Silver didn’t stop walking until the corridor curved out of sight of the relic hall.
Only then did he snap his arcbracer open, jaw tight, ears flat in a way he hadn’t let anyone see since the Academy.
“Lysander,” he hissed the moment the line connected. “Something just happened with the commander.”
A pause. Then Lysander’s smooth, faintly amused voice.
“Do enlighten me. You sound rattled.”
“She made my scales come out,” Silver said flatly. “In public. And—” he lowered his voice, mortified, “—she is completely immune to charm.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
“…She did what?”
“I don’t know!” Silver snapped. “She was standing near one of those relics, being insufferably earnest, and suddenly—boom—gold scales, instincts screaming, whole thing. And she didn’t even notice. Just smiled at me like I was a confused kitten.”
Lysander exhaled slowly. “What exactly did she do to provoke that?”
“Nothing. That’s the problem.” Silver ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “I’ve tried everything. Politeness. Wit. A little charm. I was hoping I could soften her up, convince her to let me ride out this… embarrassing wagon quietly. But no. She drags me on missions, hands me spare gear, talks to me like I’m a lost tourist.”
A faint, incredulous laugh came through the link.
“You’re telling me a hybrid commander is treating you like a charity case?”
“Yes!”
Lysander hummed. “Are you sure she’s… all there? That level of obliviousness is unusual. Perhaps a head injury? Trauma? If she’s compromised, we could push for reassignment.”
Silver grimaced. “That’s what I thought. A real commander would be tripping over themselves to impress me. She just… doesn’t.”
“And you attempted to court her?” Lysander asked carefully.
Silver shrugged, even though Lysander couldn’t see it. “I considered it. A little time together, ease her into being cooperative. But she didn’t register it at all. Flew straight over her head.”
Lysander inhaled sharply. “You were serious? You want that in your bed?”
Silver scoffed. “I’ve had worse. Besides, it would have been convenient.”
“Convenient,” Lysander repeated dryly. “And yet?”
“And yet,” Silver said sourly, “the Dalmatian mutt keeps interrupting. The gryphon one. Glares like he’s guarding a chew toy.”
“Charming,” Lysander muttered. Then, more thoughtful:“Alright. Stay put. I’ll keep digging. There may be something in her record we can use to have her removed—or at least sidelined.”
Silver stopped pacing. “Good. Because this cannot continue.”
“Until then,” Lysander added, “you’ll have to endure.”
Silver snorted. “I can endure poverty, Lysander. I draw the line at spontaneous scale reactions. That was humiliating.”
Lysander exhaled slowly. “I can bet. Is there anything else?”
Silver’s eyes narrowed. “About that data you sent me.”
A pause.
“You read it?”
“Obviously I read it. I do occasionally perform miracles before lunch.” Silver glanced down the corridor, lowering his voice further. “I asked the commander about it. Carefully.”
“And?”
“She has no idea why her information changed.” Silver’s mouth tightened. “Either she is a fantastic liar, which would be an insultingly good performance, or someone altered it without her knowledge.”
Lysander was quiet for a moment.
Then his tone shifted.
Less amused.
More interested.
“That is the problem,” he said. “I can’t find out who it originally belonged to.”
Silver stopped pacing.
“What?”
“Celeste Astallan. Lumina Astallan as well. Their records are not simply forged. They’re… broken.” Lysander exhaled softly. “It’s like someone copied one identity, snapped it in half, then altered both pieces.”
Silver’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds impossibly crude.”
“It is,” Lysander said. “Sloppy work. Crude enough that I should be able to peel it back and recover the original.”
“And yet?”
“And yet I can’t.” Irritation edged into Lysander’s voice now. “The surface work is poor. The underlying damage is not. Whoever did this left enough mess to make it look amateur, but destroyed the root cleanly. No original registration. No birth trace. No clinic ledger. No family transfer. Nothing.”
Silver’s expression went still.
“Maybe someone wanted it to look sloppy,” he said slowly.
Lysander didn’t answer at once.
Silver continued, softer now, thinking aloud. “Too clean a job would point toward the obvious. A professional records alteration with government clearance? That draws eyes to the people with access. But a crude forgery? Everyone blames smugglers, deserters, desperate hybrids, black-market adoption rings…”
“The question,” Lysander murmured, “is who is the obvious.”
