Before the Rustrows Assembly was called, Brassmane stood outside the old factory hall and watched the last trails of butterfly dust vanish into the morning sky.
The Knights were gone.
For now.
Celeste Astallan had flown away laughing, with ribbons still in her hair and no idea that half of Caerfaen was about to start arguing over the shape of her soul.
Behind Brassmane, the factory doors groaned in the wind.
Inside, the elders were gathering.
He did not turn immediately.
“Kirrin,” he said. “Cosmo. Solas.”
The three of them stood a little way behind him.
Kirrin had her arms folded beneath her shawl, face unreadable. Cosmo carried a satchel of cracked ward-runes and looked like he had aged five years since dawn. Solas leaned against a rusted pillar, black wings half-cloaked around him, eyes sharp and unhappy.
Brassmane finally turned.
“Come with me.”
Solas’s expression darkened at once. “We do not have to do this.”
“No,” Brassmane said. “We do not.”
That surprised him enough to silence him.
Cosmo shifted uneasily. “It may simply be that her mana is strong. Unnaturally strong, yes, but strength alone does not make her Crefft-worthy.”
Solas seized on that. “Exactly.”
Cosmo’s mouth tightened. “I did not say I agreed with you.”
“You implied sense.”
“I implied caution.”
Brassmane raised one hand, and both fell quiet.
His gaze moved to Kirrin.
“You have said nothing.”
Kirrin’s jaw worked once.
“I think…” She looked toward the sky, where Celeste and the others had disappeared. “I think she would not want this.”
The words settled heavily between them.
Brassmane did not interrupt.
Kirrin continued, quieter now.
“She looked happy this morning. Proper happy. Like a bairn at fair day. And now we’re about to drag her name through prophecy, politics, and old clan hunger before she’s even finished her tea.”
Cosmo looked down.
Even Solas said nothing.
Kirrin breathed out slowly.
“But if we do not do this, then someone else will. The Council, maybe. Other clans, definitely. The Luminarchs if word reaches them.” Her eyes hardened. “And they will not ask whether she wants it.”
Brassmane held her gaze.
“So you see my dilemma.”
“Aye,” Kirrin said. “I see it.”
Solas pushed away from the pillar.
“I still think this is wrong.”
Brassmane looked at him for a long moment.
There was no anger in his face.
Only weariness.
“And perhaps it is.”
Solas faltered.
Brassmane turned toward the hall doors.
“Come,” he said. “Let us see how this plays out.”
He paused with one hand on the iron handle.
“It may serve you well someday. You are young yet, though you dislike being reminded of it. One day, each of you will be forced to make a decision where every path wounds someone.”
His mane dimmed in the grey light.
“When that day comes, remember this one.”
Then he opened the doors.
Heat rolled out.
Voices rose.
The great chamber of the Rustrows Assembly pulsed with unrest.
Lanterns burned too brightly, their flames flickering in unnatural hues as if reacting to the tremor still echoing through the valley.
The Trial circle had barely cooled.
And already, the world was shifting.
The air throbbed with heat and mana.
The Assembly chamber had once been the heart of an old factory, a place of iron, smoke and shrieking machines. Now the Mythics had claimed it in the way Mythics claimed all ruined things—not by pretending the scars were gone, but by teaching them to sing.
Old support beams had been wrapped in ivy and rune-thread. Broken gantries hung above like black ribs. The floor was engraved with circles upon circles of old clan marks, each line inlaid with copper, bone, pearl, ash and silver.
At the centre of the chamber stood fifty tall crystals.
Each one was taller than a person.
Each one burned with a different colour of mana.
Through them, the great clans of the Mythic Accord looked into Rustrows.
Some crystals showed halls of mountain stone. Others showed forest shrines, cliffside camps, underground warrens, flooded sanctuaries, caravan courts, hidden valleys and fortress-towns older than the Council cared to admit existed.
Fifty great clans.
Fifty voices.
Fifty histories of exile, pride, wound and survival.
At the centre of the hall, Elder Arlo stood with his staff resting before him, both hands folded over its ancient wood. The firelight caught in his blind eyes, making them look like polished moonstone.
