The noise swelled again around the table, warm and ridiculous. Mezzo accused Celeste of cheating in the bacon contest because she had “secret tiny princess storage.” Arcade offered to analyse her jaw speed. Skye looked horrified by the phrase jaw speed. Bonbon declared herself referee and immediately ate evidence.
Pitch ears twitched at every burst of laughter, every clatter of plates, every shout from the kitchen line. Ray noticed because, despite herself, she had started noticing him.
Ray grabbed two leftover slices of toast and a mug.
Skye looked up. “Where are you two going?”
Ray shrugged, far too casually. “Making sure Wolfy doesn’t pass out in a bush and get adopted by beetles.”
Pitch paused without turning. “I heard that.”
“Good. Saves me repeating it.”
She caught up with him near the edge of camp, matching his pace without asking permission. For a while they walked side by side through the grass, past the last breakfast fires, past the healing tents, toward the river where the noise softened into water over stones.
Pitch glanced at the mug in her hand. “That for me?”
Ray lifted it away from him. “Maybe. Depends if you’re going to be dramatic.”
“I’m always dramatic.”
“Then no.”
He gave her a sideways look. “Cruel woman.”
“Flattery gets you half the toast.”
“That wasn’t flattery.”
“Then you’re doing it wrong.”
His mouth twitched.
They reached the riverbank and sat beneath a crooked tree, plates emptying slowly between them, shoes off, feet close to the water.
For a while, neither said anything.
The quiet did not feel awkward.
That was new.
Ray tossed a small stone into the river. It skipped once, failed immediately, and sank.
Pitch raised an eyebrow.
“Impressive.”
“Shut up. The rock was defective.”
“Clearly.”
She nudged him with her shoulder. “You alright?”
He looked at the water. “Yeah.”
Ray waited.
Pitch sighed.
“Loud morning.”
“Mmm.” She leaned back on her hands. “You looked like your ears were going to file a complaint.”
“They’re unionised.”
“Good. Strong workplace rights.”
He huffed a laugh.
Ray looked at him properly then. The sunlight caught in his fur, softening the frizz and exhaustion. He still looked rough, but not in the guarded way he usually did. More open. More real.
“You looked happy last night,” she said.
Pitch glanced at her. “During the drinking contest?”
“No. You looked like a disaster then.”
“Accurate.”
“When you howled.”
His expression shifted.
Not embarrassed exactly.
Caught.
Ray smiled faintly. “I’d never seen you like that.”
“Like what?”
She shrugged, pretending the answer did not matter.
“Free.”
Pitch looked away toward the river.
For a moment, the teasing settled into something quieter.
“My dad was a werewolf,” he said. “Proper old moon-song type. He used to howl with us when we were little. Me and my brother.” His mouth softened. “Mum used to laugh at him for being too loud, then join in anyway.”
Ray did not interrupt.
Pitch breathed out slowly.
“I know I mentioned my folks before, but… I wish you could’ve met them. Werewolf dad. Timberwolf mum. Sweetest people you’d ever meet.”
His voice cracked.
“They would have loved you. Especially Mum.”
Ray’s usual sharp reply died before it reached her tongue.
She looked down at her hands.
“Yeah?”
Pitch gave a small, crooked smile. “She had a weakness for girls who pretended they didn’t care.”
Ray’s eyes flicked to him.
“That a compliment?”
“Might be.”
“Careful, Wolfy. You almost sounded smooth.”
“Must still be drunk.”
She laughed softly and nudged him again.
He looked back at the river.
“Car crash took them. Just… gone. Left me and my little brother behind. We fought. Scrambled. Lost the house. Left Novarath when the politics got too much. Got on a boat headed to Caerfaen and pretended that counted as a plan.”
Ray’s shoulder rested against his now.
Not by accident.
Or at least not one either of them corrected.
“My dad was a phoenix,” she said after a while. “Business traveller. Always flying off. Fire trails, big speeches, everyone impressed.” She picked at the edge of the toast. “Never saw him much.”
