They headed out not long after, leaving the Egg Tree behind in a rush of half-fastened armour, hastily grabbed gear, and one final distant crash from the washing basin that everyone chose to ignore.
Clawdiff looked almost normal at first.
That was the strangest part.
The city had not transformed into one vast battlefield. Shops still had signs. Lamps still glowed. Tram lines still hummed faintly where the mana grid held. Windows were boarded in places, yes, and half the street shrines had sandbags around them, but whole stretches of Clawdiff remained stubbornly, absurdly alive.
It was only in certain places that the apocalypse showed its teeth.
A row of houses stood untouched until, suddenly, one building was missing its top two floors where the military had fought Velcarius during the first hours of the outbreak and apparently decided tidying could wait until the end of the world. A roundabout had been cratered by dragonfire and was now being used as a communal firepit. One street still had a half-melted anti-air cannon slumped across the pavement like a dead beetle, with a handwritten sign taped to it reading:
DO NOT CLIMB. STILL HOT. PROBABLY.
Topsy pointed at it. “That sign sounds like it has trauma.”
Arcade nodded. “Relatable.”
As they moved deeper into the city, Celeste began to notice the smaller signs of survival.
Window boxes made from ration crates.
Makeshift planters balanced on broken railings, sprouting stubborn green shoots in soil carried from parks and bombed-out gardens.
People queuing for rations from the supplies recovered after the kraken fight, tired but orderly, bags clutched close and children pressed against their sides. Volunteers passed out wrapped bread, soup tins, batteries, water charms, and little stamped tokens for families who needed extra.
Trade had started again too.
Not properly.
Not safely.
But enough.
A badger Pureblood argued over the price of candle-stubs with a Mythic crow wearing four scarves. A Hybrid ferret sold hand-sharpened kitchen knives from a blanket. Someone had set up a tea stall beside a broken tram shelter, the steam rising through the cold morning like a tiny act of rebellion.
And, somehow, impossibly, a school was running.
A dozen children sat beneath a striped awning outside a cracked bookshop, bundled in coats, while an elderly goat teacher pointed at a slate board and tried to explain fractions over the distant clank of repairs.
Celeste slowed without meaning to.
“They’re still having lessons,” she said softly.
Hughes glanced over. “People like pretending tomorrow’s still coming.”
Celeste smiled faintly. “I think that’s brave.”
A Bracer Squad runner passed them at a brisk pace—a young Mythic stag with a wolf-head armband tied carefully around one sleeve. He slowed when he recognised the Knights, straightened, and gave Celeste a quick nod.
“Commander. Nothing to report. All quiet today.”
Celeste’s face lit with immediate, earnest relief.
“Good job,” she said. “You’re doing great.”
The stag blinked.
For half a second, he looked as if he had been hit with something.
Then his smile appeared, small and startled and bright around the edges.
“Thank you, Commander.”
He hurried on, standing a little taller than before.
Silver watched him go.
He said nothing.
But Celeste noticed his silence and glanced at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Silver said.
Which meant several things.
They continued through the street.
At first, people smiled when they noticed Celeste. A few waved. One little Hybrid girl with rabbit ears and a coat too large for her broke away from her mother and ran forward.
“Lady Celeste!”
Celeste turned, delighted. “Hello!”
The child skidded to a stop, clutching something in both hands—a tiny paper star, folded badly but with enormous commitment.
“I made you this,” she whispered.
Celeste took it like it was treasure. “Oh, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”
The girl beamed.
Then she saw Silver.
The smile vanished.
She shrank back instantly, ears pinning flat, and stumbled behind her mother’s skirt.
Her mother’s hand closed protectively around her shoulder.
The air changed.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
A few conversations dimmed. A few faces turned away. A vendor who had been waving lowered his hand. A Hybrid man with bandaged horns watched Silver with careful, guarded eyes, as if measuring how much danger stood beneath the borrowed armour.
Silver felt it.
Of course he did.
He had spent his whole life reading rooms for knives hidden behind smiles.
This was different.
No one bowed.
No one flattered.
No one pretended to adore him.
They only looked at him and saw the Council. House Arcturus. Royal Quarter glass. The sort of noble who arrived after the damage had been done and called the aftermath “unfortunate.”
To them, he must have looked like a Pureblood noble.
Clean accent.
Expensive posture.
Council blood.
Borrowed authority wrapped over a Hybrid body.
And to Purebloods, he would never be that.
To them, he was still a Hybrid in polished manners, cosplaying nobility until someone decided the costume no longer amused them.
Neither side claimed him.
Both sides feared what he represented.
His jaw tightened before he could stop it.
Celeste walked beside him for a few steps in silence, paper star cupped carefully in her palm.
Then she said, quietly, “You’re doing more than most nobles.”
Silver looked at her.
She did not look like she had meant to be profound. She looked worried she had maybe said it wrong.
“I mean,” she added quickly, “you came with us. And you’re helping. And you got chased by paladins, which was probably not very fun, and you still came back. Lots of people with titles stay behind glass and tell other people to be brave.”
Her ears dipped.
“So… don’t let it get to you too much. If you can. I know that’s easier to say than do. Sorry.”
Silver stared ahead.
For once, the remark he might have made—some elegant little blade about naïvety, sentiment, or civic theatre—did not leave his mouth.
Instead, after a moment, he said, “Thank you.”
Celeste glanced up, surprised.
He kept his eyes forward. “That was… unexpectedly kind.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “Well, it was true.”
That made it worse.
And better.
Silver adjusted the strap of his borrowed armour, suddenly irritated by how grateful he felt.
