Arcade did not sleep.

He had fully intended to.

At least, he had said the words out loud, which counted as emotional progress if not actual rest.

Instead, he sat hunched over a cracked workbench in one of the Egg Tree’s lower rooms, blanket slipping from one shoulder, three empty mugs lined up beside him like tiny ceramic gravestones. A fourth mug steamed near his elbow, untouched for once.

The gumball data hovered in front of him.

Layer after layer of stolen systems. Candy hive protocols. Council encryption. Sweettooth Harmonics fragments. Old Kymara architecture buried beneath it all like bone beneath rot.

It was a nightmare.

Which meant, unfortunately, it was also fascinating.

C.H.I.P. hovered nearby, projecting files into separate clusters while humming something cheerful and deeply inappropriate.

“GUM-NEXUS ARCHIVE UNPACKING AT SIXTY-FOUR PERCENT,” C.H.I.P. announced. “WARNING: FORTY-TWO PERCENT OF FILES ARE LABELLED WITH ORGANIC SCREAM PATTERNS.”

Arcade rubbed both hands over his face. “Don’t read those out.”

“I WAS NOT GOING TO.”

A pause.

“I WAS THINKING ABOUT IT.”

“Don’t.”

“COWARD.”

Arcade ignored him and dragged another data cluster closer. Most of it was useless on first glance: pod temperatures, feeding schedules, mana extraction pressure, zombie patrol loops, failed conversion trials, hundreds of corrupted logs half-eaten by their own encryption.

Then he saw the camera file.

Pod chamber. Commander Astallan. Internal feed.

Arcade stilled.

His fingers hovered over the projection.

He remembered seeing the tail end of it before. Celeste on the monitor, eyes glowing, zombies bowing like worshippers. Her mouth forming words that had made the hairs along his arms lift.

Bradwr.

Bardic.

Old Bardic, if he was right.

Which he hated, because being right about terrifying things was beginning to feel like his actual job.

Arcade leaned in.

“Aha,” he murmured. “Now let’s see who was chatting with our commander.”

C.H.I.P.’s optics rotated toward him.

“PLAYBACK?”

“Playback.”

The image flickered.

Amber haze.

A pod.

Celeste floating inside it, limp and pale, her core glowing beneath torn fabric.

Arcade’s jaw tightened despite himself.

He watched the zombies gather.

Watched the dark substance touch her core.

Watched the hive react.

Then Celeste’s eyes snapped open.

Arcade stopped breathing.

They were not her eyes.

He knew Celeste’s fear. Her awkward little blinks. Her way of looking at danger like she wanted to apologise to it before stabbing it.

This was not that.

This was cold.

Ancient.

Royal in a way that made the room feel smaller.

On the recording, Celeste’s mouth moved.

“How dare thee.”

Arcade’s quills lifted one by one.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

The zombies bowed.

Every single one.

Not stumbled.

Bowed.

C.H.I.P. went quiet.

That was worse than any joke.

Arcade watched as Celeste—no, whatever was wearing Celeste’s face—commanded the hive to stand down. The footage broke in places, sugar-static chewing across the frame, but enough remained.

A second shape appeared in the corridor.

Not clear.

Never clear.

The camera caught only a shadow at first. Tall ears. A long tail. The outline of a lynx standing half inside darkness, as if the hive itself refused to look at him directly.

Celeste’s glowing eyes turned toward him.

“Bradwr.”

Arcade’s mouth went dry.

The cup slipped slightly in his fingers, but he caught it before it fell.

A path opened in the amber haze beyond the pod.

Then a familiar voice spoke from the corridor.

“I wondered when you’d push through.”

Karethiel did not turn immediately.

Her mouth tightened.

Then she looked toward the shadows.

A shadow stood beyond the pod, half-lit by the hive’s sickly glow. His coat was dark and worn by time, his eyes older than the ruin around them. He carried himself like someone who had been called monster, servant, traitor, and friend, and had survived all four names.

Karethiel’s gaze cut into him.

“Bradwr.”

The shadow smiled faintly.

“Still starting with that one?”

“Traitor,” she said, voice colder now.

He inclined his head as though accepting a greeting from an old court.

“Karethiel.”

Her hands curled into fists inside the pod.

“I had wondered when thou wouldst crawl from whatever hole spared thee.”

“And I wondered whether you’d remember to breathe before insulting me.” His gaze flicked over Celeste’s body. “Careful. This is not yours.”

Karethiel’s expression changed.

Only slightly.

But enough.

“I know.”

The admission cost her something.

She looked down at Celeste’s paws, at the torn sleeves, at the little scratches, at the soft trembling that still belonged to the girl beneath her.

“I have only moments,” Karethiel said. “The systems placed around me are waking. They will drag me under again.”

The shadow’s expression softened with something that might have been pity.

Karethiel hated it.

She turned on him.

“Why am I in this prison?”

The hive pulsed around them.

Her voice sharpened.

“What did I do to deserve it?”

The shadow was silent for a moment.

