Silver walked beside Celeste with his posture looser than before, the rigid Council polish softened at the edges. He still looked immaculate by instinct, of course—Silver seemed like the sort of person who could fall into a swamp and emerge looking deliberately styled—but something in him had eased.
In one hand, he still held the moonbloom Celeste had picked.
He studied it as they walked.
The petals were pale blue-white in the streetlight, their edges dusted with glitter from Celeste’s dragon fire. Tiny crystal sparks clung to the flower like frost, catching the glow of passing lamps.
Silver turned it carefully between his fingers.
Celeste noticed. “You can keep it, if you want.”
He glanced sideways. “Can I?”
“I did technically steal it from the royal gardens.”
“Ah,” Silver said gravely. “Then I am now an accessory to floral treason.”
Celeste giggled.
It tugged another smile from him before he could stop it.
They walked on beneath the cold autumn sky, the Council spire looming closer through the streets, all sharp lines and old authority.
Celeste swung her arms slightly, warming into the quiet. “If you visit the Egg Tree, Arcade could show you the defence system. Well, some of it. Maybe not the bits that explode. And Mezzo would probably try to make you join band practice.”
Silver arched a brow. “Band practice?”
“He has an axe-guitar.”
“Of course he does.”
“And Carys makes stew. Real stew. Not Arcade food. Arcade food has… theories.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
Celeste smiled to herself. “And Lumina would probably make you play cards. She cheats, but she’s seven, so everyone pretends not to notice.”
Silver’s smile faltered just a fraction.
Celeste kept going, not seeing it at first. “You’d actually be good with the team, I think. You’re good in a fight. And you can summon a bow. And you’re dramatic, which means Mezzo would either love you or declare you competition.”
Silver gave a soft laugh.
Then it faded.
“Celeste.”
She looked at him.
His fingers closed more carefully around the moonbloom.
“As heir-regent of Sight, and as a member of the Council, I suspect our paths will not cross often.” He spoke lightly, but the carefulness beneath it gave him away. “Not unless military matters require it.”
Celeste’s ears dipped.
“Oh.”
The disappointment was small.
But visible.
Silver looked ahead, jaw tightening. “Politics has a dull, possessive call. It does not like letting people wander into interesting places with axe-guitars and suspicious stew.”
Celeste tried to smile. “Still. It was nice meeting you.”
He turned to her.
“You would have been a good team member,” she said softly.
For once, Silver had no immediate clever answer.
He looked at the flower in his hand again, at the glitter still caught along its petals.
Then he smiled, but it was sadder than before.
“Maybe in another life.”
The Council Hall rose in front of them—tall, severe, and humming faintly with old magic and older power.
Silver slowed.
The entrance was heavily sealed.
Brass-and-black drones hovered before the great steps, all polished gears, glass lenses, little rotating wings, and thin mechanical arms tipped with inspection sigils. They looked almost delicate until the barriers snapped down in front of Silver and Celeste with a hard golden flash.
“Halt,” one drone chimed in a clipped, mechanical voice. “Hybrid presence detected. Council access restricted.”
Celeste flinched.
Silver did not.
He merely lifted his chin.
The drones swept their lenses over him.
One scan.
Then another.
Then all three drones jolted at once.
“Identity confirmed,” the lead drone said, voice suddenly far more polite. “Lord Silver Balthazar Arcturus. Heir-regent of Sight. Outer Ring authority recognised. Our apologies.”
The barriers lowered instantly.
Celeste blinked. “Oh.”
Silver’s mouth curved without humour. “Touching, isn’t it? Rejection with paperwork, acceptance with pedigree.”
He stepped through, then paused and looked back.
“She is with me.”
The drones turned their lenses toward Celeste.
“Guest clearance granted.”
Celeste hurried after him, suddenly very aware of her scuffed boots, singed clothes, and lingering gumball residue.
Inside, the entry hall was already waking around them.
Nobles turned.
Whispers sparked like little knives.
“That’s Arcturus.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“Stars, he looks awful.”
“Still breathing, then.”
“Umbranox’s embarrassment returns.”
Celeste’s ears twitched.
She heard that one too clearly.
Her chest tightened.
She looked at Silver.
“Is this common?”
Silver kept walking, expression perfectly composed.
“Darling,” he said softly, “just because I am noble does not stop me being hybrid.”
Celeste looked at the watching faces.
The careful disgust.
The hungry curiosity.
The smiles that were not smiles.
For the first time, she understood that Silver’s polished mask was not vanity.
It was armour.
Ahead, the inner doors opened.
Lady Umbranox stood waiting.
The moment she saw Silver, the stillness around her cracked.
Only a little.
Only enough.
Staff moved instantly. A swarm of attendants descended with practised urgency—clean clothes folded over arms, medical kits open, towels prepared, someone already murmuring about a bath being drawn and food being sent to his rooms.
“Lord Arcturus, this way.”
“We have hot water ready.”
“Fresh clothes, my lord.”
“Cook has prepared broth, bread, tea, and—”
Silver barely seemed to hear them.
His eyes stayed on Umbranox.
Hers stayed on him.
All the reprimands, all the fury, all the months of fear stood between them like a third person in the hall.
Then Silver carefully slipped the moonbloom into his inner coat pocket.
Not crushed.
Not hidden carelessly.
Protected.
Umbranox’s gaze flicked to the movement.
She noticed.
Of course she noticed.
Her eyes shifted briefly to Celeste.
Then back to Silver.
She said nothing.
But the corner of her mouth softened into the faintest smile.
Almost fond.
Almost tired.
Then she shook her head once, as if silently accepting that her son had returned from presumed death with a stolen flower, a rescued hybrid commander, and a fresh scandal.