Beside him loomed Brassmane—scarred, towering and visibly weary. His mane, usually bright as a lion-hearted sunrise, was dim from the long hours of containment and argument.
Kirrin, Cosmo, and Solas took their places behind him.
Not quite elders.
Not quite children.
Old enough to understand fear.
Young enough to still believe there should always be a cleaner answer.
Around them, the chamber filled with elders, priestesses, rune-keepers, wardens, seers and envoys of the great Mythic clans who had been close enough to come in person.
Those too far away watched through crystal.
Those too afraid watched in silence.
Elder Arlo struck the butt of his staff against the floor.
Once.
The sound travelled through iron, stone and bone.
Every voice fell quiet.
Arlo lifted his head.
“Clywch ni, Llwythau’r Hen Gytundeb.”
Hear us, clans of the Old Accord.
The crystals brightened.
Far away, across all corners of Caerfaen, figures straightened in their own halls.
Arlo continued, his voice deepening into ritual.
“Yr ydym yn sefyll yn y man lle claddwyd peiriannau’r Nullborn, ond nid ein cof.”
We stand where Nullborn machines were buried, but not our memory.
A low murmur moved through the chamber.
Then the eldest priestess beside him began the answering chant.
One voice.
Then ten.
Then fifty.
The Welsh rose slowly, old and rough and beautiful, carried by living throats and crystal echoes.
“Ni blygem.”
We do not bow.
“Ni dawelwn.”
We do not fall silent.
“Crwydrwn hyd nes y bydd y Wehyddu’n iach.”
We wander until the Weave is healed.
“Crwydrwn hyd nes y rhed y Tair Afon yn un.”
We wander until the Three Rivers run as one.
“Crwydrwn hyd nes y dychwel Mamgoleuni.”
We wander until Mamgoleuni returns.
“I’n harwain drwy’r tywyllwch.”
To guide us through the darkness.
“I’n galw adref.”
To call us home.
The chant grew stronger.
From the crystals, distant clans joined in.
Voices from mountains.
Voices from valleys.
Voices from hidden roads, old forests and sealed borders.
“Ni blygem.”
We do not bow.
“Ni dawelwn.”
We do not fall silent.
“Yn y Goleuni, safwn.”
By the Light, we stand.
The final line rolled through the hall like thunder.
For one breath, the Assembly was not divided.
Not frightened.
Not arguing.
It was ancient.
Then the silence after it arrived, and fear returned with it.
Elder Arlo stood at the centre of the hall, his staff resting before him, his antlers dim with exhaustion. Around him gathered the elders already present at Rustrows—priestesses, rune-keepers, envoys, seers, wardens, and old warriors whose faces had been sharpened by the night’s events.
Brassmane moved to stand beside Arlo.
His mane still gleamed, but not brightly. The long hours of containment, argument, and fear had dimmed him. He looked scarred, towering, and visibly weary.
Still, when he placed one heavy paw over his heart, the room quietened.
“To the clans of river, root, flame, stone, sky, fang, hoof, horn, feather, scale, and shadow,” Brassmane said, voice carrying through every crystal. “Llwyth Drain Grwydryn greets you beneath the witness of the Weave.”
One by one, the crystals answered.
Fifty voices.
Fifty halls.
Fifty fires.
“We answer from our hearths.”
“We answer from the high roads.”
“We answer from the western valleys.”
“We answer from the northern stone.”
“We answer beneath ward and storm.”
“We answer as Accord.”
The voices layered over one another until the hall thrummed with them.
Then one of the projected elders, her image flickering inside a tall amethyst crystal, spoke more sharply.
“We are far from Rustrows, Brassmane, but do not mistake distance for calm. The valleys are crawling with candy undead.”
Another crystal flared red.
“Every pass has sightings. Every road sings with their hunger.”
A third voice, old and strained, followed.
“Albryne is sealed.”
That brought the chamber still.
Brassmane’s head turned slowly.
“Sealed?”
“A dome across the border,” the projected elder said. “Mana-woven. Pureblood make, or something wearing Pureblood craft as a mask. Nothing crosses. No road. No skyship. No messenger. The border shines like a second horizon.”
A murmur of alarm moved through the chamber.
Another projection lifted both hands, palms out. “We have tried to send riders. None return. We have tried bugbirds. They turn back bleeding from the eyes.”