Then he looked toward the rows of pods hanging in the amber dark. Inside them, people slept—Hybrids, Mythics, Purebloods, children, soldiers, villagers, strangers. Their breathing fogged the gum walls. Their cores flickered weakly beneath layers of sticky light.

“For their safety,” he said quietly.

Karethiel’s eyes narrowed.

“And yours.”

Her lips parted in disbelief.

“I could save them from themselves.”

“No,” the shadow said. “You would force them.”

Karethiel stared at him.

He stepped closer, voice low.

“The world is not like that anymore.”

Her face hardened.

“Then the world has become lesser.”

“It has become free.”

“It has become greedy,” Karethiel snapped. “Cruel. Divided. Decaying in its own noise.”

She looked past him, toward the sleeping prisoners, the candy-webbed walls, the twitching zombie servants waiting for command.

“Look at them. Look what came of choice. Hunger dressed as invention. Rot given purpose. This corruption—”

Her voice trembled with fury.

“She caused this. And thou let her.”

The shadow’s jaw tightened.

“I am trying to stop her.”

“Too late, it seems.”

“Not yet.”

Karethiel studied him.

For a moment, old recognition flickered through her expression.

Not forgiveness.

Not trust.

But memory.

Then she lifted Celeste’s hand and placed it against the inner wall of the pod.

Light spread from her palm.

Not Celeste’s usual anxious blue-white sparks.

This was precise.

Ancient.

A command written directly into the hive’s stolen systems.

Runes bloomed through the gum walls, too old for Sweettooth Harmonics, too clean for candy rot. They flowed outward like veins of starlight, slipping beneath the corrupt sugar-web, unlocking hidden paths, loosening doorways, opening routes the hive had swallowed and forgotten.

“There,” Karethiel said. “I have opened the systems. The child should find escape easier now.”

The shadow looked almost surprised.

Karethiel glanced at the walls with clear distaste.

“This is crude work.”

Her gaze followed the red sparks flickering through the sticky resin.

“Her mind must be fractured.”

The shadow’s eyes darkened.

“The silence killed her.”

Karethiel went still.

For the first time, uncertainty touched her face.

“The silence?”

He nodded once.

“All that quiet. All those empty years. No song. No chorus. No answering minds. She was not made for it.”

Karethiel’s voice softened, and somehow that made it more dangerous.

“Then let me bring it back.”

The shadow closed his eyes briefly.

“No.”

She turned to him.

“What?”

“No,” he repeated. “You are not bringing the old song back.”

“It is our life.”

“It is slavery.”

The words struck her like a blow.

Karethiel’s face changed.

Not anger first.

Hurt.

True and sharp, as if he had reached through centuries and slapped her with his bare hand.

“Slavery?” she whispered.

The zombies stood silent around them, heads bowed, waiting for orders.

Karethiel looked at them.

Then at the pods.

Then at Celeste’s trembling hands.

“But I do not understand,” she said, and for a moment she sounded less like a goddess and more like someone lost. “It is order. It is how we lived. One song. One purpose. No one alone.”

The shadow stepped closer.

“And no one free.”

Her eyes flashed.

“Freedom made this.”

“Loneliness made this,” he said. “Fear made this. Grief made this. And people using others as tools made this.”

Karethiel’s mouth tightened.

He softened his voice.

“You cannot heal a broken world by taking its will away.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved.

The hive hummed.

The systems around Celeste’s core began to glow.

Warnings sparked along her neck, her bracer, her bones. The prison inside her—the locks no one living fully understood—tightened.

Karethiel gasped.

The old starlight in Celeste’s eyes flickered.

The shadow reached for her.

She caught his wrist.

Hard.

“Do not mistake my sleep for surrender, Bradwr.”

“I never have.”

“If she dies—”

“I know.”

“If thou failest her—”

“I know.”

Karethiel’s grip weakened.

Her gaze slid once more to the zombies kneeling around them.

“Servants,” she murmured. “Still serving after all this time.”

“They deserve a choice too.”

She looked at him, almost pleading without knowing how.

“They were made to serve.”

“So was I,” he said.

That silenced her.

The light in Celeste’s eyes flickered again.

Karethiel’s voice thinned.

“I am afraid.”

The shadow’s expression broke for half a second.

Then he leaned closer and placed one hand against Celeste’s brow, just below the hidden gem.

“I know.”

Her lips trembled with words that did not come.

He whispered, “Sleep now, Karethiel.”

The old light went out.

Celeste’s body slumped forward.

The shadow caught her before she hit the floor.

For a moment, he held her there in the amber glow, one arm beneath her shoulders, the other against the stained light of her core. Celeste’s face had softened again. Small. Exhausted. Frightened even in sleep.

The zombies remained bowed.

Waiting.

The shadow looked at them.

“Forget this.”

Their heads twitched.

The mug fell from Arcade’s hand.

It hit the floor and shattered.

Tea splashed across his boots, hot enough to burn.

Arcade didn’t move.

Didn’t swear.

