The formations began to break as squads moved to their deployment points.

That was when Silver appeared beside her—perfect posture, council coat pristine, a noblewoman looped through his arm like an accessory.

He smiled pleasantly.

Eyes sharp.

Pitch, who had been standing nearby, immediately looked away like he had found something deeply interesting on the opposite side of the harbour.

He was trying very hard not to draw attention.

Which, unfortunately, drew attention.

“Good luck out there today,” Silver said lightly. “Weather looks dreadful.”

Celeste glanced at the churning water, then at her boots.

“I just hope I don’t fall in,” she admitted. She reached up and settled her hat firmly on her head. “It’s for luck.”

Silver’s smile softened, just a touch.

“Whatever gets you through, Knight-Commander.”

Celeste brightened a little despite herself.

“Oh! After the walk in the garden, I looked up other insects that respond well to dragon fire. I thought maybe if I practised smaller flames, I could—”

Silver did not so much as blink.

“What garden?”

Celeste stopped.

The words hit her oddly.

Not hard.

Just strange.

Like missing a stair in the dark.

“The royal gardens,” she said, softer now. “With the dragon fire. And the fireflies.”

Silver laughed.

Not cruelly.

Worse.

Politely.

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken,” he said smoothly. “It must be all the stress. Do take time for yourself, Commander.”

The noblewoman’s lacquered smile sharpened.

“You?” she asked, looking Celeste up and down. “In the royal gardens?”

Celeste’s ears lowered.

The noblewoman gave a tiny laugh. “They would never let you through the gate, my dear. There is a reason they don’t allow hybrids in. Especially if you’re planning on frying the wildlife.”

Behind Celeste, Pitch gave a soft, low whistle.

“I told you,” he muttered, looking very deliberately at the sea instead of at her.

Celeste’s chest sank.

Only a little.

Enough.

Maybe Silver had forgotten.

He probably walked through the royal gardens all the time. It was likely nothing to him. Just another path. Another evening. Another strange girl saying strange things while fireflies followed her around like silly glittering dots.

She didn’t exactly stand out.

Not really.

Not to someone like him.

“Oh,” she said. “Right. Sorry.”

Silver’s smile remained perfect.

The noblewoman drifted closer, lacquered smile sharp as glass. She looked Celeste up and down with obvious calculation.

“And what exactly,” she asked sweetly, “does your unit do?” Her eyes flicked briefly to the others. “The… what are you called again? The Knights of Clawdiff?”

The bait was obvious.

Celeste, unfortunately, took it with enthusiasm.

“Oh! We kill zombies,” she said brightly. “Very well, actually. And our mana turns into weapons, which helps a lot—Ray’s hammer does this thing where—”

“Ah.” The noblewoman’s smile widened. “Glorified pest control. Marvellous.” She tapped a claw against her chin. “Do you also handle insect infestations? The grounds on my father’s estate have some nasty bugrats. Far more of a challenge than your… adequate force, I imagine.”

Celeste blinked.

Hesitated.

“Oh—um. We take orders from Caedrix Umbranox and the Church,” she said carefully. “But we can do commissions if we’re not already deployed. There is a fee—it helps with food and equipment.”

The noblewoman scoffed.

“Oh no. I wouldn’t pay you. Exposure alone is its own reward.”

A beat.

Silver’s smile sharpened just enough to cut.

“I was under the impression hybrids jumped at opportunity,” he said lightly. “Or is it true they lack motivation?”

The noblewoman laughed, delighted with herself.

Before Celeste could shrink, Topsy popped up between them, clasping her hands and singing—loudly, cheerfully, terribly:

“Ex-pos-ure doesn’t paaaay~!”

Several nearby heads turned.

The noblewoman’s smile twitched.

Then Silver gave a tiny, polished incline of his head.

“I wish you the best of luck, Knight-Commander.” His eyes flicked briefly to her crest. “What was it again? Ashdown?”

Celeste blinked. “Oh—”

“No, no.” Silver tapped one claw thoughtfully against his chin. “Asterfell? Ashbrook? Something suitably rural, I’m sure.”

The noblewoman gave a delicate little laugh behind her hand.

Celeste, unfortunately, only looked confused.

“Astallan,” she corrected gently. “My father is Kenaz Astallan.”

Silver’s expression brightened with false recognition.

“Ah, yes. The hybrid commander.”

The noblewoman’s smile thinned into something meaner.

“He is hardly relevant.”

Celeste stared at her.

Not angry.

Just lost.

Her ears tilted as she tried to understand why the sentence had been shaped like that. Like it was polite on the outside, but the middle was sharp. Sarcasm always arrived half a step late for her, and by the time she felt the sting, everyone else had already moved on.

“He… was a commander,” she said uncertainly. “I think that’s relevant.”

Silver’s smile remained perfect.

