Autumn had found Clawdiff properly now.
Not politely.
Not as a suggestion.
It swept through the streets in gold and rust and copper, sending leaves skittering over cracked paving stones, into gutter drains, under market stalls, and across the boots of soldiers too tired to kick them away. The wind carried the smell of damp paper, old smoke, warm bread from somewhere brave enough to reopen, and the faint sugary rot that never quite left the city anymore.
Celeste walked with her sketchbook tucked under one arm, ribbons fluttering, trying not to step on the brightest leaves because they looked too pretty to crush.
Silver noticed that, of course.
He noticed most things.
He noticed the way she slowed when children passed. The way she smiled at every patched window box like it was proof the world was fixing itself. The way she kept glancing at the survivor buildings behind them, as if the conversation about Hybrids had not ended so much as settled somewhere beneath her ribs.
It had settled beneath his too.
Do you think they would care about us if we were ordinary Hybrids?
The question had been absurd.
Naïve.
Dangerous.
And far too difficult to dismiss.
A leaf spun loose from a nearby tree and slapped Celeste directly in the face.
She stopped.
Silver stopped.
For one breath, the leaf stayed there, stuck across her glasses and nose.
Celeste made a very small, muffled sound.
“Oh.”
Silver stared.
Then, despite himself, chuckled.
Not a polished laugh. Not the kind he used in Council corridors. A real one, short and surprised.
Celeste lifted both hands uncertainly. “I’ve been attacked.”
“By foliage,” Silver said, stepping closer.
“It was very sudden.”
“Most ambushes are.”
He reached up carefully and plucked the leaf from her face, taking a moment to free the stem from her glasses without tugging at her fur. His fingers were precise.
Gentle.
“There,” he said.
Celeste blinked up at him. “Thank you.”
Silver held the leaf between two claws, its copper edges trembling in the wind.
For a second, he almost smiled again.
Then the thought returned.
Ordinary Hybrids.
He looked down the street, toward the distant glow of the Council towers. Toward the polished floors, the ancient crests, the people who would tolerate him only so long as he remained useful, elegant, and contained.
Celeste noticed the shift.
Of course she did.
Badly, perhaps.
But she noticed.
“To be fair,” she said suddenly, “the Council floors are very slippery.”
Silver blinked. “What?”
She nodded with great seriousness. “The polished ones. In the big corridors. I nearly fell over twice. I didn’t say anything because I thought it would look undignified, but honestly, I think the floor was showing off.”
Silver stared at her.
Then his mouth twitched. “The floors are treacherous.”
Celeste brightened. “You think so too?”
“They are waxed to a criminal degree.”
“I knew it.”
“In certain halls,” Silver said, with the grave tone of a man discussing military history, “one could build momentum with very little effort.”
Celeste’s eyes widened.
Silver realised what he had said one second too late.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Socks.”
He closed his eyes.
“No.”
“You thought it too.”
“I thought nothing.”
“You did.”
“I am a noble of House Arcturus. I do not think about sliding down Council corridors in socks.”
Celeste looked at him.
Silver held firm for approximately two seconds.
Then exhaled through his nose. “The eastern gallery would be fastest.”
Celeste gasped. “I knew it!”
“It has the longest uninterrupted stretch.”
“And the corner by the statue?”
“Dangerous,” he said instantly. “Excellent for a turn if one has balance. Fatal if one does not.”
Celeste clasped her sketchbook tighter, delighted. “One day, when nobody is looking, we should see who’s faster.”
Silver’s ears flicked back.
He looked horrified.
Mostly at himself.
“I cannot believe I am about to say this,” he muttered, “but I would win.”
Celeste gasped. “You would not.”
“Obviously, I would.” He lifted his chin. “Maine Coon balance.”
Celeste’s ears perked with sudden confidence. “I have Ragdoll balance.”
Silver stared at her.
Then burst out laughing.
A real laugh this time, bright and startled enough that he had to turn his head away as if offended by his own amusement.
“Celeste,” he managed, “you would look like a fluffy pillow sliding across that floor.”
She considered this.
Then nodded, entirely dignified.
“Yes,” she said. “But a pretty pillow.”
Silver lost another laugh before he could stop it.
“That is not a tactical advantage.”
“It might be distracting and make you trip.”
“It would be catastrophically distracting.”
She smiled, very pleased with herself.
Silver looked away again, still smiling despite every instinct telling him not to.
He huffed, and for a moment the heaviness between them eased.
Only a little.
But enough.
They turned down a narrower street where the buildings leaned close together, their upper windows almost touching. Old signs creaked overhead. Water dripped from gutters into cracked pots filled with autumn flowers. The smell of dust and paper grew stronger.