“Come,” she said.
Silver turned back to Celeste.
“Well,” he said, straightening his coat, professionalism settling back into place. “I suppose this is it.”
He took her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. His eyes flicked up, warm and bright despite everything.
“Farewell, my lady. And thank you—for the valiant rescue.” A playful curve touched his mouth. “Not the first time I’ve been saved by an Astallan.”
Celeste flushed, heart skipping. “It was… really nice to meet you too, Silver. Good luck.”
For a moment, he didn’t let go.
Then Umbranox called his name softly.
Silver released her hand.
He let himself be drawn inside, attendants closing around him, voices overlapping, relief and reprimand braided together. But even as he stepped through the doors, he turned back once more.
He smiled at Celeste.
Soft.
Sincere.
Then he was gone.
The doors closed.
The hum of the Council sealed him in.
Celeste stood there for a moment, staring at the place where he had been. She didn’t know how he’d fare in there—what storms waited behind those walls—but she held onto the simple truth of it.
Their paths had crossed.
And he’d been… nice.
Sometimes, that was enough.
As Celeste turned away from the Council doors, a shape peeled itself out of the shadows beside the colonnade.
“—Ah!” She jumped, ears flat. “Pitch! Stars—you startled me.”
He lifted a hand in mild surrender. “Good. Means you’re alive.” His gaze flicked over her, quick and assessing. “Didn’t mean to pry. Just… hybrid girls aren’t usually safe around pureblood nobles.”
Celeste blinked, genuinely confused. “He seemed nice to me.”
Pitch followed her gaze toward the Council building, jaw tightening slightly. “I hope he’s one of the good ones.”
A pause.
Then, drier, “Though from what I hear, he’s a bit of a heartbreaker.”
Celeste flushed faintly. “Oh. I—well—”
“Did he tell you anything?” Pitch asked, eyes sharpening. “Anything important?”
She shook her head. “No? Not really. He knew my dad, apparently. Or knew of him. He said he’d read Dad’s field reports, but he didn’t say much about why.”
Pitch’s expression tightened.
Celeste didn’t notice at first. She looked back toward the closed Council doors, still carrying the softness of the walk in her face.
“And we went through the Royal Gardens,” she added. “It was beautiful. There were flowers and fireflies and dragon fire and—honestly, it was like something out of an anime.”
Pitch stopped walking.
Celeste took two more steps before realising.
She turned back. “Pitch?”
His face had gone very still.
“He took you through the gardens?”
Celeste’s ears twitched. “Yes?”
Pitch exhaled through his nose, slow and humourless.
“Of course he did.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he always does that with girls he likes.”
Celeste blinked.
The words landed strangely.
Not quite painful at first.
Just cold.
“Oh.”
Pitch’s jaw worked, like he was deciding whether to soften it.
He didn’t.
“Silver lies, Celeste. All the time. Basically professionally. Don’t trust anything he says just because he says it prettily.”
Celeste went quiet.
Pitch looked away, then, in a voice that was suddenly smoother, posher, and horribly familiar, said, “The Royal Gardens were redesigned after the Third Thorn Budget, when House Veyr insisted native flora did not possess sufficient diplomatic grandeur. The moonblooms were imported from Albryne, though later crossbred with Caerfaenic frostbells to improve resilience.”
Celeste stared at him.
Pitch dropped the imitation like a knife.
“Did he say something like that?”
Celeste’s ears lowered.
“…Yes.”
“Yeah. He’s been saying it since he was twelve.”
Celeste looked down at her hands. The memory of the rainbow fireflies felt suddenly fragile, like glass held too tightly.
“But he got all that stuff about video games right,” she said quietly. “Starbound Tactician. Folding Circles. He knew those.”
Pitch’s expression softened for half a second.
Then hardened again.
“He’s a noble,” he said. “Lying is like breathing to them. Trust me, you ever meet him around other nobles, he’ll pretend it’s the first time you’ve ever met. Everything you have in common will vanish. Every joke. Every game. Every nice little moment. Gone.”
Celeste said nothing.
The Council doors loomed behind her, shut and golden and impossibly far away.
Pitch shoved his hands into his pockets.
“A while back,” he said slowly, “I took a job. Didn’t know what it was really for. Turns out… Silver was one of the people who exposed the whole thing.”
Celeste’s brows knit. “Exposed what?”
He shook his head. “Can’t say. Not now. I didn’t realise what I was part of until it went bad. I got out the moment it did.”
She studied him. “Are you worried?”
Pitch exhaled through his nose. “He saw me. I was masked, but still.” His voice dropped. “I don’t want him bringing heat down on the team because of my mistake.”
Celeste nodded slowly, but her mind was still on the gardens.
The flower.
The fireflies.
Silver smiling like he had forgotten how to be watched.
“Lying can’t be healthy,” she said softly.
Pitch gave a short, bitter laugh.
“It isn’t. Why do you think they drink so much?”
Celeste looked up.
His smile faded.
“You shouldn’t lie unless you’re willing to defend it to the death,” he said. “And most nobles can’t.”
The words hung between them.
Celeste glanced back once more at the Council Hall.
Then she offered a small, uncertain smile.
“It’s okay,” she said, though it sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than Pitch. “I don’t think we’ll see him again.”
Pitch’s shoulders loosened a fraction.
“That’s a relief.”
He glanced back toward the city, then smirked faintly. “Come on, kitten. Let’s get back before we make Ray even more upset.”
Celeste huffed softly as they started walking. “I don’t think I can make her more mad.”
Pitch chuckled under his breath.
“Bold assumption. Let’s not test it.”