But Mezzo understood exactly what Silver was doing.

He saw the bait.

The false forgetfulness.

The little misnamed jabs.

The way Silver had made Celeste correct him so he could reduce her father to the hybrid commander in front of a noblewoman who clearly thought even that was too generous.

Mezzo stepped forward and wrapped one arm around Celeste’s shoulders.

Casual.

Protective.

Absolutely deliberate.

“She’ll come back in one piece,” Mezzo said brightly. “She’s gonna be doing all the heavy lifting as usual, Your Highness.”

Silver’s eyes slid to him.

The noblewoman’s smile vanished by degrees.

Mezzo grinned wider.

“So why don’t you get your tail somewhere dry, yeah? Let the real soldiers do the actual fighting while you stand about pretending to matter.”

The air went very still.

Ray’s eyes widened.

Pitch’s head turned a fraction, very slowly, as if he was watching a man walk cheerfully into a cannon.

Silver looked surprised.

Only for a heartbeat.

Then his smile changed.

Deadly.

Elegant.

Practised.

The smile of someone who had heard worse at dinner and decided whether the speaker would still have a career by dessert.

“How touching,” Silver said softly. “The jester has mistaken proximity to courage for courage itself. Careful, Mr Swift. Standing beside a commander does not make you important. It merely makes you easier to replace when she grows tired of your noise.”

Mezzo’s grin did not move.

“Ah,” Mezzo said brightly, “so you do remember people’s names. You’re just choosing to be ignorant. I suppose you can afford to be.”

But his arm stayed firm around Celeste.

“Oh, But I know how replaceable I am,” he said. “Difference is, I’m still here.”

Silver’s expression sharpened.

Mezzo leaned in slightly.

“You, though? Nothing you do gets to be heroic, does it? You just stand around in nice coats waiting for a relative to die so everyone can pretend you earned the chair.”

A flicker passed through Silver’s eyes.

Small.

But real.

Mezzo saw it.

So did Celeste.

So did Pitch, whose eyebrows lifted with a silent oh, you suicidal idiot.

For the first time, Silver’s smile looked strained.

Mezzo’s voice dropped.

“And while you’re waiting, other people die instead.”

Silver’s jaw tightened.

Mezzo smiled.

“At least we get real battlefield glory. You get to stand beside a plastic prop for paintings.” His gaze flicked briefly to the ceremonial weapon at Silver’s side, polished, perfect, untouched by weather or war. “I guess there are some things people can’t buy.”

His fingers tightened against his glove.

Silver stepped closer.

Close enough that Celeste felt the air between them change.

Close enough that the noblewoman stopped smiling entirely.

“You do realise,” Silver said quietly, “I can end your career.”

Mezzo looked up at him.

Still grinning.

Still reckless.

Still absolutely aware of what he was doing.

“You could,” he said. “But then who would kill all the zombies?”

Silver’s eyes narrowed.

Mezzo’s grin turned sharp.

“You can’t touch us right now.”

For one dangerous second, Silver seemed to consider whether Mezzo was worth it.

Whether the insult was worth the political mess.

Whether the satisfaction would be worth losing something he could not yet afford to lose.

The noblewoman touched his arm sharply.

“Silver,” she said, irritated now. “Come. It’s raining.”

Silver did not look away from Mezzo at once.

When he spoke again, his voice was quiet enough that it felt more dangerous than shouting.

“Watch yourself, Swift.”

Mezzo gave him a lazy salute.

“Always do.”

Silver’s eyes lingered a second longer.

Then he turned, the noblewoman pulling him toward the covered walkway as rain slid cleanly off his immaculate coat. The noblewoman gave Celeste’s hat a once-over and scoffed under her breath.

“Charming.”

Celeste pretended very hard not to hear.

Mezzo noticed anyway.

Only when he was out of earshot did Ray exhale.

“Are you suicidal?”

Topsy looked deeply impressed. “I thought he was brave.”

Ray stared at her. “Those are often the same thing with him.”

Celeste slipped gently out from under Mezzo’s arm, cheeks hot, ears low.

“You didn’t need to do that.”

Mezzo glanced down at her.

For once, his smile was smaller.

Less performance.

More honest.

“Aye,” he said. “I did.”

Celeste looked at him.

He shrugged, gaze flicking toward the covered walkway where Silver had disappeared.

“You earned better than that.”

Then his mouth twisted.

“And I hate nobles.”

Pitch snorted under his breath. “At least he’s honest.”

He leaned in close, voice dropping, Éiravon lilt smoothing the edges.

“Hey. Don’t let ’em drag you down, yeah?” His smile was easy, but his eyes were honest. “People like that… they’ll make you feel small just to feel tall themselves. I’ve been there.”

Celeste blinked at him.

