Brassmane raised one hand, and the hall fell quiet.
No one spoke.
Not even the projections.
“You forget,” Brassmane said, “that Caedrix Umbranox of Royal Council of Clawdiff trusted me—trusted us—to be the bridge between our people and hers. To face the sweet-zombie crisis together. Do you understand how fragile this alliance is?”
A ripple passed through the elders.
Even the bravest looked suddenly very small.
Brassmane continued, mane brightening with slow, dangerous gold.
“One misstep. One spark. One greedy hand reaching too quickly, and everything we have built burns. The thread between Pureblood, Hybrid, and Mythic is thinner than spider silk, and now you wish to pull at it with bare claws?”
He stepped into the centre of the chamber.
“This moment may tip the scales. It may deliver our kind from exile. It may bring peace to every soul who wields mana.”
His expression darkened like a brewing storm.
“But if we seize for power now? If we force our hand? They will respond in fear.”
His eyes moved across the crystals.
“And fear is how wars are born.”
The elders flinched.
Brassmane’s voice softened, though not by much.
“She is under my guidance. The Crefft y Goleuni appointed me guardian of these Trials, and by that right, Celeste Astallan remains my charge.”
One of the dragon elders went utterly still.
His bronze eyes narrowed.
“Did you say Astallan?”
The chamber shifted again.
Not with panic this time.
With recognition.
Older.
Sharper.
Brassmane turned toward him.
“I did.”
The dragon elder stepped forward, scales glinting like old armour in the lanternlight. Smoke curled from between his teeth.
“Do not bring that name into this hall unless you have proof.”
Brassmane’s mane flickered once.
The dragon’s voice deepened.
“Crystal horns may suggest many things. Frost dragon. Glass wyrm. Star-scaled throwback. Mutation. Illusion. But to bear the name Astallan is a serious claim.”
A second dragon, projected through a crimson crystal, leaned closer.
“Altair’s line is not a story to be borrowed because a frightened girl grew pretty horns.”
Several elders murmured agreement.
Brassmane did not look away.
“I know the weight of the name.”
“Then explain it.”
“She may be an offshoot,” Brassmane said. “A broken branch. A copied title. A name chosen by someone who liked the sound of old glory. I do not yet believe she is directly tied to Altair.”
The bronze dragon hissed softly.
“Belief is not enough.”
“No,” Brassmane said. “Which is why I have made no formal claim.”
The dragon elder studied him for a long moment.
Then, very quietly, he said, “Careful, Brassmane.”
Brassmane’s claws curled once against his staff.
“I am being careful.”
“No,” the dragon replied, smoke sliding between his teeth. “You are being merciful. That is not always the same thing.”
A unicorn elder in a pale green crystal lifted her chin, her horn glowing with soft celestial light.
“Regardless of the dragon line, her wings and brow-gem are plain to see. Alicorn blood is rare now. Too rare to ignore.”
The dragons turned toward her with immediate hostility.
She continued, calm as snowfall.
“When her quest is done, our clan requests her presence in the Far Woods. Not as prisoner. Not as claimant. As kin. There are flora long dead in our sanctuaries—plants that vanished when the old rivers withdrew. Only one with her kind of alicorn resonance may coax them back.”
The bronze dragon’s eyes blazed.
“You dare suggest turning a potential high dragon into a gardener?”
The unicorn elder’s ears flicked.
“I suggest healing what your fire cannot.”
A few gasps crossed the chamber.
The dragon’s claws dug into stone.
“You would waste her on flowers.”
“Flowers remember more than dragons think.”
“Careful, horned one.”
“No. You be careful, fire-breather. The world has burned enough.”
Another elder, a crane-like Mythic with silver feathers and trembling hands, spoke from a distant crystal.
“How does one child carry two Mythic traits at all? Dragon and alicorn? Predator and prey? Cat and rabbit? It is impossible.”
A raven seer whispered, “Nullborn meddling.”
The words slipped into the hall like poison.
Someone else answered at once.
“We cannot worship a Nullborn experiment.”
The chamber chilled.
Even those who had wept at the prophecy recoiled from that possibility.
Nullborn.
The old enemy.
The erasers.
The world-breakers.
Brassmane struck his staff once against the floor.
The sound cracked through the argument.
“We will get to the bottom of it.”
His voice cut cleanly through the rising fear.
“But not by clawing at a girl until she bleeds answers.”
The raven seer lowered his head.
Brassmane swept his gaze across dragons, unicorns, cats, birds, rabbits, wolves, goats, serpents, and every distant shape burning inside the fifty crystals.
