Celeste padded down the spiral stairs, careful not to slip on the polished bark. Silver followed a few steps behind, hands folded behind his back, wearing the expression of someone who absolutely did not understand tree architecture but was trying not to show it.
They found Topsy perched on one of the Egg Tree’s lower branches.
She was sitting sideways, legs dangling, chewing thoughtfully on a sugar flower she’d plucked from the bark. With her other hand she cracked open a pastel candy egg, letting tiny sweets spill into her palm and then straight into her mouth.
Her squirrel tail twitched with every muttered insult.
“Big stupid head,” Topsy grumbled. “Should’ve thrown him in the bin. Or the toilet. Or maybe a zombie’s toilet. Extra gross. Such an asshat.”
Celeste cleared her throat softly. “Topsy… are you okay?”
Topsy didn’t look up. “Fine. Just topsy-tastic.”
She scowled at the courtyard below. “Of all the cats to be here, it had to be that ginger-haired moggy.”
Celeste snorted. “You’re ginger too.”
Topsy finally glanced down at her, offended. “Red squirrel jackalope hybrid, thank you very much. And my face is more symmetrical. Especially after I thought about smacking him.”
Celeste tilted her head. “You smacked him?”
Topsy sighed dramatically. “No. But I wanted to. Very badly.”
She went quiet for a moment, tail slowing.
“He ruined everything, you know,” she said. “I was gonna be a mana surfer. I trained so hard. Purebloods were awful about it, but I did every odd job in my community—cleaning vents, fixing boards, courier runs—saved every bit.”
She swallowed.
“I got in.”
Celeste’s ears perked.
“I got picked, Celeste. Me.” Topsy stood up on the branch, arms wide, voice lifting. “Topsy Tarradiddle. Fluffiest mana surfer alive.”
She smiled for half a second.
“Even Phyllis came. You know, the hybrid panther lady with no legs? She helped tune my bike. Came all the way out to watch me.”
Her voice cracked.
“At finals I was supposed to hold the mana torch. And he framed me for cheating.” She laughed bitterly. “His word against mine. If he got caught, warning. If I did—gone. Like I never existed.”
Tears finally spilled.
“He told me I shouldn’t have shown off.”
Celeste didn’t hesitate. She stepped in and wrapped her arms around Topsy, holding her tight.
“You matter,” Celeste said quietly. “And it wasn’t fair. None of it was.”
Topsy sniffed, then suddenly jumped down from the branch, fists clenched. “That’s it. I’m gonna kick his ass.”
Celeste caught her gently by the shoulders. “Wait. I have a better idea.”
Topsy blinked. “Oh?”
“When the dragons are dealt with,” Celeste said, thinking out loud, “we form our own team. Under the Knights. Mana sports, training, sponsorship—the works.”
Topsy’s eyes lit up like fireworks.
“EVEN BETTER IDEA,” she gasped. “I love it. We can call it—”
She pointed dramatically.
“—The Arch Is a Poopy Head Group.”
Celeste raised one eyebrow very slowly.
Topsy deflated. “…Okay. Maybe something else.”
Silver, who had been quietly observing the entire exchange, cleared his throat.
“Truly,” he said dryly, “a devastating loss to branding.”
Topsy looked at him. Then grinned.
“Oh good,” she said. “You’ll fit right in.”
Celeste tilted her head, ears flicking. “So… did you like it?” she asked, meaning mana surfing, the idea, the whole mess of feelings wrapped around it.
Silver blinked. “Like it?” He paused, then admitted, “I’ve… never actually watched it. I was more into jousting and fencing.”
He said it casually.
Very casually.
“…I’m a champion fencer.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
“Oh my STARS,” Celeste breathed.
“That’s SO COOL,” Topsy gasped at the exact same time, grabbing Celeste’s arm.
“You mean like proper fencing?” Celeste added. “With the footwork and the dramatic cloaks and the—”
“And the stabbing,” Topsy finished helpfully.
Silver rolled his eyes with the weary resignation of someone who had absolutely, definitely never had people swoon over this before. Ever. Not once.
But instead of throwing themselves at him like the council nobles usually did, Celeste and Topsy climbed back onto the branch.
“Right,” Celeste said, straightening up and adopting an absurdly posh accent. “I shall now portray Arch, the villainous cheat.”