Silver’s fingers tapped once against his arcbracer.
“When was it altered?”
A pause.
“Two years ago,” Lysander said.
Silver’s ears twitched.
“That narrows it.”
“It does.” Lysander sounded thoughtful now. “I’ll check hacker arrests, wanted individuals, pardon records, and anyone flagged for identity tampering around that period. If someone took credit, got silenced, or vanished shortly after, that may give us a thread.”
“And if the Council buried it?”
“Then I’ll find the shovel.”
Silver smiled thinly. “Careful, Lysander. That almost sounded competent.”
“Careful, Silver. That almost sounded grateful.”
Silver scoffed. “Don’t be vulgar.”
A soft chuckle came through the link.
“Hold fast, Patron-in-waiting. Try not to let the hybrid undo you.”
Silver closed the arcbracer with a sharp click, staring down the corridor where Celeste’s laughter echoed faintly from somewhere distant.
“…Too late,” he muttered, and squared his shoulders.
From behind him, heels clicked softly against stone.
“Excuse me.”
Silver turned—and had to fight the reflexive wince.
Diana Lockhart stood there, immaculate as ever, posture perfect, expression warm in that carefully measured way that never quite reached the eyes. She glanced at him, then frowned slightly.
“Oh—” she said, adjusting her focus. “I didn’t recognize you at first. The uniform threw me.”
Silver smiled anyway. The kind of smile he’d practiced since childhood. The one that smoothed things over.
“Yes. I’ve been… seconded,” he said lightly. “The commander insists on looking into some reports. Missing relics.”
Diana’s brows lifted—just a fraction.
“Oh, that?” she said with a soft laugh. “Nonsense. Rumours, nothing more. You know how these places are—old stone, old stories. People imagine patterns where there aren’t any.”
She gestured vaguely back toward the nave.
“Really, shouldn’t they be focusing on zombies?”
Silver wondered that too.
“I agree,” he said smoothly. “It’s a distraction. I’ll… encourage her to drop it. No need to trouble Lady Umbranox over shadows.”
Diana’s shoulders eased, relief flickering across her face before it vanished behind composure.
“I would appreciate that,” she said. “The timing would be dreadful. And I would hate for this to become… formal.”
Silver inclined his head. “Of course.”
Her gaze drifted past him, toward the corridor where Celeste had gone.
“She fought well the other day,” Diana added, almost as an afterthought. “Remarkably so.”
Silver nodded. “She’s just up ahead, if you’d like to speak with her.”
Diana shook her head immediately.
“No—no, I’m afraid not.” She adjusted her gloves, a little too quickly. “I have other concerns at present. Matters requiring… discretion. I’m rather pressed for time.”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
“But thank you, Lord Arcturus. Truly. It’s a comfort knowing the Knights of Clawdiff have someone on the Council advising them.”
Her smile sharpened, just enough to sting.
“It’s a shame you weren’t placed in command,” she added. “They’d be taken far more seriously.”
She didn’t wait for a reply.
With a polite nod, Diana turned and swept away down the corridor, robes whispering against the floor like a secret leaving too quickly.
Silver stood there for a moment longer than necessary.
It’s a shame you weren’t in charge.
He exhaled through his nose, gaze drifting back toward where Celeste’s voice echoed faintly—bright, earnest, completely unbothered by hierarchy.
“…Yes,” he murmured to himself. “A shame.”
Silver followed the sound of cheerful humming and found Celeste at the little gift counter tucked into the museum alcove.
She’d somehow managed to gather an armful of things despite only having two hands.
A small crystal-and-brass replica of the longsword.
A palm-sized statue of Motherlight.
A ridiculous glittery fridge magnet shaped like the cathedral.
She turned, spotted him—and immediately lit up.
“Oh! Silver—wait!”
Before he could brace himself, she hurried over and pressed a small wrapped parcel into his hands.
“For you.”
He blinked. “For… me?”
“Yes!” She nodded enthusiastically. “Open it.”
He did.
Inside was a pin—carefully crafted, sword-shaped, etched with tiny crystal lines that caught the light. Not expensive. Not prestigious.