At the end of the lane, tucked between a closed watchmaker and a tea shop with a handwritten sign reading OPEN WHEN WE CAN BE BOTHERED, stood the bookshop.
The bell over the bookshop door gave the same tired little jangle it always did—like it resented effort.
Celeste stepped in first.
Mr. Grams looked up from behind the counter.
He froze.
Then he lit up like someone had just handed him proof the universe wasn’t entirely rubbish.
“Well I’ll be—” He squinted, leaned forward. “You didn’t get arrested. Or shot. Or vaporised.”
Celeste smiled. “I’m very good at not dying.”
“Clearly,” he muttered, already shuffling around the counter.
He fussed immediately—straightened her collar, flicked a bit of dust off her sleeve, peered at her ears like they might be leaking.
“You look thinner. Are you eating?”
“Yes.”
“Properly?”
“…Define properly.”
He sighed. “Hopeless.”
Behind her, Silver cleared his throat.
Mr. Grams finally noticed him.
“Oh,” Mr. Grams said, peering past her. “You’ve brought trouble.”
Silver blinked. “Good afternoon?”
Mr. Grams squinted at him like he was an unsolved crime. Then his eyes flicked to Celeste. Back to Silver. Back to Celeste.
“…You like her.”
Silver and Celeste spoke at the same time.
“No—!”
“—That’s not—!”
“If,” Mr. Grams continued calmly, already reaching for a dictionary the size of a paving slab, “either of you attempts any lovey-dovey nonsense in my shop, I will bludgeon someone with reference material.”
Celeste squeaked. “We weren’t going to—!”
Silver held up his paws. “Sir, I assure you—”
“Shush,” Mr. Grams snapped. “Browse.”
Silver fled to the manga section like a man escaping a firing squad.
Mr. Grams vanished into the back.
He returned moments later and placed a plate beside Celeste.
Cheese and bacon sandwich.
Crusts removed.
Cut into a neat little star.
Celeste gasped, then caught herself and whispered, “I won’t scream.”
“See that you don’t,” he said gruffly.
She ate it without arguing.
Mr. Grams watched with visible satisfaction.
“…Why are you nice to me?” Celeste asked softly.
He recoiled like she had accused him of arson. “I am not.”
“You made it star-shaped.”
“That was structural,” he snapped. “Better load distribution.”
She smiled at him.
He turned away.
Silver, meanwhile, had taken refuge in the manga aisle.
He stood there stiffly, pretending intense academic interest in a volume with dramatic speed lines and improbable hairstyles.
Mr. Grams watched him from behind a shelf.
“Didn’t peg you for the wide-eyed swords-and-feelings sort,” he called dryly.
Silver didn’t turn. “It is cultural analysis.”
“Of course it is.”
Celeste sat cross-legged at a low table, sandwich balanced on a napkin, flipping through a manga drawing tutorial. She squinted at a page titled Dynamic Expressions for Heroic Leads and tried to copy the eyes into her sketchbook.
“Watch your greasy fingers,” Mr. Grams barked without looking.
Celeste froze mid-bite. “Sorry!”
She wiped her paws furiously on the napkin and carefully adjusted her grip.
Silver drifted from manga to the adjacent shelf.
Fantasy novels.
Leather spines.
Gold-embossed titles.
Then his gaze shifted further.
A corner display.
Fantasy battle manuals.
Old campaign maps.
Tactical atlases of imagined wars.
His ears lifted slightly.
Mr. Grams noticed.
“Oh,” he drawled. “There we are. Found your actual preferences.”
Silver stiffened. “They are purely strategic materials.”
“Mm-hm.”
Silver crouched to examine a large folio bound in deep blue leather.
Fantasy Battles & Grand Campaign Maps — Limited First Print.
His claws hovered reverently over the edge.
Mr. Grams watched with open sarcasm—and reluctant approval.
“Careful,” he muttered. “That one’s rare.”
Silver stood and brought the book to the counter, expression carefully neutral.
“I will take this.”
Mr. Grams raised a brow. “That’ll cost you.”
Silver pulled up his credit transfer panel without hesitation, holographic interface flickering to life above his wrist.
“Name your price.”
Mr. Grams didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he studied him.
Really studied him.
“I know who you are,” he said at last.
Silver’s posture shifted, almost imperceptibly.
“And what I can do?” Silver asked evenly.
“And what you can do,” Mr. Grams confirmed.
Silence settled between them, thick and private.
Behind them, Celeste laughed softly at something in her tutorial book, completely unaware.
Mr. Grams leaned forward slightly.
“You can have it,” he said. “No charge.”
