Celeste walked back to the breakfast table with Plum and Bartleby trailing behind her.
The camp was still bright with morning noise. Mythic children chased one another between tents. Someone was laughing near the cooking fires. A pair of butterfly tamers were brushing glittering dust from the wings of their mounts. It should have felt warm.
It had felt warm.
But Solas’s words clung to her like cold rain.
Do not get attached.
This place is not your home.
Celeste touched one of the ribbons woven through her hair, then quickly dropped her hand as if she had been caught stealing it.
The others were still gathered around the long wooden table, though breakfast had become more ruins than meal. Plates were stacked with crumbs, bean smears, bacon grease, half-finished tea, and one suspicious black lump Ray insisted had once been toast.
Arcade noticed Celeste first.
Of course he did.
He lifted a steaming cup toward her. “Coffee?”
Celeste recoiled so dramatically her ears flattened. “Oh. No. No, thank you. That smells like someone burned bitterness and then threatened it.”
Arcade stared into the cup. “That is the most accurate review of coffee I’ve ever heard.”
Lumina immediately slid a cup toward Celeste from the other side of the table.
“Tea,” she said. “No sugar.”
Celeste blinked at her.
Lumina tried to look casual and failed.
Celeste’s smile came softly. “Thank you, Lumi.”
She sat down, wrapping both hands around the cup.
Mezzo, who had been pretending not to watch her, leaned back on the bench. “You alright, princess?”
Celeste looked up too quickly. “Yes.”
Mezzo raised a brow.
She looked down into her tea.
“Mostly.”
Ray paused mid-bite.
Pitch looked across the table.
Even Hughes, who had been calmly demolishing a second plate of breakfast with veteran focus, glanced over.
Celeste gave a little shrug, trying for cheerful and landing somewhere much smaller.
“I’m just… enjoying this before it’s back to work.”
The table quietened.
Not fully.
Just enough.
Mezzo’s face softened.
“Hey,” he said, gentler now. “We can always come back here sometime.”
Celeste’s fingers tightened around the cup.
The word sometime hurt more than it should have.
“Yeah,” she said. “I guess.”
Mezzo studied her for another heartbeat, but before he could press, a shadow fell across the edge of the table.
Brassmane approached from the valley path, mane gleaming like molten gold in the sunlight, his heavy hooves silent despite his size. He carried himself with the calm grace of someone who could crush mountains but preferred not to.
Celeste immediately stood, almost knocking her tea over.
“Sir Brassmane!”
He gave a rumbling chuckle.
“No need for formality, little star. You’ve earned your moment of peace.”
The others straightened instinctively. Arcade half-saluted with his coffee. Ray folded her arms. Pitch sat up a little straighter, though his ears still had the weary flattening of a man betrayed by mead. Mezzo leaned casually against the table but still smiled with respect.
Hughes rose properly.
Old soldier to old leader.
Brassmane’s amber eyes passed over each of them—calm, assessing, proud.
“Congratulations. You have all completed your Trials. Not perfectly,”—his gaze lingered on Mezzo and Celeste—“but truly.”
Mezzo placed one hand over his heart. “I feel judged.”
“You are.”
“Fair.”
Celeste’s ears lowered.
“I… wanted to apologise. For what happened. I didn’t mean to lose control, and I know the valley was damaged, and then the pocket places opened, and there was a lot of screaming, and I think I frightened everyone, and I’m very sorry for becoming a public safety concern.”
Brassmane shook his great head.
“No apologies necessary.”
Celeste blinked. “Really?”
“You faced the storm and returned from it. That is all anyone can ask.”
Ray muttered, “Could’ve done with less roof falling.”
Arcade nodded. “And less reality peeling.”
Brassmane’s mouth twitched. “Yes. Ideally.”
Celeste winced.
“But,” Brassmane continued, lifting his chin slightly, “that does bring me to one matter before we discuss politics.”
Arcade groaned. “There’s always politics.”
“There is always politics,” Brassmane agreed gravely. “It is one of civilisation’s less charming diseases.”
Hughes snorted into his tea.
Brassmane swept a clawed hand toward the runes at their necks.
“Do not remove your suppressors unless absolutely necessary. I know you are tempted—and in some cases, rightly so—but at present they remain the only thing keeping your cores from running wild when your emotions spike.”
Mezzo gave an innocent smile.
Ray looked at him. “You took yours out five minutes after he left yesterday.”
“That was science.”
“It was wings.”
“Wings are science with feathers.”
Brassmane gave him a look.
Mezzo sat very still.
“Understood.”
Brassmane’s gaze moved over all of them. “You are developing your own unique spells. I am sure you have noticed.”
Skye’s ears lifted. “Like when my moonstone light moved on its own?”