Pitch listened.
“I used to think that meant I had to be the fire too. Burn loud. Be seen. Or I’d vanish like he did.”
Pitch’s gaze softened.
“You don’t vanish.”
Ray gave him a sidelong look. “You checking?”
“Maybe.”
Her smile tugged at one corner.
“You can be honest more often if you want,” she said lightly. “I won’t bite.”
Pitch’s eyes flicked to her mouth, then away so fast it was almost comical.
Ray noticed.
Of course she did.
Her grin sharpened.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, that was absolutely something.”
“It was not.”
“Pitch.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, ears tipping slightly back.
“You said you won’t bite.”
“And?”
His voice dropped, dry and careful. “I was deciding whether to be relieved or disappointed.”
Ray stared at him.
Then burst out laughing.
Pitch smiled despite himself.
“Too much?”
“No,” she said, still laughing. “Just enough, actually.”
The water murmured beside them.
The camp laughed in the distance.
Ray leaned a little closer, close enough that their shoulders pressed fully now.
Pitch did not move away.
Neither did she.
“You can tell me things,” she said, softer.
He nodded, eyes on the river.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m learning.”
Ray smiled at that.
“Good.”
For a while, they sat there with the river flashing gold in the morning light, sharing toast and quiet like it was something precious.
And between Ray and Pitch, something quiet and fragile shifted closer to becoming real.
Ray’s voice dropped softer.
“Good.”
Pitch looked at her for a long moment.
The teasing faded from his face, leaving something warmer behind. Something careful. He leaned a little closer—not enough to make it a challenge, not enough to make her bolt, just enough for Ray to notice.
She did.
Her eyes flicked to his mouth.
Then back to his eyes.
Pitch’s ears twitched.
Ray smirked. “Nervous, Wolfy?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Mostly.”
“That’s not no.”
He tilted his head, grin returning slow and wicked. “You always this smug when someone’s about to kiss you?”
Ray’s breath caught.
Only slightly.
Barely enough to count.
Unfortunately for her, Pitch noticed.
His grin softened.
Ray narrowed her eyes. “You talk a big game for someone who folded after one ear scratch.”
“That was a tactical retreat.”
“That was you making puppy noises.”
“Lies.”
“I have witnesses.”
“Then I’ll have to silence them.”
Ray leaned closer, firelight catching in her eyes even this far from the bonfires. “Starting with me?”
Pitch’s smile slipped into something quieter.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
For one still, bright second, they were too close to pretend it was accidental.
Then—
Flash.
Both of them froze.
Slowly, very slowly, Ray and Pitch turned.
Plum stood several paces away with a arcbracer on her wrist, grinning from ear to ear like she had just discovered gold buried under a cabbage patch.
Ray stared.
Plum’s grin widened.
“My followers are going to love this.”
Pitch closed his eyes. “Run.”
Plum blinked. “What?”
Ray’s hand went to the rune at the side of her neck.
Click.
Phoenix fire burst around her shoulders.
Plum squeaked.
“Oh no.”
Ray rose slowly, blazing from head to tail, her smile terrifyingly calm.
“Plum.”
Plum took one step back, still filming. “For the record, this is independent reporting.”
Ray lunged.
Plum screamed and bolted.
“Mercy! Mercy for the press!”
“There is no mercy for the press!”
Pitch sat back on the riverbank, watching Ray chase Plum up the slope toward camp, both of them leaving absolute chaos in their wake.
He rubbed one hand over his face.
Then smiled.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Mum would’ve loved her.”
By the time Plum reached the main grounds, she was laughing, pleading, and still filming everything despite the fact Ray was gaining on her with murder in her eyes and fire in her hair.
“Ray, think of the historical record!”
“I’ll historically record my boot up your—”
“Children present!” Plum yelped, dodging around a breakfast table.
A cluster of Mythic children cheered.
“Run, Plum!”