A fourth voice said, “The outer ports are dark.”
A fifth, “The east roads are gone.”
A sixth, “Our people cannot reach Clawdiff.”
Brassmane’s jaw tightened.
His eyes turned molten, but his voice remained calm.
“Then Caerfaen is cut off from the world.”
He looked around the chamber, then up at the crystals.
“And Clawdiff is cut off from you.”
The words landed like a door closing.
For a moment, even the mana seemed to hesitate.
A stag elder projected in pale green light bowed his head. “It took great mana to make this call. More than many of us could spare.”
“Then why make it?” asked one of the younger Rustrows envoys, too frightened to sound respectful.
The answer came at once from several crystals.
“Because this concerns all clans.”
“Because old scripture has stirred.”
“Because rumours have outrun bughorses.”
“Because if what we heard is true, silence would be treason.”
A silver crystal brightened until the whole chamber glowed.
A woman’s voice came through it, quiet and terrible.
“Is it true?”
Brassmane did not answer immediately.
The elder continued.
“Has Mamgoleuni chosen a vessel?”
Another voice whispered the older shortened form, reverent and afraid.
“Mamgolei.”
Half the room seemed to inhale.
The other half forgot how.
Elder Arlo stepped forward.
Brassmane looked at Arlo.
Arlo closed his eyes for one heartbeat.
Then opened them.
“I believe,” he said carefully, “that we have witnessed a sign.”
The chamber erupted.
Voices collided.
“A sign?”
“You called us for belief?”
“Say it plainly!”
“Do not profane her name with guesses!”
“What did the girl do?”
“What did you see?”
Arlo struck his staff again.
The sound cracked through the chamber like a split bell.
Silence returned, though unwillingly.
A memory crystal rose from his sleeve, spinning slowly above his palm. It was small, clouded, and cracked from strain, but when he whispered to it, the air above the assembly rippled.
Light unfolded.
The Trial appeared.
Celeste stood in the centre of a world that was not fully world, her hair lifted by impossible wind, her core blazing beneath her chest. Behind her, old Kymara light opened like a door. A radiant figure, fox-like and vast and unbearable, stood before her.
Then came the crown.
Prismatic.
Sharp.
Beautiful.
Terrible.
It settled over Celeste’s head in the projection, and for one heartbeat, the Three Rivers shimmered above her—gold, blue, and white—braiding through the air like scripture made visible.
The chamber broke.
Some elders gasped.
Some made the sign of the Three Rivers across brow, heart, and throat.
Some covered their mouths.
Some dropped to one knee.
Some simply stared, silent and grey-faced.
From one crystal came a choked sob.
From another, a prayer.
From another, a curse.
Brassmane watched every reaction and felt the weight of each one settle on his shoulders.
A bronze-scaled dragon elder rose from his seat, smoke curling from his nostrils.
“The prophecy of the Crefft y Goleuni,” he said. “It matches.”
A unicorn priestess in one of the crystals bowed her luminous head. “Iridescent light. Crown of old memory. The rivers above her.”
A kitsune elder whispered, “The Kymara sign.”
A Huginn seer spoke from a black crystal, voice thin and distant. “The old texts called her Mamgoleuni. The Motherlight who vanished when the Void descended.”
A younger voice, trembling with awe, said, “Then she has returned.”
“No,” another snapped. “Or something wears her shape.”
That was all it took.
The hall erupted.
The crystals flared wildly as distant clans shouted over one another. Some elders prayed. Some demanded proof. Some demanded custody. Some demanded secrecy.
Some only stared at the image of Celeste’s core with tears on their faces.
Solas watched from the shadows.
His mouth was a thin line.
Arlo turned slightly toward Brassmane.
“I knew this would happen.”
Brassmane did not take his eyes off the shouting Accord.
“Aye.”
The argument grew louder.
More dangerous.
The fifty crystals burned like captive stars.
“What they do next,” Brassmane said quietly, “is what concerns me.”
Arlo’s grip tightened on his staff.
Around them, the Mythic Accord roared—half in worship, half in fear—and somewhere far beyond Rustrows, beneath a sealed sky, the candy undead crawled through the valleys of Caerfaen.
