Page 5 of Mane Brew

“He’s already on his way.” Caius pulls out his phone. “I texted him when the visions started.”

“You texted him? During a mystical hallucination?”

“I’m very efficient.”

“He’s going to be insufferable.”

“Probably.” Elio’s eyes glitter with amusement. “But think of the entertainment value.”

“I hate all of you.”

“You love us. We buy your chaos beer.” Aslan raises his half-empty bottle in salute.

“Speaking of which,” Torin adds, “this is genuinely excellent. Historical hallucinations aside. I wrote a poem about it,” he continues. “In my head. During the vision.”

“Please don’t share it,” Caius says.

“Too late. ‘Red as dawn, bright as fate⁠—’”

“We’re leaving.” Leire grabs Aslan’s arm. “Immediately.”

I spend the rest of the evening trying not to think about what I saw in those visions. The shadows at the edge. The watching presence. The way my magic recognized something ancient in it, in the oldest instincts I don’t examine too closely.

The way the vision felt more like memory than imagination.

The next morning arrives too bright and too early.

I’ve been up since three, unable to sleep after the visions. My brewery feels different in the predawn quiet—the copper tanks still humming but subdued, the magic settling into melancholy. Even the sign reads “Open (Barely)” instead of its usual cheery variations.

Every time I close my eyes, I see those shadows. Pressing. Waiting.

I’m elbow-deep in my ingredient stores, searching for anything that might explain what happened, when the knock comes.

Precise. Three sharp raps. Exactly evenly spaced.

I know who it is before I open the door.

Rhodes Blackthorn stands on my threshold in the pale morning light, clipboard in hand, expression radiating disapproval. He’s tall—taller than I remember, which is annoying—with shoulders broad enough to block out the sunrise and posture so perfect it makes my spine hurt in sympathy.

His gaze sweeps over me, cataloging details with the efficiency of someone who documents oxygen levels as a hobby.

Who cares what he thinks of my appearance? Not me. Definitely not me.

“Miss Grimwood.”

“Mr. Blackthorn.”

“I’ve been assigned to investigate last night’s incident.” He says it the same way someone might say “I’ve been assigned to catalog sewage.”

“Right. Because my brewing practices are obviously the problem, not the mysterious magical hallucinations that showed everyone visions from two hundred fifty years ago.”

“Proper procedure requires examining all possibilities. Starting with the most likely cause.” His pen taps against the clipboard—an impatient sound, though his face remains neutral. “Your fermentation tanks are three degrees above optimal.”

“They’re supposed to be. Enhances flavor.”

“I’ll need access to your brewing logs, ingredient records, and any notes regarding experimental batches.” He steps past me into the brewery without waiting for an invitation—technically his right as an official investigator, but still rude. “The incident report indicates the affected beverage was called ‘Revelation Red.’”

“Yes.”