Page 64 of Mane Brew

“The chaos witch.” A cultured quality makes the words sound like an observation rather than an insult. “I wondered when you’d make your entrance.”

“Sorry, was there a dramatic timing I was supposed to follow? I must have missed that memo while you were busy destroying my brewery.”

“The brewery was a test. Your magic’s instability made you a useful laboratory.” She doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for a weapon or spell. Just stands there, utterly confident. “The contamination techniques we refined on your brews will be applied more broadly once this unpleasantness is concluded.”

“You experimented on my beer. My beer.” My magic surges with genuine offense. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to cultivate proper fermentation cultures? The yeast I use has been developing personality for three generations!”

“Sentient yeast is precisely the kind of chaos we seek to eliminate.” Her tone suggests she’s explaining something obvious to a slow child. “Unpredictable magic serving unpredictable purposes. It’s a symptom of the disorder the Severing was designed to prevent.”

“All of this—the infiltration, the attacks, the murder—it’s about keeping your family in power.”

Vespera’s expression doesn’t change. “Power is always the point, dear. The rest is just advertisement.” She waves a hand like she’s shooing away a gnat. “My agents have already breached the lower levels. The ritual site will be destroyed before your precious mated pairs can reach it.”

Cold fear washes through me.

The ritual chamber. The seal on the Withering. Grandmother Peach, waiting below for a ritual that might never happen.

“Rhodes.” Steady despite the panic clawing at my chest.

“I heard.” His hand settles against the small of my back—grounding, present, an anchor point in the chaos. “We need to move. Now.”

We run.

The Registry’s interior has transformed into a battlefield.

File cabinets have emptied themselves across the floor, papers swirling in magical currents that obstruct anyone trying to navigate the space. The waiting room chairs have formed a barricade, actively attacking a pair of Preserver agents who made the mistake of entering through the main door.

The reception desk has grown three feet taller and sprouted what appear to be teeth.

“The building is defending itself.” Grandmother Peach appears from a doorway that definitely wasn’t there a moment ago, her silver hair wild and her expression fierce. “But it can’t hold them forever. The ritual chamber is prepared. The mated pairs are moving into position.”

“Zeph needs to be there,” Rhodes cuts in. “She needs to reach the chamber.”

“And you?” Peach’s ancient eyes study him with unsettling intensity. “The entrance will need defending. The Preservers are already sending agents through the lower corridors.”

“I’ll hold the entrance.” No hesitation. No calculation. Just certainty.

My heart clenches.

“Rhodes—”

“The ritual needs you, Zeph. Your power.” He grips my hand once, hard. “I’ll make sure no one gets past me to stop it.”

“You don’t have to do this.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “You’re not mated. You’re not bound to any of this. You could step back, let the mated pairs handle⁠—”

“I could step back.” His eyes hold mine, and even in the chaos of the battle around us, the intensity there stops everything else. “I could find a safe corner and catalog the apocalypse from a distance. That’s who I was.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m exactly where I need to be.”

The words settle into me with a weight that has nothing to do with magic.

He’s choosing this. Not because fate demands it. Not because some ancient magical compulsion is driving him toward me. He’s choosing to stand at my side when he could step back into safety.

He’s choosing me.

“After this is over,” I say, my voice rough, “we’re having that conversation.”