“Exactly.”
Mezzo blinked. “Is that when we attack and shout the name of the attack like maniacs?”
For a second, Brassmane looked as if he was trying very hard not to laugh.
Then he failed.
A deep, warm chuckle rolled out of him. “Yes. Exactly. Speaking the name helps your mind and body align the mana flow properly. Otherwise you risk miscasting. Mythics do it too.”
Ray arched a brow. “You lot shout attack names?”
“We shout louder.”
Celeste jabbed Mezzo in the ribs with a triumphant little poke.
“See? I knew I wasn’t crazy.”
Arcade deadpanned, “No offence, but everything is crazy lately.”
Brassmane continued, still smirking, “Practise it. Refine it. And for the love of the Weave, no dramatic screaming unless you are absolutely sure you are not going to explode something behind you.”
Ray muttered, “That was one time.”
Arcade corrected, “Three.”
Ray pointed at him. “You are on thin ice, hedgehog.”
Brassmane pretended not to hear.
“That said, there have been developments. The elders and I will need to consult further. The other Manaling clans are requesting a summons to discuss the results of your Trials.”
The group exchanged uneasy glances.
Mezzo tilted his head. “That sounds political.”
“It is,” Brassmane admitted, mane rippling faintly. “Your Trials have drawn attention beyond this valley. There is interest. And concern.”
Celeste nodded, steadying herself.
“I understand. I’ll cooperate however I can.”
Brassmane studied her.
There was kindness in his eyes.
But there was something else too.
Worry.
“Good. But you must also keep training. All of you. Especially without your runes. The more you can stabilise your natural flow, the safer it will be.”
He turned his attention to Celeste directly.
“As for you, Astallan…”
The way he said it—formal, but with care—made her straighten a little.
“We may need to work with the Council to improve your rune’s compatibility. Your core and your stabiliser appear to be… clashing.”
Mezzo frowned. “I thought she was fixed.”
Brassmane shook his head slowly.
“Better than before. But not fixed. The rune suppresses what it cannot fully understand.”
Celeste touched the back of her neck.
Her expression tightened.
Brassmane’s tone softened.
“Still, your control has improved. Do not see this as failure. Only refinement.”
Celeste sighed, tail twitching. “Understood. I’ll do whatever’s needed.”
Before Brassmane could respond, a commotion rippled through the edge of camp.
Shouts.
Movement.
The hybrids at the watchline suddenly stiffened—hands on weapons, tails bristling, mana flickering low and sharp around shoulders and claws.
Then a horn sounded from the ridge beyond the valley.
Low.
Mocking.
Drawn-out.
Every conversation near the table died.
From the ridge, three figures appeared.
Their silhouettes were sharp and irregular, armoured in scrap metal and scavenged plates, faces hidden behind candy-painted skull masks. Neon ribbons fluttered from their shoulders. Their hoverbikes growled beneath them like angry insects.
Hybrid raiders.
They did not attack.
They just stood there, waving crude banners and shouting taunts that echoed faintly down the slope.
“Nice camp you’ve got!”
“Shame if someone borrowed it!”
One of them—the tallest, a jackal—paused longer than the others.
His candy-skull mask tilted down toward the group below.
Studying.
Still.
Too still.
Pitch stiffened.
It was small.
A tightening in his jaw.
A shift in his shoulders.
The kind of thing most people would miss.
Arcade did not miss it.
His eyes flicked to Pitch.
He said nothing.
Hughes saw it too.
The older knight’s expression did not change, but his hand settled near the knife at his belt.
The jackal gave a slow, mocking salute.
Then he kicked his hoverbike to life.
The engine whirred, whining like a wasp nest, before the raider shot off in a streak of dust and neon sparks. The other two whooped after him, vanishing back into the hills.
Silence hung for a moment.
Brassmane exhaled through his nose, a small spark flickering between his horns.
“Bloody raiders,” he muttered. “Always causing trouble lately.”
Hughes had already stood fully, soldier’s instincts sharpened behind his eyes.
“Who are they?”
Brassmane’s golden gaze hardened.
“They appeared a week ago. Not Council. Not Mythic. Just hybrids with stolen tech and too much anger. They have been striking outposts and trade lines ever since.”
Ray rested a hand on her sword.
“Looking for a fight, then.”
“Perhaps,” Brassmane said. “Or a message. Either way, they have chosen dangerous ground to test it.”
Pitch kept staring at the ridge long after the raiders had gone.
Arcade kept glancing at him.
Hughes kept glancing at both of them.
He filed it away.
As soldiers do.
Brassmane turned toward the horizon, mane catching the wind.
“Stay ready, Knights. I fear your Trials may not be over yet.”
