Page 83 of Mane Brew

“Don’t,” Zeph says.

“And I’m telling this story at your formal registration ceremony. It’s already drafted.”

“Leire—”

“Documented and everything. Ask Rhodes.”

I make no effort to deny it.

Zeph pulls me toward the corner before I can respond, and we squeeze into the booth with the others. Someone puts drinks in front of us—Severing’s End Ale, according to the label. Zeph’s newest creation, commemorating everything we accomplished.

Berry Thornwick deposits a precarious stack of books beside the cobbler. “The shop rearranged its entire romance section this morning. Enemies-to-lovers at eye level.” She beams at Zeph and me. “I think it’s making a statement.”

“How are you feeling?” Sakura asks, her eyes bright with genuine interest. “Both of you?”

“Different.” Zeph glances at me. “Good different. Like a puzzle piece finally clicking into place.”

“That’s exactly how it felt for us.” Sakura’s hand moves to her belly. “Little Bean agrees. They’ve been calm all day—first time since the claiming.”

“The baby can sense the magical stabilization,” Torin offers. “I’ve been tracking the correlation between maternal emotional states and fetal activity patterns.”

“I expected nothing less.” I raise my glass. “To documentation.”

“To documentation,” the men echo.

“You’re all insufferable.” Veren appears at the booth with a full glass and zero invitation. “I liked you better when you were miserable and pining. At least that was entertaining.”

“You confiscated my pen the last time you found us entertaining,” I say.

“And I’d do it again. It was for your own good. A man your age shouldn’t know that many synonyms for ‘yearning.’”

The women exchange looks that suggest they’re reconsidering their life choices.

“We should plan a proper celebration,” Anouk says, steering the conversation to more productive territory. “Something official. The council will want to recognize the new claiming, and the Network should formally acknowledge⁠—”

“Paperwork,” Zeph groans. “Even happiness requires paperwork.”

“Especially happiness.” I squeeze her hand under the table. “Happiness is unprecedented. It requires extensive documentation.”

“I’ve created a monster.”

“You’ve created a mate.” I let the word settle between us. “The monster was pre-existing.”

Her laugh draws attention from across the room. Heads turn. Smiles spread.

Mistvale is happy. Not just celebrating—genuinely, contentedly happy in a way that feels new. The shadow of the Preservers has lifted. The weight of the Severing is gone. For the first time in two hundred fifty years, the magical world is healing.

And I’m here, surrounded by friends and allies and the woman I love, feeling suspiciously close to joy.

It’s deeply undocumented.

I find I don’t mind at all.

Grandmother Peach appears in the late afternoon.

She simply materializes at the edge of the taproom, the way she always does—ancient and knowing and carrying a cobbler that smells like centuries of patient waiting finally rewarded. The room quiets as she approaches our table.

“My dears.” The words carry two hundred fifty years of hope, finally spoken. “You’ve done well.”