They walked back toward the Egg Tree as the evening gathered around Clawdiff, the sky turning bruised purple behind the broken rooftops. Lanterns flickered to life one by one along the survivor paths, little pockets of gold against the ruins.
Silver walked beside Celeste with his hands clasped loosely behind his back.
Not stiffly.
Not posed.
Just… there.
Relaxed in a way he could not remember being before.
Celeste noticed it and tried very hard not to look too pleased.
“So,” she said, hugging her backpack straps. “You really liked Moonblade Academy?”
Silver gave her a sideways glance. “I said it had structural merit.”
“You read the blurb twice.”
“I was assessing the premise.”
“You smiled at the cover.”
“It was an ironic smile.”
“It was not.”
Silver’s mouth twitched. “Perhaps the art direction was mildly compelling.”
Celeste gasped. “I never would have guessed you’d like that one.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s very dramatic. And emotional. And everyone keeps yelling about destiny and friendship while holding swords.”
Silver looked offended. “That is not a flaw.”
Celeste burst into a smile.
He lifted one hand, warming to the point despite himself. “Besides, there is a scene in volume three where Captain Aravel stands on the ruined bridge, cloak shredded, surrounded by enemies, and says—”
He turned suddenly, one hand pressed to his chest, the other flung outward with ridiculous theatrical precision.
“‘If the stars deny us passage, then we shall carve a road through heaven itself!’”
Celeste stopped walking.
For one stunned second, she stared.
Then she laughed so hard she snorted.
The sound escaped her before she could stop it—small, helpless, completely undignified.
Her paws flew to her mouth.
Silver froze.
Then slowly smiled.
Not sharp.
Not amused at her expense.
Something softer.
Adorable, he thought, with such immediate horror that he nearly tripped over his own dignity.
Celeste’s ears went crimson. “Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” Silver said quickly. “It was…”
He cleared his throat.
“An honest review.”
She lowered her paws, still giggling. “You acted it out.”
“I performed it with appropriate gravitas.”
“You flung your arm.”
“A necessary gesture.”
“You looked like Mezzo.”
Silver’s expression turned wounded. “That was uncalled for.”
Celeste laughed again, bright and breathless, and he felt something inside him loosen further.
So, naturally, he stole her hat.
One elegant swipe.
The lucky hat vanished from her head and appeared in his hand.
Celeste gasped. “Silver!”
He stepped backward, placing it neatly atop his own head. “How does it look?”
“That is my hat.”
“I asked how it looks.”
“It looks stolen.”
“An intriguing aesthetic.”
She lunged for it.
He dodged.
Not with noble grace.
With actual mischief.
Celeste chased him around a broken lamp post, laughing despite herself, paws outstretched as he held the hat just high enough to be unfair. Silver ducked around a bench, tail flicking, grin far too open for a Council heir.
“Give it back!”
“You’ll have to be faster, Commander.”
“I have Ragdoll balance!”
“I am aware. That is why I am confident.”
She made another grab.
He spun away.
She almost slipped, recovered badly, then stumbled into him with a squeak. Silver caught her by the shoulders without thinking.
For a breath, they were close.
Too close.
Her hat sat crooked on his head.
Celeste looked up at him, breathless and smiling.
Silver forgot every clever thing he had ever learned.
Then he gently set the hat back on her head, tugging the brim straight.
“There,” he said quietly.
Celeste’s smile softened. “Thank you.”
They reached the Egg Tree just as the lanterns flickered on for the evening, warm light catching in the sugar-glass branches. The base hummed softly with life—voices, laughter, the quiet comfort of people settling in.
Silver stopped at the edge of the path.
For a moment, he looked back toward the city.
Then at the Egg Tree.
Then at Celeste.
“This assignment,” he said slowly, “may turn out better than I expected.”
Celeste blinked. “Why?”
He seemed to consider hiding the answer behind something polished.
A joke.
A compliment.
A careful little lie.
Instead, he looked at her, and for once there was almost no performance in him at all.
“Because,” he said, “I think I have a friend here.”
Celeste’s whole face warmed.
Not just smiled.
Warmed.
“Oh,” she said softly. “You do.”
Silver’s ears flicked once.
He looked away, clearly regretting sincerity on principle.
“Good,” he said. “I would hate to have endured chores for nothing.”
Celeste giggled. “The chores are part of friendship.”
“That is a terrible system.”
“It has character.”
“It has dishes.”
She laughed again.
Silver watched her for half a second longer than he should have.
Then he remembered himself.
“Thank you,” he said, genuine polish in his voice. “That was… a lovely time.”
Celeste’s ears went pink instantly.
“O–oh. Um. You’re welcome. I’m glad you came.”
Silver smiled, took her hand before she could overthink it, and pressed a courteous kiss to her knuckles—perfectly practised, light as air.
“Later, Commander,” he said, already stepping back.
Celeste did not respond because her soul had temporarily left her body.