The warm sunlight shimmered through the rising mist.
Then a voice called from behind him—one of the senior Mythic attendants, bowing low.
“Lord Brassmane, the elders request your presence in the inner hall. They wish to discuss the events of the Trial.”
Brassmane’s expression softened briefly, then settled into something resigned.
“Of course they do.”
He turned back to the group, who were already standing among the wreckage of breakfast plates and wilting flower crowns.
“Knights of Clawdiff,” he called, voice steady as thunder over calm seas, “you’ve earned your rest. Make your way back to the Egg Tree base. I’ll join you when I can.”
Celeste immediately brightened.
All the heaviness in her face cracked for just a second, replaced by pure, helpless wonder.
“Can I ride one of the butterflies back?” she asked, clasping her hands together. “Please? I’ve never ridden one before.”
The nearby butterfly tamers exchanged amused glances.
One—a tall hare with shimmering green markings—smiled and gestured toward a pair of giant moon-winged butterflies waiting nearby. Their wings glittered like spun glass, dust trailing behind them like floating starlight.
“Aye, Lady Astallan. Just mind your balance—and don’t feed them anything sweet.”
Bonbon, still holding half a cracker, slowly hid it behind her back.
The tamer looked at her.
Bonbon looked away.
Celeste laughed. “No promises.”
“Celeste,” Lumina said.
“What?”
“You are absolutely going to fall off.”
“I am not.”
“You tripped over a flat carpet yesterday.”
“It was emotionally raised.”
Lumina stared.
“It was,” Celeste insisted.
Bonbon lifted both arms as the tamers helped her onto the front saddle between her sisters.
“Butterfly!”
Celeste climbed up behind her, awkward at first, then delighted once she found the saddle grips. Lumina followed, her expression somewhere between excitement and deep concern for everyone’s future.
The butterfly’s wings flexed once.
Twice.
Then whooshed upward, catching the sunlight in a dazzling spray of colour.
Celeste squealed.
Not heroically.
Not nobly.
Just squealed.
“It’s so high! Lumi, look at that! You can see the whole valley!”
“I am looking!” Lumina shouted back, both terrified and thrilled. “I am looking very intensely!”
“Wheee!” Bonbon cheered, tiny paws in the air.
Below, Mezzo watched them soar skyward and snorted.
“Show-offs.”
Skye nudged him with a grin. “You’re jealous.”
“Deeply.”
“Do you want to ride one?”
Mezzo looked at the butterflies.
Then at Skye.
Then grinned.
“Come on then. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”
Arcade looked up sharply. “No. Absolutely not. You are not qualified to operate a giant insect.”
“It’s not an insect,” Skye said. “It’s a butterfly.”
Arcade stared. “Skye.”
Before Arcade could object further, Mezzo grabbed Skye by the collar and bounded toward another waiting butterfly.
Skye yelped.
The butterfly lurched upward in a cloud of shimmering dust, with Mezzo laughing and Skye clinging to him for dear life.
Arcade groaned, rubbing his temples.
“Of course. Chaos. Always chaos.”
Hughes clapped a hand to his shoulder, suppressing a smirk.
“You’ll survive, lad. Get the carriage ready.”
Moments later, a much larger butterfly carriage—woven from branches, silk harness, and rune-thread—lifted into the air, carrying Hughes, Ray, Pitch, and Arcade after the others.
Ray leaned over the side, watching Pitch pretend he was not still staring toward the ridge.
“You alright?”
Pitch blinked, then gave her a crooked half-smile.
“Ask me when the ground stops moving.”
Ray studied him for a second too long.
Then she bumped his shoulder with hers.
“Lightweight.”
He huffed. “Still beat you at stone skipping.”
“In your dreams.”
The morning sky filled with trails of glittering dust, streaks of gold and silver against the rising sun.
From the ground, it looked like a procession of angels.
Or fools.
Possibly both.
Brassmane stood watching until the last shimmer disappeared behind the clouds.
Then his smile faded.
The warmth left his eyes.
He turned toward the old factory building that served as the elders’ hall—its smokestacks long dead, its walls carved with runes and wrapped in ivy. Inside, voices were already rising.
Angry ones.
He took a deep breath, mane rippling faintly with light.
“Right then,” he murmured. “Time to face the lions.”
As he walked toward the building, his hoofsteps echoed against the steel.
He knew what awaited him.
Blame.
Fear.
Politics.
And somewhere beneath all of it, prophecy sharpening its teeth.
But he would endure it.
Because Celeste Astallan was more than a hybrid girl who had survived her Trial.
She was proof that life itself was changing.
And in his heart, Brassmane knew—
if anyone could heal not just Clawdiff, but all of Caerfaen,
it would be her.
