Celeste left early.
Dawn was only just easing into day, soft grey light spilling through the streets as autumn settled properly over Clawdiff. The trees had turned red and copper, leaves blowing in restless little spirals along the roads, skittering over cracked pavement and abandoned tramlines.
She had dressed warmly for once—a jumper dress with a hood, thick tights, boots, and her long blonde hair pulled into a neat braid that fell down her back. A little ribbon was tied at the end, already fluttering in the wind like it was trying to escape.
Celeste checked her arcbracer as she stepped out of the Egg Tree.
18th of Grayshade.
The eleventh month of the thirteen-month year.
Whispershade would be here soon.
The thought made her pause.
Whispershade meant pumpkin carving. Or turnips, if supplies were weird again. Lanterns. Garlands. Costumes. Silly masks. Stories told under blankets. Little candles in windows to keep wandering things away.
They wouldn’t need candy this year.
Candy was everywhere.
It didn’t rot. Didn’t degrade. Didn’t melt properly unless eaten or burned with mana, which was deeply weird and probably something Arcade would shout about if she mentioned it.
Celeste looked up.
Both moons were still visible in the brightening sky.
Cindralith hung full above the horizon, its broken fragments glowing with fractured light. Never whole. Always straining apart. A split moon, wounded and beautiful, bleeding wild mana into the world below.
Celeste had always found Cindralith fascinating.
Maybe because she was a hybrid.
Maybe broken things understood broken things.
Nearer and calmer, Lunara hung waxing gibbous in the heavens like a flawless pearl. No crater scarred her face. No fracture split her glow. She shone evenly, perfectly symmetrical, perfectly timed. Where Cindralith bled and stormed, Lunara tempered. Ordered. Drew the tides of energy back into rhythm.
Celeste breathed in.
The air was crisp.
Cold enough to sting her nose.
Nice, in spite of everything.
Behind her, the Egg Tree had changed again.
Its leaves had shifted into bands of orange, yellow, and white, like candy corn colouring rippling through the branches. Little lantern-like sweets grew among the boughs now—lollipop bulbs with translucent wrappers that caught the dawn and glowed faintly from within.
And curled high among the branches, like she owned the whole tree and was tolerating the rest of reality on a trial basis, was Marzipan.
The huge white candy dragon lay draped across one of the broader limbs, her body half-hidden among the leaves. Her scales looked like iridescent wrapping paper, catching every scrap of dawnlight and throwing it back in soft shifting colours. Her yellow eyes glowed faintly even in the morning haze.
Below her, several abandoned balls lay scattered around the roots, and a few were still stuck in the lower branches.
Clear evidence, Celeste thought, that some children had tried to throw things at her.
Marzipan had paid them no attention at all.
Their aim, frankly, had been awful.
Celeste smiled and stepped closer to the trunk, tilting her head back.
“Good morning, my little pet,” she called up warmly. “How are you, sweety?”
Marzipan gave the smallest shudder at the sound of her voice, then cracked open one glowing eye. Her tail flicked once, lazily, the movement making a few leaves drift down.
“Oh, bless you, you must be so cold,” Celeste said sympathetically, as though speaking to a very large cat and not a giant candy dragon in a tree. “I’ll try knitting you a blanket. A big proper one, eh?”
Marzipan rumbled low in her chest, not quite a growl, not quite a purr. She didn’t move otherwise, which Celeste took as a very positive sign.
“I’ll bring back something nice for tea,” Celeste went on. “Maybe a savoury.”
At that, the dragon’s second eye opened briefly.
Celeste brightened. “See? Knew that’d get your attention.”
She pointed a finger up at her, mock-serious now.
“And be good, alright? Be nice to Mezzo. He is really sorry for stepping on your tail.”
Marzipan immediately tucked her tail a little closer to herself, as if reliving a crime too painful to forgive before breakfast.
Celeste winced. “Yes, fair enough.”
Then she waved.
“Ta-ra, luv ya.”
Marzipan’s tail flicked once more.
Celeste took that as a goodbye.
She sighed, smiling to herself.
“It is a nice day,” she said softly.
Which felt almost illegal.
But it was.
The base was growing around the tree. More tents. More reinforced walkways. A proper first-aid station now. Bracer Squad had a little command booth near the outer path, already marked with Pliskin’s hand-painted signs warning people not to step on anything labelled experimental.
Celeste kept walking.
The route toward the Royal Quarter took her through twisting streets and main roads still bruised from battle. Shops lined the sides, many with cracked windows and boarded doors, but life had started creeping back into them all the same.
A baker traded hard rolls for batteries.
A Mythic woman sold knitted gloves from a folding table.
Two Pureblood mechanics argued over a kettle beside a half-repaired mana-cart.
People had begun to trade again.
Not comfortably.
Not safely.
But enough.
With the Knights patrolling, Bracer Squad acting as first responders, and the worst of the bay route cleared, Clawdiff had started to breathe around the edges.
Only a little.
But a little mattered.
Celeste passed a cluster of hybrid children near an alleyway, all bundled in mismatched coats and scarves. One of them, a little fox with rabbit ears too large for his hat, gasped when he saw her.
“That’s her,” he whispered.
Another child grabbed his sleeve. “The lady who killed the gummy kraken?”
“I heard she’s a knight.”
“She looks small.”
“She’s got swords.”