Silver blinked. “That is unnecessary.”
“Not a gift,” Mr. Grams corrected. “A condition.”
Silver’s eyes sharpened.
“You protect her,” Mr. Grams said quietly. “From the Council. From politics. From whatever game they’re playing.”
Silver didn’t hesitate.
“I already intend to.”
“Intention’s cheap,” Mr. Grams said.
Silver held his gaze.
“You have my word.”
Mr. Grams nodded once.
“Then take it.”
Silver lowered the credit projection slowly.
“…Thank you.”
Behind the counter, unnoticed, a small red indicator blinked softly beneath an old receipt terminal.
Recording.
Mr. Grams casually pressed a button with his thumb.
Just in case.
Across the shop, Celeste was mid-bite again, carefully holding her sandwich at the corners while flipping a page.
“Oh! Look, this one teaches hands!”
“Use the napkin,” Mr. Grams barked without turning around.
“I am!” she protested.
“You’re not.”
She wiped her fingers again. “Sorry!”
Silver returned to her side, rare campaign folio tucked under one arm.
She looked up at him, crumbs at the corner of her mouth.
“Find anything fun?”
“Educational,” he said smoothly.
Mr. Grams snorted.
Celeste noticed something else, though.
The bottle behind the counter was still there.
But it was… less empty than usual.
Before she could comment, Mr. Grams thrust a small bundle into her arms.
A fantasy book—old, loved, with a tiny handprint pressed into the inside cover.
A plush unicorn, slightly crooked.
And a huge rainbow jumper, so baggy it looked like it had been designed to swallow people whole.
“…It’s enormous,” Celeste said.
“You’ll grow into it,” he muttered. “Or drown. Either way.”
When it was time to go, Celeste hesitated.
Then she pulled out a folded piece of paper and slid it onto the counter.
A drawing.
The shop. The shelves. A grumpy badger behind the desk. Warm light everywhere.
Mr. Grams stared at it for a long moment.
“…Don’t,” he said gruffly, handing it back.
Then paused.
He took it.
“…Don’t change,” he added, quieter.
Celeste nodded.
The bell jingled.
Outside, Silver whispered, “I think he threatened me with a dictionary because he likes you.”
Celeste hugged the book tighter.
“…I think he does too.”
They stepped back out into the street.
Celeste tugged on her oversized jumper, sleeves swallowing her paws as she adjusted the hem. The late afternoon light caught in her hair ribbons as she bounced once on her heels, sandwich safely finished, tutorial tucked under her arm.
Silver paused on the pavement.
He looked back at the shop window.
Mr. Grams was visible inside for just a second—straightening a stack of books with unnecessary precision.
Silver’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“…Is he an old family friend?” Silver asked casually.
Celeste blinked up at him. “Nope.”
She pulled the jumper down properly and started walking.
“I met him once when I was running away from this guy. Gideon, I think his name was?”
Silver stopped walking.
“Lord Rex Gideon,” he said flatly. “Council member. And a pain in the arse. I know who he is.”
Celeste nodded, oblivious to the subtle tension in his voice.
“Yeah, him. I ran in there to hide. Mr. Grams was kinda drunk, I think. Or pretending to be. Hard to tell.” She shrugged lightly. “He yelled at Gideon’s men to get out and then handed me a cookie.”
Silver’s gaze drifted back to the shop again.
“And that was it?” he asked.
“Pretty much.” She smiled softly. “He seems nice.”
Silver resumed walking beside her, hands clasped behind his back.
“Be careful,” he said quietly. “You cannot trust everyone. Even those with good intentions.”
Celeste tilted her head at him.
“I trust you though.”
The words were simple.
Uncomplicated.
Silver’s ears dipped just slightly.
“You shouldn’t,” he murmured.
It was almost to himself.
Celeste didn’t catch the tone.
She smiled instead, adjusting the strap of her sketchbook.
“This was nice,” she said. “Maybe we can come back sometime. You know. When the world isn’t ending.”
She glanced around at the skyline—smoke faint in the distance, mana lights flickering where repairs were still ongoing.
“It’s one of the few places that aren’t on fire.”
Silver allowed himself a faint smile.
“Yes,” he said. “It was… agreeable.”
They walked a little further in companionable silence.
Behind them, the bookshop window reflected the city.
Silver couldn’t shake the feeling.
Mr. Grams had known too much.
Had given too easily.
And men who recorded promises rarely did so without a purpose.
Silver glanced back one last time.
The curtains had already been drawn.
They turned away from the Council together—no fanfare, no triumph.
Just a team, bruised but intact, walking back into the mess with eyes open.
And somewhere ahead of them, the truth was waiting.