Topsy’s eyes lit up. “YES.”
They squared off, miming invisible swords. Celeste puffed herself up, chin high.
“I say, Tarradiddle,” Celeste sneered theatrically, “your technique is frightfully… common.”
Topsy gasped. “How DARE you.”
They lunged. Poorly. Dramatically. With far too much arm movement and absolutely no regard for balance.
Silver winced.
He tried not to say anything.
He really did.
“Your lead foot—” he muttered before catching himself.
Both girls froze.
“…should be angled slightly outward,” he finished weakly. “For stability.”
They adjusted. It actually helped.
They resumed, swishing imaginary blades, narrating their own attacks, until Celeste overcommitted, Topsy countered, and they both bowed so enthusiastically they bonked foreheads.
“Ow.”
“Worth it.”
They fist-bumped solemnly.
Silver watched them for another heartbeat—then sighed, the long-suffering sound of a man surrendering to inevitability.
“Alright,” he said. “If you’re going to do it, do it properly.”
Celeste’s ears perked. “Oh. Oh no. That tone means you’re about to be competent.”
Silver stepped down from the branch, rolling his shoulders once. “Feet. Width of your shoulders. Knees soft. Balance before flair.”
He demonstrated—clean, economical, every movement wasting nothing. Even without a blade, the intent was unmistakable.
Topsy stared. “…That was rude.”
Celeste hopped down, eyes bright. “Okay. Teach me.”
Silver took a practice blade from the rack—wooden, blunted—and tossed another to Celeste. She caught it, tail flicking with excitement.
They faced off.
Celeste lunged first—fast, enthusiastic, very her.
Silver stepped aside and tapped her shoulder.
“Again.”
She tried a feint. He disengaged, pivoted, and tap—her wrist.
“Again.”
She growled softly and committed to a full attack.
Silver moved once—just once—and the bout was over. Her blade was gently but decisively pressed aside, his tip resting at her chest.
He lowered it, polite as anything. “You’ll need lots of practice to achieve my level.”
Celeste blinked—then laughed, breathless and unoffended. “Okay, wow. Yeah. That was… actually really fun.”
Silver hesitated, then nodded. “When I have time, I may try to teach you.”
Her grin widened. “Deal.”
They reset.
Celeste focused harder this time—less flair, more listening. She advanced, cautious, watching his feet.
Silver sighed quietly.
“Your grip,” he said, stepping closer. “Here.”
He reached out and adjusted her hand—just a small correction.
His scales bristled.
For the briefest instant, gold flared along his knuckles, catching the light like molten leaf.
Celeste’s pupils snapped to slits.
Iridescent scales shimmered across her cheekbones—there, gone—like a trick of light.
They both froze.
Then it was over.
Celeste blinked, shaking her head. “—Sorry. Did I…?”
Silver stepped back smoothly, face composed. “No. You’re fine.”
He said nothing more.
But somewhere beneath the calm, his dragon stirred, alert and curious.
What was that?
Silver kept his expression neutral, offered a small, courteous nod, and lifted his blade again.
“Again,” he said.
Celeste smiled—unaware, or pretending to be—and raised hers.
And though the moment had passed in a flash, something had shifted.
Neither of them could quite say what.
Celeste hopped down, tail swaying. “I’ll make cookies,” she announced. “That always helps.”
She paused, then looked at Silver. “I’ll make some for you too.”
Silver opened his mouth.
Closed it.
He had no idea what to think.
Cookies.
From his commander.
Who lived in a sentient tree.
And encouraged mock duels for emotional processing.
His dragon side, traitorously, thought:
…this might not be terrible.
Silver turned—far too confidently—and promptly tripped over Bonbon.
There was a soft thump and a startled squeak.
Bonbon sat where she’d fallen, doll still clutched in her arms, staring up at him with the intense, unblinking scrutiny of someone deciding whether you were friend, foe, or furniture.
From the stairs, Lumina and Skye froze.
“…Bonbon,” Lumina hissed, already halfway to panic.
Skye tugged her sleeve, whispering urgently, “Back. Back. Now.”
Silver clocked the tension instantly.
Ah.
Children test you, his upbringing whispered. Not with words. With silence.
He straightened, dusted himself off, then—without flourish—cupped his hands.