“Try not to make a habit of saying true things in public,” he murmured. “People might start expecting it.”
Celeste nodded solemnly. “I’ll ration them.”
His mouth twitched.
They moved on.
The road narrowed as they moved farther from the heart of Clawdiff, cobbles giving way to churned dirt and broken stone.
Ray was the first to spot it.
She slowed, fingers brushing black-and-purple hair back from her face as her ears twitched. Her fox tail fluffed despite her best effort to keep it still—an old instinct she didn’t bother apologising for.
“…Hold,” she said quietly.
Everyone slowed.
Ray tilted her head, listening—not just with ears, but with that low pressure-sense in her chest that meant something was off.
Wind.
Distant metal cooling.
Mana residue hanging in the air like static after lightning.
Ahead—
Not wagon ruts.
Landing scars.
The ground was scorched in a wide, circular pattern, dirt fused to glassy black where mana-based wheels had briefly existed before dispersing. Crates lay splintered nearby, not smashed outward but torn apart from above, as if gravity had been optional for a few violent seconds.
And there—half-buried in mud and debris—
A Council carriage.
Or what passed for one.
Its undercarriage was scarred where temporary mana wheels had collapsed back into nothing, leaving scorched grooves that curved and then simply ended. Alongside it lay the remains of two bughorses—mechanical, insectile things with segmented legs folded at wrong angles. Their wing housings were cracked open, mana jet boosters burnt out and still ticking faintly as they cooled. One had skidded sideways, carving a furrow where its legs had tried—and failed—to switch back into road mode before impact.
Ray crouched, running her fingers just above the scorch marks without touching.
“They came in hot,” she said. “Airborne. Dropped fast. Wheels deployed on landing… then everything went to hell.”
Arcade’s eyes lit up despite himself. “Hybrid jet-leg conversion. Council grade. Expensive.”
He frowned.
“Which means whoever hit them wasn’t messing around.”
Celeste swallowed, looking at the shattered carriage shell. “So they didn’t flee.”
“No,” Ray said flatly, tail lowering. “They were taken apart.”
The wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of burnt mana salt and something sweeter underneath—old candy residue, barely detectable now.
Ray straightened slowly.
“…Yeah,” she muttered. “We definitely weren’t alone out here.”
Mezzo frowned. “Raiders?”
Arcade crouched, fingers hovering just above a cracked wheel. “Nah. Raiders don’t leave this kind of mess. Too… theatrical.”
That’s when the metallic buzz cut through the air.
A sharp, smug sound.
From atop the wreckage, something gold straightened.
A cheetah pureblood in an ornate, ridiculous, absolutely unmistakable wasp-themed suit—polished gold plates, segmented wings folded neatly behind him, visor glowing faintly as he examined the debris like a curator admiring his own work.
The Gilded Wasp.
Mezzo opened his mouth.
“Oi—”
The Wasp spun around so fast he nearly toppled backward.
“STARS ABOVE—!” he yelped, sword snapping into his hand. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to sneak up on a man contemplating his genius?!”
Then he saw who it was.
His visor flared brighter.
“…Oh.”
A slow, delighted grin crept into his voice.
“Well. If it isn’t my favorite nuisance.”
Celeste’s ears shot up.
Her face lit up like a festival lantern.
“WASP!”
She bounced once. Twice.
Topsy joined her immediately. “WASP WAAASP—!”
The Wasp recoiled. “Why are you excited to see me?!”
Silver leaned toward Arcade, baffled. “Who—what—is that?”
Arcade sighed like a man reliving a migraine. “Long story. I’ll fill you in later. Pray you don’t have to learn it firsthand.”
The Wasp spread his wings with a dramatic whirr, jetpack spooling up.
“I was tracking the Luminary Pontifex,” he announced grandly, pointing at the wreckage. “Clues everywhere. Lies. Secrecy. Intrigue.” He turned his blade toward Celeste. “But no matter. Capturing you will suffice nicely.”
Celeste drew her katanas, grinning. “You always say that.”
“And one day,” the Wasp snapped, “I will mean it.”
The fight exploded into motion.
His mechs slammed down around them—sleek, buzzing constructs snapping at heels and firing stun-bolts. Mezzo charged with a roar, Ray right beside him, while Pitch shadow-jumped between targets, laughter sharp and dangerous.
Silver loosed arrows in rapid succession, precision immaculate despite the chaos. “I assume,” he called dryly, “this man is not redeemable?”
“Nope!” Arcade shouted back, firing a pulse that sent a mech spinning. “We tried!”
Celeste was having the time of her life.
She vaulted off a mech’s shoulder, slid under a sweeping blade, and laughed outright as the Wasp cursed in three languages.
“You’re sloppy today!” she teased.
“I am restrained,” he snarled.
Then—
smoke.
Thick, shimmering clouds burst outward, swallowing sound and sight all at once.
“Celeste—!” Mezzo shouted, lunging forward.
Too late.
A metallic clamp.
A sharp intake of breath.
The smoke thinned just enough for them to see it—
The Wasp rocketing skyward, one arm locked around Celeste, her blades knocked from her grip as she struggled in surprise.
She looked down once, eyes wide.
“—SORRY—!”
And then they were gone.
The smoke cleared.
Empty road.
Wreckage.
Silence.
Mezzo skidded to a halt, fists clenched, panic already burning behind his eyes.
“…Celeste?”
No answer.
Silver stared upward, jaw tight, every noble instinct replaced by something colder.
Ray swore softly.
Arcade’s voice was deadly calm.
“…That’s bad.”
Celeste Astallan was gone.