Internally, she combusted.
She stood there for a full second too long, staring at the place where he had been, before realising she was smiling like an idiot.
Then she noticed Bartleby.
He was standing near the inner roots, tablet tucked under one arm, speaking quietly to someone just out of view.
Silver saw him too.
Something in Silver’s face shifted—so subtle Celeste almost missed it. The smile smoothed. The warmth cooled. The effortless charm folded away into something more guarded.
“I should—excuse me,” Silver said, already turning.
“Oh—okay!” Celeste replied automatically.
He disappeared around the curve of the trunk.
Celeste took two steps toward her room before freezing.
The book.
She had forgotten to give him one of the manga volumes he had picked out—the one with the silly cover he had pretended not to like but had read the blurb for twice.
She turned back, clutching it to her chest, and followed quietly.
She didn’t mean to eavesdrop.
She really didn’t.
But voices carried strangely through the tree.
“…How are you holding out?” Bartleby was asking, voice low, careful.
Silver exhaled. “It’s… more difficult than I anticipated.”
Celeste slowed.
“I’m not used to this sort of living,” Silver continued. “The lack of structure. The informality. The… chores.”
Bartleby hummed sympathetically. “Are you at least getting some downtime?”
“Yes,” Silver replied. “I spend a fair amount of time with the commander.”
Celeste’s heart did a small, hopeful thing.
“Oh?” Bartleby said mildly. “You two seem to get along. I hear you’ve been playing games together. She does love those.”
There was a pause.
Then Silver laughed.
Not cruelly.
Not loudly.
But dismissively.
“Of course not,” he said. “It’s a childish hobby. I wouldn’t be caught dead playing them.”
Celeste felt the words land before she understood them.
“She insists,” Silver went on, tone lightly amused. “Constantly. Games, manga, little excursions. She dragged me out to look at comics today, of all things. I indulge her. It keeps things… smooth.”
Smooth.
“I’m hoping,” Silver added, “that if I’m pleasant enough, she’ll go easy on me. This assignment is… inconvenient. Best to endure it with minimal friction.”
Bartleby didn’t immediately respond.
Celeste stood very still.
Her hands tightened around the book.
She replayed the afternoon in her head—his laughter, the shared jokes, the way he had talked about Moonblade Academy like he understood exactly why volume three mattered. The way he had looked so free after their fight. The way he had said friend.
The way she had thought—so stupidly—that he meant it.
Maybe he was just venting.
Maybe he didn’t mean it.
Maybe—
Her chest hurt.
She took a step back before either of them could see her.
Another step.
Then she turned and walked away.
She set the book down on a small table near the corridor, carefully, like it mattered.
Like she mattered.
She didn’t cry.
Not yet.
She just walked back toward her room, shoulders a little hunched, ears low, thinking—
Oh.
I see.
Celeste shut the door quietly behind her.
The room felt too big all of a sudden.
She slid down until her back hit the door and just… sat there, knees pulled to her chest, hat slipping into her lap. For a moment she stared at nothing, ears flat, breathing shallow, like if she didn’t move maybe the feeling wouldn’t catch up.
It did.
Tears came fast and hot, blurring the soft glow of her room—the plushies, the bean bags, the half-finished crafts, all the little things that had made this space safe. She pressed her sleeve to her eyes, trying to be quiet, like sadness might behave better if she didn’t acknowledge it.
“I’m so stupid,” she whispered to no one.
She had really been getting to like him.
The way he laughed.
The way he talked about games like they were secret treasures.
The way he had looked at her, close enough that she had thought—just for a reckless second—that maybe she wasn’t imagining it.
Maybe she had had the wrong opinion of him.
Or maybe… she was just naïve.
That thought hurt worse.
She pushed herself up and crossed the room, hands shaking just a little as she picked up the manga volume. She hesitated, then placed it neatly on her shelf between two favourites, spine aligned just right. Like it belonged. Like the moment had meant something, even if he hadn’t meant it the same way.
Celeste swallowed.
“Okay,” she murmured, voice small but steadying. “That’s fine. That’s… fine.”
She wiped her face, sniffed, and sat on the edge of her bed. Slowly—deliberately—she gathered her long blonde hair and began to braid it.
Over, under.
Over, under.
The familiar rhythm grounded her, each movement a quiet promise that she could still take care of herself.
Her breathing evened out.
Maybe she wouldn’t invite him anymore.
Not unless he asked.
That way she’d know.
That way it wouldn’t be her hoping.
Her guessing.
Her reading too much into kindness that was just… convenient.
The braid grew longer between her fingers.
Celeste rested her forehead against it, eyes closed.
“It’s okay,” she told herself softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She stayed there for a while, braiding and re-braiding, letting the hurt exist without letting it swallow her—still gentle, still hopeful, but a little wiser now.
Outside, the Egg Tree creaked and sighed in the evening wind.
Inside, Celeste stayed quiet.
Healing.