A mana butterfly bloomed between his palms, soft blue and silver, wings shimmering like glass in sunlight.
Bonbon’s eyes went huge.
“Eeeeee!” she squealed, scrambling to her feet as the butterfly fluttered upward.
Lumina gasped. “Bonbon—!”
Too late.
Bonbon bolted after it, giggling wildly. Lumina and Skye chased her, panic dissolving into laughter as the butterfly danced just out of reach, leading them down the hall.
Silver watched them go, faintly smug, blade resting at his side like punctuation at the end of a sentence.
Behind him, Mezzo let out a low whistle. “Okay, I’ll give you that—that was cool. Got any other tricks, butterfly wizard?”
Silver didn’t turn. “I’m not a dog.”
Mezzo blinked. Once. “Wow. Rude.”
Silver finally faced him, expression cool and composed in that very specific way nobles learned young. “I’m serious. You’re not being friendly. You’re sizing me up. So stop pretending.”
Mezzo’s ears flattened—not in anger at first, just surprise. “I was being friendly.”
Silver scoffed. “Then you’re bad at it.”
The words weren’t shouted. They didn’t need to be. They landed cleanly and sharp, like a blade finding a gap in armor.
There was a charged beat.
Mezzo stared at him for a moment longer than was polite. Then he huffed a quiet laugh and crossed his arms, shoulders loosening—not defensive anymore. Resigned.
“Right,” he said. “Sure. Guess we’re doing honesty now.”
Silver’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Apparently.”
Something in Mezzo shifted.
Not disappointment—he’d learned not to waste energy on that with nobles. This was closer to confirmation. The kind you get when a door closes exactly the way you expected it to.
“Okay,” Mezzo said lightly, tone changing just enough to be noticeable if you were paying attention. “Then here’s mine.”
Silver raised a brow.
“I don’t need to be your friend,” Mezzo continued. “Wasn’t trying to be, really. Just… figured I’d see what kind of person you were.”
“And?” Silver asked coolly.
Mezzo shrugged. “Same as the rest.”
The smugness slipped, just a fraction.
Silver stiffened. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Mezzo met his gaze—no challenge, no heat. Just honest assessment. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Silence stretched between them.
Mezzo uncrossed his arms and stepped back, giving Silver space—not submissive, not aggressive. Intentional.
“So,” he said, voice easy again, but watchful now, “I’ll stop annoying you. But don’t mistake that for trust.”
Silver’s eyes narrowed. “And why would I care about that?”
Mezzo smiled, thin and humorless. “Because if you’re here for her,” he nodded toward where Celeste had gone, “then we’re going to notice. And if you’re not…”
He let the sentence hang.
Silver snapped.
He turned so fast it was almost a flinch. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Mezzo’s brow lifted. Just a fraction.
“I’m not here because I want to be,” Silver went on sharply. “I’m here because I was ordered to be. Forced. This isn’t some gallant choice or personal interest.”
There it was.
The noble edge. Clean. Cold. Defensive.
Mezzo studied him for a second, head tilted, eyes narrowed—not angry, not mocking. Just listening.
“…Right,” Mezzo said at last.
He nodded once, slow. “Good to know.”
Silver stiffened, clearly expecting an argument. “Is it?”
“Yeah,” Mezzo replied simply. “Means I know where the lines are.”
He turned fully away this time, wings settling at his back. “For what it’s worth, I wasn’t accusing you of anything. Just… checking.”
Silver scoffed. “You seem fond of that.”
“Occupational hazard,” Mezzo said over his shoulder. “Someone’s gotta watch who circles her.”
Silver bristled. “She doesn’t need a watchdog.”
Mezzo stopped walking—but didn’t turn around.
“Maybe not,” he said quietly. “But she’s got one anyway.”
Then he walked off, boots crunching softly against the deck.
Silver stood there longer than he meant to.
Annoyance burned hot and immediate—but beneath it, something else flickered. Discomfort. Not because Mezzo had challenged him.
Silver watched him go, the faint smugness gone now, replaced by something less comfortable.
Suspicion, perhaps.
Or the uneasy realization that he’d just been assessed—and found wanting.
And somewhere deep inside, his dragon stirred again, not with curiosity this time—
—but caution.