“It stings,” he went on softly. “Even when you pretend it doesn’t. Especially then.” He tilted his head, rain dotting his mane. “Doesn’t mean they get to decide who you are.”

She swallowed, shoulders easing just a little.

“For the record,” Mezzo added, louder now, easy grin back in place, “I love the hat. You wouldn’t be Celeste without it.”

She looked at him, rain dripping off the brim, and smiled—small, real, steady.

And for just a second, the noise of the Council faded.

Mezzo held her gaze a heartbeat too long, then glanced away, suddenly very interested in literally anything else.

The bay sirens began to howl.

Orders rang out.

And despite the fear, the storm, the laughter behind her back—Celeste stood a little straighter.

Admiral Voss clapped his hands once—crack—and the sound cut through the bay like a commandment.

“Knights of Clawdiff,” he called, prowling toward them with the swagger of someone who had never once doubted his own survival. “Eyes up. Ears open. I will explain this once.”

He gestured toward the dark, rolling sea where the kraken lurked unseen.

“My fleet engages first. We draw its attention. Big guns. Big noise. Very theatrical.” A grin flashed, sharp and confident. “While it’s distracted, smaller strike teams deploy with reinforced mana nets. You latch on, climb, and you kill it.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to feel personal.

“Do not get swallowed. Do not fall off. And above all—” his eyes flicked over them pointedly, “—do not look like total failures.”

Celeste straightened instinctively.

“Sorry—we’re trying our best.”

Admiral Voss stopped walking.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned.

“Ah-ah,” he said, lifting one claw. “A leader does not say sorry. A leader says my apologies.” He tilted his head, eyeing her like a flawed equation. “And even then, only when they’ve actually done something wrong.”

Celeste opened her mouth to correct herself.

He waved her off. “You didn’t. But you will. Statistically.”

A few nearby officers snorted. Celeste felt something inside her quietly power down—but she nodded anyway, committing it to memory.

Admiral Voss continued, circling her now.

“Second. You stand like a person waiting to be scolded. Commanders do not wait. They occupy space. Make people move around you.”

Celeste shifted, squared her shoulders without quite realising she was doing it.

“Hm.” His ears twitched. “Third. Never explain yourself to a room that didn’t earn it. Explanations invite debate. Orders invite action.”

She swallowed. “Understood.”

That earned him a pause.

Admiral Voss narrowed his eyes slightly. “Fourth. When someone questions your unit, you don’t defend them emotionally. You state facts. Numbers. Outcomes. Results. You let competence speak so you don’t have to.”

Celeste nodded again, slower this time.

Thoughtful.

“And lastly,” Voss said, stopping directly in front of her, “stop trying to be liked. Commanders who chase approval get people killed.”

Celeste met his gaze.

Not defensive.

Not flinching.

“I don’t want to be liked,” she said quietly. “I want to do better.”

That—that—was not the answer he expected.

Voss blinked.

Just once.

“Huh,” he muttered, something unreadable flickering across his face. “…You’re actually listening.”

Celeste inclined her head. “Thank you. I’ll work on it.”

Voss resumed pacing.

“There’s a reason only one hybrid unit—the Silver Arrows—ever existed. Hybrids are, historically speaking, unstable disasters. Glorious ones, occasionally. Mostly expensive.”

He stopped in front of Celeste again, peering down at her like she was an interesting science experiment.

“But.” He winked. “I am a generous man. I will grant you a one percent chance of proving me wrong.”

He spread his arms.

“More than fair.”

Admiral Voss turned toward his ship.

The Demeter loomed at the edge of the quay—vast, predatory, immaculate. Steel ribs rose like cathedral arches, all black iron and white-gold trim, its hull etched with naval sigils that glowed faintly through the rain. Mana conduits pulsed beneath the plating like veins under porcelain skin, and the figurehead at the prow—a carved goddess of harvest and war—stared down at the harbour as if judging it wanting.

The flagship of the navy.

A floating monument to money, power, and people who never had to scrub their own boots.

Celeste stared at him, eyes flat, soul visibly clocked out.

Voss clapped again.

“Now. Board my ship. And try not to dirty it. The decks were polished this morning.”

He turned on his heel and strode away, coat snapping sharply behind him as the Demeter’s boarding ramp hissed open, lights blooming along its spine in crisp, obedient lines.

Behind him, the Knights of Clawdiff stood in the rain, silent.

Topsy whispered, “I hate him.”

Mezzo muttered, “I’m going to key his boat.”

Hughes exhaled slowly. “Commander?”

Celeste adjusted her hat, rain sliding off the brim. Her expression was tired but steady—someone who had survived worse than rich men with clean ships.

“…Let’s go not be a one percent,” she said, and started toward the Demeter.

The ship’s lights reflected in puddles at her feet, bright and cold, as the Knights followed her aboard.