“Get her, phoenix lady!”
Ray skidded around the table, nearly collided with a startled elder, apologised without slowing down, then vaulted a bench in pursuit.
Meanwhile, Bartleby was having a very different morning.
He stood near the edge of the food circle with a notebook, three sharpened pencils, and the expression of a man who had found an entire civilisation’s worth of footnotes and had not yet emotionally recovered.
“So when you say the braid pattern indicates both clan protection and individual Trial completion,” he asked a patient Mythic woman, “is that always visually coded through ribbon colour, or does placement matter more than pigment?”
The woman smiled. “Both.”
Bartleby’s eyes widened with joy. “Fascinating.”
He turned, still writing.
“And the shawls—are the knotwork patterns inherited, awarded, chosen, or—”
He walked directly into a stack of folded blankets.
The blankets wobbled.
Then one of them whispered, “Oh no.”
Bartleby blinked.
A pair of blue eyes peered out from between two hanging shawls.
Celeste was wedged behind a laundry stand, half-hidden beneath a spare cloak, cheeks still bright pink from the bacon incident.
Bartleby stared at her.
Celeste stared back.
“Lady Celeste?”
Celeste lifted one finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
Bartleby lowered his voice at once. “Are you hiding?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“From danger?”
Celeste looked mortified. “From social consequences.”
Bartleby considered that with grave seriousness. “Ah. The bacon incident.”
Celeste buried her face in the cloak. “Please don’t call it that.”
“It has already been named by several witnesses.”
“Oh stars.”
Before Bartleby could offer condolences, Plum came flying around the nearest tent, still clutching her memory orb.
“There you are!” she gasped.
Celeste froze. “No.”
Plum skidded to a stop, eyes bright. “Celeste! Perfect! I need your statement on whether bacon duelling counts as courtship in hybrid culture.”
“It absolutely does not!”
Behind Plum, Ray rounded the corner in full phoenix blaze.
Plum squeaked and grabbed Celeste by the wrist.
“Strategic retreat!”
“Why am I included?”
“Because she likes you!”
Ray pointed at them. “Plum!”
Bartleby, because he was still holding his notebook and had no survival instincts where information was concerned, began running with them.
“Is this part of the morning custom?”
“No!” Celeste and Plum shouted together.
They fled between tents, ducked beneath drying ribbons, nearly crashed into Cosmo carrying rune tiles, and slipped through a gap between two storage wagons. Ray’s flames flashed behind them, followed by her voice promising terrible but unspecified revenge.
Plum dragged them left.
Celeste dragged them right.
Bartleby attempted to ask for a route plan and was ignored.
They tumbled through the flap of a large tent and stumbled into dim, cool silence.
All three froze.
Outside, Ray thundered past.
“Plum!”
Plum clapped both hands over her mouth.
The footsteps faded.
For several seconds, nobody breathed.
Then Plum slowly lowered her hands and whispered, “I think we lost her.”
Celeste pressed a hand to her chest. “I think I lost several years of my life.”
Bartleby looked around.
The tent was larger inside than it had seemed from outside. Its poles were carved with old spirals, and the air smelled of beeswax, dried herbs, and ancient paper. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with scrolls, memory crystals, clay tablets, painted stones, and leather-bound books.
At the centre of the tent stood a wooden lectern.
Upon it lay a book almost too large to be moved.
Its cover was dark blue, edged in silver, with a symbol burned into the front: three rivers flowing into a single circle of light.
Bartleby’s entire face changed.
“Oh,” he breathed.
Plum leaned over his shoulder. “That looks important.”
“That is because it is obviously important.”
Celeste stepped closer despite herself.
The book was already open.
The pages were thick and cream-coloured, inked in a mixture of old Caerfaenic, Bardic script, and Prydanic translation. Some of the letters shimmered faintly, shifting as if remembering the hand that had written them.
Celeste read the heading aloud, softly.
“Crefft y Goleuni…”