Celeste pretended very hard not to hear the small comment.
Then she smiled at them anyway.
The children went still.
One waved.
Celeste lifted a paw and waved back, awkward but sincere.
Her cheeks warmed as she walked on. She adjusted her lucky hat, tugging the brim down slightly. The little stars and wings stitched on either side caught the dawnlight as she passed, flashing gold for half a second.
By the time she reached the edge of the Royal Quarter, the city had changed.
Not gradually.
Abruptly.
One street still smelled of smoke, damp stone, and ration soup.
The next gleamed behind a shimmering barrier.
Royal droids stood at the entrance, polished white and gold, their eye-lenses bright as they turned toward her.
“IDENTIFY.”
Celeste straightened. “Knight-Commander Celeste Astallan. I have an appointment with Lady Umbranox Arcturus.”
The droid scanned her.
Then scanned again.
Then tilted its head with the reluctant air of a machine finding something personally inconvenient.
“HYBRID STATUS CONFIRMED.”
Celeste blinked. “Um. Yes.”
“WEAPON SIGNATURES DETECTED.”
“Yes. Also yes.”
“SUPPRESSION RUNE INSTABILITY DETECTED.”
“That one is a bit rude, but yes.”
The droid paused.
A second royal droid leaned slightly closer, as if consulting the first in silent judgement.
Finally, the barrier shimmered.
“ENTRY GRANTED. DO NOT STRAY FROM AUTHORISED ROUTE.”
Celeste clasped her paws together. “Thank you.”
The droids said nothing.
She stepped through.
The noise changed at once.
Outside the barrier, Clawdiff creaked, traded, coughed, cried, rebuilt.
Inside, the Royal Quarter was clean.
Fresh.
Untouched.
The streets had been washed. The brass rails gleamed. Windows sparkled in tall townhouses where curtains hung unburned and flower boxes bloomed as if the apocalypse had politely avoided them. Servants moved briskly between doorways with baskets and folded linen. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed over breakfast.
Celeste stopped just beyond the barrier.
Behind her, the city was bruised and hungry.
Ahead, the Royal Quarter smelled faintly of roses, polish, and fresh bread.
Apparently uncaring.
Apparently untouched.
Apparently very good at pretending the end of the world was something happening to other people.
Celeste tightened her hands around the strap of her bag.
Then she took a breath and walked on.
As Celeste walked deeper into the Royal Quarter, her thoughts began doing that very helpful thing where they all ran in different directions at once.
Lady Umbranox had said casual.
Casual was good.
Probably.
Unless noble casual meant you are being politely ruined but with nicer chairs.
Celeste adjusted the strap of her bag and tried not to stare too obviously at the clean windows and polished brass. “Personal,” Umbranox had said. Personal could mean anything. It could mean new orders. It could mean a reward. It could mean a reprimand delivered softly enough to remove several layers of soul.
Or maybe she had found out about the vents on the Demeter.
No, that was Marek’s problem.
Unless Marek had sent an invoice.
Oh stars, what if Umbranox wanted to talk about the invoice?
Celeste’s ears flattened.
Maybe it was about Silver. That seemed more likely. Or less likely. Or exactly likely in the horrible way things were when nobles were involved.
She remembered the beach.
Mezzo.
Very upset.
Very injured.
Very emotionally honest in the way people became when they had no sleep, one working leg, and absolutely no patience for aristocracy.
And Silver had been there.
Or near there.
Had Mezzo insulted him?
Celeste’s stomach sank.
Yes.
Definitely.
There had been something about “Lord Fancy Tail,” or “His Royal Mopeyness,” or possibly “the Council’s decorative emotional support cat.” It was hard to remember because at the time everyone had been crying and covered in seawater, which made precise social accounting difficult.
But Lady Umbranox was Silver’s mother.
Sort of.
Noble families were complicated. Everyone seemed to be someone’s aunt, rival, heir, political weapon, or legal disaster.
What if she was offended?
What if the personal meeting was because Mezzo had insulted Silver and, as Knight-Commander, Celeste was meant to apologise officially? Did commander apologies need paperwork? Did they need a seal? Should she have brought a gift?
Celeste stopped walking.
A gift.
Oh no.
Should she have brought a cake?
A Caerfaen cake would be traditional. Probably. Maybe not for noble reprimands, but cakes were useful in most situations. Birthdays. Condolences. Tea. “Sorry my gryphon-dog friend called your son a fancy spoon with legs.”
Was that what Mezzo had said?
No.
Maybe.
Celeste looked around helplessly, as if a bakery might appear in the Royal Quarter and solve her entire diplomatic future.
There probably were bakeries here.
Very clean ones.
Ones with little paper boxes and cakes that cost enough to fund three days of Bracer Squad traps.
Would Lady Umbranox like Caerfaen cake?
Would bringing one seem thoughtful?
Or insulting?
What if nobles had very specific cake rules?
What if she bought the wrong size and accidentally declared war?
Celeste pressed both paws to her cheeks.
“No,” she whispered to herself. “No cake wars before breakfast.”
A passing servant glanced at her.
Celeste straightened instantly and smiled too brightly.
“Lovely morning.”
The servant hurried on.
Celeste lowered her paws and resumed walking, cheeks warm.
Right.
No cake.
Unless there was a bakery on the way back.
Then maybe cake.
Just in case.