Handmade-adjacent.
Before he could comment, Celeste stepped closer and, without asking, pinned it neatly onto his scarf to stop it slipping.
“There,” she said, stepping back to inspect her work. “That should keep it from drooping.”
She smiled, pleased in that quiet, earnest way of hers.
“I’m planning to get proper badges made for everyone—formal ones, with ranks and everything—once I get five minutes that aren’t on fire. But for now I got everyone one of these.”
He looked around.
Ray was adjusting hers like it was armour plating.
Mezzo was holding his up proudly like he’d won something.
Pitch examined his with a small, surprised smile.
Even Hughes nodded once, approving.
They all looked… proud.
Silver felt his soul leave his body.
To him, it might as well have been a child’s birthday sticker.
He swallowed.
“…Thank you,” he said carefully. “But I’d rather wait for the real one.”
Celeste’s ears flicked. “Oh—! Is it the wrong colour? I can ask if they have a gold one—”
“No,” he said too quickly, then forced his voice smoother. “You don’t need to fuss over me so much.”
She stilled.
“Perhaps,” Silver continued, tone sharpening despite himself, “you should focus on your duties. This isn’t a school trip. It’s either business or pleasure—pick a lane.”
The air shifted.
Celeste’s shoulders dipped. Just slightly.
“I—sorry,” she said softly, already snapping back into commander mode. “Right. Yes. We… need to speak to some of the Radiants here about the relic storage schedules.”
She turned to move on.
Topsy, who had been watching this whole exchange with narrowed eyes, suddenly popped up beside them.
“I love my pin,” she announced loudly. “It’s like a friendship pin!”
She beamed at Celeste. “I’m never taking it off.”
Silver scoffed before he could stop himself.
Topsy immediately stuck her tongue out at him.
“Pbbbt.”
Ray snorted. Mezzo grinned. Arcade muttered, “Iconic.”
Celeste paused, glanced back—caught Topsy’s grin, the way the others clustered instinctively around her—and smiled again. Smaller. But real.
“Okay,” she said, steadying herself. “Let’s get back to work.”
Silver watched her go, the little sword pin glinting stubbornly against his scarf.
They moved through the side hall in a loose cluster, boots echoing softly against the stone. The cathedral felt quieter here—less doctrine, more dust.
Lumina slowed her steps until she was walking beside Skye. She tilted her head, ears drooping just a little.
“You’ve gone very quiet,” she said gently. “Are you okay?”
Skye hesitated, fingers curling into his sleeves.
“…That carbuncle priest,” he said at last. “The one praying earlier. He’s my father.”
Lumina blinked. “Oh.”
Then, trying to be encouraging, she added, “But… your dad is a mythic and a priest. That’s important, isn’t it?”
Arcade snorted before he could stop himself.
“Yeah,” he said flatly. “If chasing fairy tales and ignoring your family are important, he’s truly excelling.”
Skye winced. “Arcade—”
Arcade ran a hand through his quills, exhaling hard. “Sorry. Sorry. I know. I’m just—” He shook his head. “I got kicked out of my family, Skye. And that asshole dismissed every message I sent him. Years’ worth. So yeah. I’m a little miffed.”
Skye was quiet for a beat.
“…Thank you for telling me that,” he said softly.
Arcade blinked. “You don’t have to keep thanking me, buddy. It was my choice.” His voice dropped. “I just wish the adults didn’t make me do it in the first place.”
They walked a few more steps in silence.
Then Skye asked, almost too quietly, “What if I try talking to him later?”
Arcade stopped.
He sighed, long and slow, then nodded once. “If you want. I’ll be here if it goes badly.”
Skye searched his face. “You’re not upset?”
Arcade hesitated. “It’s not my decision.” Then, honest and unguarded: “I just don’t want you hurt.”
Lumina stepped closer, placing a small hand on Skye’s arm. “I can go with you,” she offered. “If you want.”
Skye smiled—small, nervous, grateful.
“Thank you,” he said. “But… I think I’ll solo it. If that’s alright.”
Lumina nodded. Arcade gave a half-smile.
And the corridor carried them forward, toward answers they weren’t sure they wanted—but needed all the same.