Didn’t even look down.

Arcade stared at the screen, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

C.H.I.P. lowered slowly until he hovered at Arcade’s shoulder.

“USER HEART RATE ELEVATED.”

“No kidding.”

Arcade swallowed.

Then moved fast.

Too fast.

He grabbed the projection, yanked the file cluster out of the archive, stripped its access markers, severed the auto-backup, and buried the footage beneath three false directories before C.H.I.P. had even finished making a startled little chirp.

“Arcade?”

“Scrub it.”

C.H.I.P.’s optics narrowed. “DEFINE SCRUB.”

“Metadata. Access logs. Preview cache. Command history. Anything that says I opened this.”

“THAT IS HIGHLY SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOUR.”

“Good. Then you understand the vibe.”

Arcade’s fingers flew over the hard-light keys.

He copied the file once.

Only once.

Then encrypted it.

Then encrypted the encryption.

Then locked it again under a private key only C.H.I.P. could carry.

“Triple lock it,” Arcade said. “No network access. No Council format. No cloud sync. No hidden diagnostic copies. Nothing. Secure storage inside you and nowhere else.”

C.H.I.P. hovered closer.

“THIS SEEMS IMPORTANT.”

Arcade laughed once.

It came out wrong.

“If the Council sees that, they’ll kill her.”

The words hung there.

Raw.

Ugly.

True.

“They won’t call it killing,” Arcade said, breath coming too quick now. “They’ll call it containment. Emergency exorcism. Quarantine. Anti-possession protocol. Pick your favourite fancy murder phrase.”

He dragged a hand through his quills, tugging too hard.

“And if the team sees it…”

He stopped.

Celeste’s face flickered in his mind.

Celeste apologising to furniture.

Celeste throwing herself into danger because someone had cried for help.

Celeste smiling like being useful was the only thing keeping her stitched together.

Arcade’s throat tightened.

“If they think she’s possessed, some of them might walk away.”

C.H.I.P. said nothing.

“Ray’s already scared she’ll get us killed. Pitch doesn’t trust nobles. Hughes might understand, but even he’d have to think about the others. Mezzo would stay. Probably. Bonbon would. But everyone else?”

His jaw clenched.

“If they walk away, we’re screwed. If the Council finds out, she’s dead. If Celeste finds out before we understand what this is, she’ll blame herself for something she didn’t even know happened.”

He stared at the frozen final frame.

The weakened seam.

The mercy.

The lie.

Arcade whispered, “Stars, what do I do with this?”

C.H.I.P. did not answer.

Arcade looked up.

“C.H.I.P.?”

The little robot had gone perfectly still.

Just frozen in midair beside him, lights dimmed to a cold, dead blue.

Arcade’s stomach dropped.

“C.H.I.P.?”

Then C.H.I.P. vanished.

Not powered down.

Not despawned with his usual obnoxious little pop.

Just gone.

The room became horribly quiet.

Arcade turned slowly back toward the projection.

The footage was still open.

That was impossible.

He had closed it.

He had scrubbed it.

He had buried it.

The final frame flickered.

Amber haze.

And in the corridor beyond—

The lynx stood in shadow.

Only now, he was not looking at Celeste.

He was looking directly at Arcade.

Arcade’s blood turned to ice.

“No.”

The lynx’s head tilted slightly.

As if he had heard him.

Arcade shoved back from the workbench so hard his chair screamed across the floor.

“No, no, no, no—absolutely not.”

The lynx stepped closer inside the footage.

Static crawled along the edges of the image. The amber light bent strangely around him, as if the recording itself did not want to remember his shape.

Arcade’s hands fumbled for his arcbracer.

“C.H.I.P.!”

No answer.

The lynx stopped at the edge of the frame.

His face remained half-hidden.

But his eyes were clear.

Old.

Tired.

Merciless in the way mercy sometimes had to be.

Then he spoke.

Not through the speakers.

Not from the projection.

Inside the room.

“Some things,” the lynx said softly, “are better left in darkness.”

Arcade couldn’t breathe.

He tried to stand.

Tried to scream.

The lynx lifted one hand.

The world folded inward.

Arcade’s mind lit up with terrible fragments.

Celeste’s glowing eyes.

Karethiel.

Bradwr.

The old song.

The zombies bowing.

The lynx looking at him through time and glass and stolen candy-tech.

Then the fragments began to vanish.

One by one.

Precisely.

Arcade clutched at his head, panic breaking loose at last.

“No—wait—don’t—”

The memory tore away from him like pages ripped from a book.

His knees hit the floor.

His vision blurred.

Somewhere distant, glass crunched under his hand from the shattered mug, but he barely felt it.

The lynx watched him fall.

For one impossible second, Arcade thought he saw pity on that shadowed face.

Then the lynx smiled and He turned and walked away inside the footage.

The camera distorted behind him.

Amber became static.

Static became darkness.

The file collapsed in on itself, frame by frame, until there was nothing left but a dead projection and the low hum of the Egg Tree around him.