Page 66 of Mane Brew

“Trust me.”

Two words. Simple. Certain.

I trust him to fight until he can’t fight anymore. To hold the line even when the line is crumbling. To prioritize my mission over his safety, because that’s what alpha lions do.

That’s what the man who loves me does.

The man who loves me.

The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity. He hasn’t said the words. Neither have I. But I know it anyway—know it in the way he positioned himself between me and danger without hesitation.

“After,” I say.

“After,” he agrees.

I run for the stairs.

The descent feels endless.

Stone steps continue down into darkness, lit only by the faint glow of the symbols carved into the walls. My brewing magic pulses in answer, responding to the ancient power saturating this place.

Behind me, above me, I hear the sounds of combat. Rhodes fighting. Holding the line.

I feel him with every step—not magically, not through any supernatural awareness. Just the certainty that he’s still there. Still fighting. Still alive.

The certainty that he’ll come for me when the fighting is done.

The stairs open into a circular chamber.

The walls are carved with symbols in a language that predates any magical tradition I know—older than the coven records, older than the Registry itself, older perhaps than Mistvale. The floor is marked with concentric circles, glowing faintly with colors that don’t quite exist in the normal spectrum. Blues that hurt to look at. Reds that seem to pulse with heartbeats. Golds that whisper of partnerships lost and magic imprisoned.

And at the center—a seal. Cracked. Pulsing with imprisoned energy.

The Withering.

The awareness of entities that were once partnerships and are now... hollow. Hungry. Grief transformed into presence. Love warped into need. Two hundred fifty years of rage and loss compressed into awareness that presses against the weakened seal like water against a dam.

They’re down there. The Withering Ones. The echoes of every mating the Severing destroyed.

And they know we’re here.

“Zeph!” Leire pulls me back to the present. She stands at one point of the circle, Aslan at her side in human form, their mated magic humming in visible harmony. “About time you showed up!”

“Traffic was terrible. Very inconsiderate of the evil cultists to attack during rush hour.”

“The cultists have no respect for scheduling,” Aslan agrees, his tiger’s intensity focused entirely on his mate even as he tracks everything happening in the chamber. “We should file a formal complaint.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” I promise.

Sakura and Torin occupy another point—her belly round with Little Bean, his massive frame curved protectively around her. Anouk and Caius hold the third position, their composed elegance somehow intact despite what must have been brutal fighting to reach this chamber.

Grandmother Peach stands at the center, near the seal. Her ancient eyes find mine with desperate hope.

“The ritual requires four points for the breaking.” She gestures toward the empty fourth position. “Your magic, Zeph. It’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

I move toward my position, my magic already reaching toward the circle’s energy.

“The anchor requires choice.” Peach’s gaze lifts toward the ceiling, toward the sounds of combat filtering down from above. “Choice matters as much as magic. Perhaps more.”