“For now, get your heads together and concentrate on the threat at hand. The candy undead are moving. Caerfaen is sealed beneath a dome. Clawdiff is cut off. Our roads are breaking, our people are frightened, and you are standing here fighting over who gets to teach Celeste Astallan manners.”
A few elders had the decency to look ashamed.
The bronze dragon did not.
He leaned forward, smoke thickening around his jaws.
“We will not let this stand, Brassmane.”
Brassmane’s expression hardened.
The dragon’s eyes burned brighter.
“Altair will know of this.”
The chamber went very still.
The dragon’s gaze sharpened.
“Just as he knows of Kenaz.”
Brassmane did not move.
But something in his face changed.
A small thing.
A dangerous thing.
The dragon saw it and smiled without warmth.
Then the voices rose again, loud with indignation and claim.
“You cannot keep her forever.”
“This concerns the whole of Caerfaen.”
“She belongs to the prophecy.”
“She belongs to all of the clans.”
Brassmane’s tail lashed like a live whip.
“She belongs to Clan Wayfarer Briar.”
The chamber fell silent.
The words hung there, almost obscene in their simplicity.
Brassmane let them hear it.
Let them feel how strange it sounded in a room full of people already dividing up a frightened girl like a relic found under dust.
“You look at her and see only what you want,” he said. “A weapon. A saint. A prophecy wrapped in fur and fear.”
His voice ached at the edges.
“But she is still a girl who survived what none of us could.”
Elder Arlo stepped forward then.
His robes whispered like old leaves, and his staff glowed faintly with stored starlight.
“No word of this discovery leaves these walls,” he said, each syllable a stone dropping into a well. “Not to the Council. Not to the Luminarchs. Not to frightened cousins, ambitious pupils, or drunk nephews with more tongue than sense.”
A few elders lowered their heads.
Arlo’s voice grew quieter, sharper.
“If she is what we suspect, then she will be in grave danger from those who would claim her, worship her, use her, or destroy her. We cannot allow panic to choose our path.”
The silver-robed mage smiled thinly. “And what path would you choose, Arlo?”
“Understanding,” Arlo said. “A rare discipline, I know.”
A few elders made low sounds that might have been laughter if the room had not been so tense.
Arlo turned back to the assembly.
“We must learn how she came to bear a Kymara core. We must understand why her stabiliser fights it. We must know what binds her sister to her, what old powers woke beneath Rustrows, and why sealed roads opened when she lost control.”
His eyes passed over the memory projection, where Celeste’s crown still shimmered faintly.
“We will consult the ancient texts.”
Brassmane nodded once, slow and heavy with responsibility.
“And when this sweet-zombie crisis is put to rest,” he said, “then we can begin to explore what her bloodlines truly mean. How she can temper the four warring spirits inside her with the mana she commands. But until then…”
He swept a paw outward, encompassing the chamber, the crystals, the distant clans, the sealed roads, the undead valleys, the children hiding behind wards.
“Our first duty is the safety of the manalings.”
A murmur rose.
One of the younger Mythic cats in the chamber stepped forward, sparks dancing on his whiskers, tail lashing.
“This is not fair, Brassmane. This is why your apprentice Saff turned on us. We are always afraid. Always bowing. Never striking back. Purebloods walk all over us.”
A few elders bristled.
Someone hissed.
Another muttered agreement.
Brassmane did not roar.
He did not growl.
He simply looked at the young cat the way a mountain looks at a mouse wondering whether it can move stone.
“If you wish to be a fool,” Brassmane said calmly, “be one. I will not stand in your way.”
The chamber stilled.
“But do not expect us to rescue you when you are annihilated by Pureblood numbers alone.”
The young cat froze.
Brassmane’s eyes flared molten gold.
“For every one of us, there are a thousand of them. And they do not fear dying for their cause.”
Silence slammed down, thick and humbling.
Brassmane exhaled like a storm releasing its tension.
“We are not cowards,” he said, gentler this time. “We are caretakers of balance. Strike rashly, and we doom the very people we are sworn to protect.”
Then the dragon elders stepped forward—those in the hall and those projected through red and bronze crystals alike. Horns caught the lanternlight. Breath curled like smoke over ancient embers.
One of the bronze elders spoke first, voice low with contempt.
“So what now, Brassmane? They are pest control for the Council?”
The chamber stirred.
Brassmane did not flinch.
“Fundamentally speaking,” he said, “yes.”
A stunned hush followed.
Then the dragon laughed.
It was not warm.
