Page 65 of Mane Brew

“Extensive conversation. With filing.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Peach clears her throat. “As touching as this moment is, the building’s defenses are failing. We have perhaps ten minutes before the Preservers reach the ritual chamber.”

Reality crashes back. The sounds of combat. The building shaking around us. The fate of witch-shifter relations for generations to come hanging in the balance.

“Right.” I release Rhodes’s hand. Turn toward the corridor that leads down, down, down into the earth. “Let’s go break a curse.”

We reach the entrance to the ritual site just as the Preservers breach the lower defenses.

The corridor opens into a wider space—a landing of sorts, with stairs spiraling down into darkness on one side and a narrow passage leading up toward the Registry’s main floors on the other. The walls here are older than the Victorian building above. Ancient stone carved with symbols I don’t recognize but feel.

The seal on the Withering pulses below. I sense it—the wrongness pressing against barriers that have held for two hundred fifty years.

Rhodes positions himself at the entrance to the upper passage. His human form melts into lion in the space between heartbeats—golden fur rippling across muscle, massive paws finding purchase on the ancient stone, his mane magnificent even in the dim light.

I’ve seen him in lion form. During council meetings, during the investigation, during a dozen tense moments when his pride leader instincts demanded a more primal presence. But I’ve never seen him like this—positioned between me and danger, every line of his body radiating protective intent.

Beautiful. Terrifying. Mine.

Not yet. But maybe. After.

The first Preserver comes around the corner.

Rhodes hits him with the full force of a pride leader’s protective rage.

The impact sends the agent flying backward into two more behind him. The lion doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate—just moves with the brutal efficiency of a predator defending his territory. Claws flash. Blood sprays. The narrow corridor becomes a killing ground.

More agents pour through the passage. Enforcer types, combat-trained, their magic crackling with offensive power. They’re prepared for this—they’ve studied lion fighting techniques, practiced counters, developed strategies.

None of it matters.

Because they prepared for a pride leader defending his territory. They didn’t prepare for what happens when he has something worth more than territory to protect.

The difference is in the ferocity. In the relentless, unstoppable force of every strike. In the way Rhodes doesn’t retreat, doesn’t give ground, doesn’t do anything except place himself between the attackers and the stairs behind me.

One of the Preservers is bigger than the others, clearly the leader—his spells hit with enough force to make the walls shake. Combat magic honed over decades, power that’s taken down shifters before.

The Enforcer.

Rhodes meets him head-on. Lion versus combat specialist, raw power versus trained precision. They clash in a tangle of claws and magic and fury.

I reach for my brewing magic, ready to help⁠—

“Go.” Rhodes’s voice rumbles from the lion’s chest, barely audible between attacks. “Start the ritual.”

“I’m not leaving you⁠—”

“You’re not leaving me.” He catches the Enforcer’s arm in his jaws, tears, releases. Blood sprays. “You’re going ahead. There’s a difference.”

Another Preserver charges. Rhodes intercepts, his massive form a barrier between the enemy and the stairs behind me.

“I can help fight⁠—”

“You can help win.” His tawny eyes meet mine between strikes. “Your magic breaks the Severing. My claws buy you time. That’s how this works.”

“Rhodes—”