmother Peach is right about one thing: some patterns repeat for a reason.

Maybe it’s time to stop fighting this one.

10

RHODES

The war room at The Den smells like tension and stale coffee.

Maps cover every available surface—Mistvale’s streets rendered in careful detail, shipping routes marked in red, patrol schedules annotated in my handwriting. The other alphas crowd around the central table where Elio has spread his intelligence reports, their attention fixed on the warehouse circled in black at the edge of town.

I should be focused on the same thing. The possible Preserver hideout—the warehouse Elio’s people traced through three shipping fronts and a dozen shell accounts, the same modified routes that carried the contamination into Zeph’s supply chain. The operation we’re about to execute. The culmination of weeks of investigation pointing to this moment.

Instead, my attention keeps drifting to the window.

Through the thick glass, I can see the reconstruction crew at Duskfire Brewery three streets over. Scaffolding climbs the damaged eastern wall. Workers move in organized patterns—patterns I mapped myself, schedules I coordinated, a process I oversee even when I should be planning raids on terrorist warehouses.

A familiar figure emerges from the brewery’s side door. Auburn curls catching the afternoon light. Hands gesturing as she directs two workers toward a stack of copper sheeting. Even from this distance, I can see the energy crackling around her—magic sparking with each emphatic gesture, responding to her mood in ways that have nothing to do with control.

Focus.

“Rhodes.” Caius cuts through my distraction. “The entry points.”

I tear my gaze from the window. Force my attention back to the map, to the warehouse, to the operation that requires my full concentration.

“Three confirmed entry points.” I keep my tone steady. Businesslike. “Primary entrance on the east side—loading dock, minimal cover. Secondary entrance through the roof access. Tertiary entrance via a maintenance corridor on the north wall. Elio’s surveillance suggests the front is most heavily guarded.”

“Which means we don’t use the front door.” Elio lounges in his chair with the casual grace of a panther who’s never met a situation he couldn’t manipulate. “The Preservers expect direct assault. They’ve been watching us coordinate for days—they know we favor overwhelming force.”

“Because overwhelming force works.” Aslan’s tiger rumbles beneath the words. “Three alphas, full pride support, and whatever Network backup Caius can spare. We hit hard, we hit fast, we don’t give them time to destroy evidence.”

“We also don’t give them time to escape.” Veren Tahann speaks with the careful precision of a strategist. The fox alpha sits at the far end of the table, his rust-colored hair catching the light. Foxes approach problems differently than larger predators—more cunning, less direct. “If they have an evacuation protocol, three seconds of warning could empty that warehouse.”

“Then we don’t give them three seconds.” Torin shifts in his seat. The bear’s bulk makes the chair creak ominously. “Simultaneous breach. All three entry points. No one gets out.”

I nod. “Simultaneous breach is the recommendation. My pride takes the loading dock entrance—we’re the largest, best equipped for wide-formation assault. Elio’s panthers through the roof. Veren’s foxes through the maintenance corridor.”

“And the wolves?” Caius raises an eyebrow.

“Perimeter containment. If anyone slips through the initial breach, your people catch them.”

The plan is solid. Optimized for maximum efficiency with minimal risk. I’ve run the scenarios seven times, accounted for every variable my research could identify.

My gaze drifts back to the window.

She’s laughing now. One of the workers must have cracked a joke, because Zeph’s head is thrown back, her whole body shaking with mirth. Even from here, I can see the way her magic responds—the copper sheeting nearby gleaming brighter, the scaffolding humming with residual energy.