“Of course.” Smoke curled from his nostrils. “Using hybrids to soften the ground for her heir. How fitting.”
Brassmane’s eyes narrowed.
The dragon continued, each word edged with old bitterness.
“Let the frightened citizens cheer the brave hybrid Knights. Let them grow accustomed to claws and cores fighting beneath Council banners. Let them see Lady Umbranox’s son standing among them one day and think, ah, yes, how noble, how modern, how merciful.”
A few elders looked toward one another.
The accusation did not need her heir's name.
Everyone heard it anyway.
The dragon’s mouth curled.
“And I suppose this means we should be grateful?”
Brassmane’s claws flexed around his staff.
“It is not perfect.”
“No,” the dragon said. “It is useful.”
“It is a foot in the door,” Brassmane replied. “A chance to show Caerfaen that hybrids are not monsters. That mana is not corruption. That our people can stand beside the city without being chained beneath it.”
The dragon’s eyes blazed.
“Our religious figure,” he said, voice rising, “being used to kill undead for her son’s politics. Is this what we are reduced to, Brassmane?”
The hall tightened.
“And you are helping her.”
Brassmane’s mane glowed, slow and dangerous.
“I am keeping Celeste alive.”
“You are keeping Umbranox comfortable.”
“I am keeping the Council from panicking.”
“You are keeping Mythics obedient.”
“I am keeping a child from being pulled apart by every old beast in this room who sees a crown and forgets there is a head beneath it.”
The dragon’s lips peeled back from his teeth.
“Weak.”
Brassmane stepped closer.
The lanterns bent toward him.
“Cautious.”
The word landed hard.
Brassmane’s voice dropped.
“I have buried enough brave fools to know the difference.”
The dragon elder’s smoke thickened.
For a moment, it seemed he might challenge him outright.
Then the sapphire-scaled matriarch, projected through a far northern crystal, lifted one clawed hand.
“Enough.”
Her voice rolled through the chamber, ancient and cold.
The bronze elder stilled, but his eyes remained fixed on Brassmane.
The sapphire matriarch leaned forward, scales glittering like frozen fire.
Brassmane’s claws tightened.
The matriarch’s eyes narrowed.
“But she will not stand in the way of scripture. If the girl is Mamgoleuni’s vessel, then duty binds us. The prophecy belongs to the Mythics.”
A soft, rippling chorus answered her as several unicorn elders dipped their luminous horns.
“We agree. If she bears Mamgoleuni within, we cannot turn away from our charge.”
The hall prickled with old power.
Deep.
Wild.
Older than Council law.
Older than Clawdiff’s towers.
Older than the exile that had taught Mythics to lower their voices.
Brassmane did not shrink from it.
He stepped into its centre.
“And I will stand beside you,” he said, voice firm but steady as a riverbank. “When the time comes, we will answer the call of scripture together. But not before.”
A hush fell.
“Until then,” he continued, sweeping his gaze across dragons, unicorns, stags, wolves, cats, rabbits, birds, goats, serpents, spirits, and the full constellation of Mythic kind, “I ask for cooperation. Nothing less. Chaos now will doom us all.”
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then one crystal dimmed in acknowledgement.
Then another.
Then another.
One by one, then all at once, the elders bowed.
Even the dragons dipped their heavy heads, scales whispering like the turning pages of an ancient book.
A warm, quiet relief loosened Brassmane’s shoulders.
Only a fraction.
But enough.
He placed his staff firmly against the ground.
“When the time comes,” Brassmane said, “I will discuss her training—with her. Not with any of you.”
The chamber absorbed that in cold silence.
He lifted his chin.
“Until then, Celeste Astallan is under my protection.”
Arlo’s staff glowed beside him.
“And under mine.”
For a moment, no one dared speak.
Then from the farthest crystal, dim and trembling from distance, a voice whispered the old oath.
“Yn y Goleuni, safwn.”
By the Light, we stand.
Another answered.
“Yn y Goleuni, safwn.”
Then another.
And another.
Soon the phrase moved through all fifty crystals and across the chamber like a slow tide of fire.
Brassmane stood at its centre, weary and unbowed.
Beyond Rustrows, Caerfaen was sealed.
The valleys crawled with candy dead.
Clawdiff was cut off.
The clans were afraid.
And somewhere above the morning mist, Celeste Astallan was flying home on a giant butterfly, still wearing ribbons in her hair, unaware that fifty great clans had just argued over whether she was a girl, a weapon, a saint, or a sign.
Brassmane closed his eyes for one breath.
