Page 43 of Mane Brew

Caius follows my gaze. Says nothing.

His silence says everything.

“The raid commences at dusk.” I force the words out. Force my attention to remain on the map instead of the witch three streets away. “Three hours from now. Any questions?”

Aslan raises a hand. “Is there a particular reason you keep looking at the brewery? Is there a tactical consideration I’m missing, or are we admiring the architecture?”

“The reconstruction is proceeding on schedule. I’m monitoring progress.”

Aslan nods sagely but says nothing further. The levity drains from the room, replaced by the focused intensity that makes this group of alphas the most effective protection force Mistvale has ever known.

I nod once. “Any other questions? Actual tactical questions?”

Silence.

“Then let’s move.”

The warehouse squats on the edge of Mistvale like a forgotten tooth.

Stone walls, weathered by time and deliberately maintained to look abandoned. No visible windows. Loading docks sealed with rust that’s probably decorative. The whole structure radiates the particular blankness of heavy warding—the kind that makes your eyes slide away, makes you forget you were looking in the first place.

The Preservers chose their hiding spot well. Anyone passing would see nothing worth investigating.

We’re not passing.

My pride flanks me in the gathering dusk—fifteen lions in human form, armed and ready. Aslan’s tigers hold position, a wall of muscle and barely contained violence. The communication charm in my pocket warms as Elio’s voice slides through: “Panthers in position. Roof access is clear.”

“Foxes ready at the maintenance corridor.” Veren’s confirmation follows a heartbeat later.

I scan my people one last time. Loyal lions who’ve followed me for years, who trust my judgment, who would die for the pride without question.

One face is notably absent.

Izag claimed illness this morning. A stomach complaint, his message said. Too unwell to participate in the most significant operation of our tenure.

My second-in-command. My childhood friend. The lion who’s stood at my right hand for fifteen years, who knows my schedules and my protocols and exactly when our forces would be committed to this raid.

Absent on the night we move against the Preservers.

I think about the past few weeks. The way Izag has been questioning my focus on the brewery investigation. The conversations where he pushed for traditional approaches, traditional values, traditional separation of witches and shifters. The concern when he warned me about becoming “obsessed” with the chaos witch.

I thought he was worried about me. About my judgment. About the pride.

Now I wonder if he was worried about being discovered.

I file the observation away. Refuse to examine why it sits wrong in my gut, why my instincts prickle with warning that has nothing to do with the raid. Izag has been my friend for three decades. He wouldn’t betray the pride. He wouldn’t betray me.

Later. Deal with it later.

“On my signal.” I draw a breath. My lion surges beneath my skin, eager for action, for violence, for the satisfaction of protecting what’s his. “Three. Two. One. Breach.”

The loading dock door explodes inward.

We pour through the breach like a wave—over a dozen lions hitting the defenders before they can organize a response. The two guards at the door go down in seconds, overwhelmed by numbers and speed and the fury of shifters who’ve spent weeks waiting for this moment.

The warehouse interior is nothing like the abandoned exterior suggests.

Operations center. That’s my first thought as my pride fans out, securing positions, covering angles. Maps cover the walls—Mistvale in excruciating detail, with every mated pair’s location marked in red. Charts track the Warding Line’s weakening strength over time. Records of every “incident” involving witch-shifter relationships stretch back decades.