The Rustrows looked like the apocalypse had decided to stop and build a nest.
Charred smokestacks jutted from the horizon like crooked fingers clawing at the red-stained sky. Fires burned in steel drums, casting flickering shadows across broken machinery and graffiti-rune-covered walls. Giant cranes loomed like skeletons. Twisted fencing, half-melted signs, and scrap heaps taller than buildings turned the entrance into a maze of metal. It didn’t smell like rust—it reeked of it, thick and choking, mixed with oil and scorched plastic.
The Gwennan, their newly reinforced red sports van, rolled to a stop, steam hissing from the front as it adjusted to the sweltering air.
Celeste stepped out first, brushing ash from her blue hoodie jumper dress, the soft cotton flickering slightly with the glow of nearby fires. Tiny silver stars dangled from the hem like charms, catching the light as she moved. Her hand rested near her katanas—cautious, but not aggressive.
Pitch climbed out next, hoodie tied at the waist, his eyes narrowing. “Looks like a junkyard threw up on itself,” he muttered, squinting.
Arcade popped the back open, lugging out some diagnostic gear. “Charming. You lot brought me to robot hell for parts. I hope you’re happy. What if they don’t even know what’s going on with us either?”
Ray slung her hammer over her shoulder. “Least it smells better than Mezz’s socks. Look, we chat to Brassmane, make ourselves useful, and we might be allowed to stay. If not, maybe trade some things for parts for that stupid radio tower you insist on building.”
Bringing up the rear was Hughes, brushing dirt from his overalls. “I’ve fought wars in swamps more dignified than this place. Should’ve brought me flamethrower.”
They didn’t wait long.
From the shadows emerged shapes—tall, hunched, cloaked in patchwork coats and furs, many with feathers, horns, or glowing eyes. These were the mythics—a ragtag collection of magical beings, cast-offs of society who now ruled the Rustrows. They didn’t approach with weapons drawn, but watched with intensity. Every single one wore strange hand-woven charms, amulets of copper wire and dragon teeth. Not a single piece of cybernetics or tech touched their bodies. Even their torches were magic-powered.
One figure stepped forward—a wide-shouldered foxlike woman with scales across one side of her face and silver rings piercing both ears. She pointed a gnarled staff topped with feathers and broken glass.
“Pwy ydych chi?” she asked sharply, voice like steel dragged across stone.
Celeste blinked. “What?”
Hughes exhaled. “They’re speakin’ bloody Caerfaenic, lass. Best put your studies to use.”
Celeste nodded and stepped forward, brushing her hair back as she bowed slightly. “Rydyn ni ddim yn chwilio am frwydr,” she began, halting but sincere. “Dim ond—rhan i adeiladu cerbyd. Cerbyd rhyfel. Mae’n... bwysig.”
There was a pause.
Dozens of glowing eyes narrowed.
The fox-woman tilted her head, then gave a sharp whistle. Around her, the mythics began to murmur, clapping staffs and trinkets together in a rhythmic sound like rain on metal.
Then the gates opened—a wide creak of rusted hinges and old magic.
The group was allowed inside.
The camp was like a village stitched into the skeleton of a dead factory. Colourful tapestries made from patchwork hung from girders. Fires burned beneath suspended pots. Children with horns played tag around broken-down forklifts. A towering windmill made from old aircraft blades spun overhead.
But tech was noticeably absent.
No wires. No screens. No microchips.
“Creepy,” Arcade muttered under his breath. “They won’t even use data pads. It’s like a Luddite festival on mushrooms.”
Ray, who had been quiet, suddenly slowed her step. Her hammer dropped an inch.
There, by a rusted oil drum, stood a hyena-eared girl—a Bultungin with dyed blue streaks in her mane—and a spiky-tailed drake boy who always wore a scarf.
Her breath caught.
“No way,” Ray whispered. “That’s…”
She stepped forward, unsure. “Saff? Dex?”
The two mythics turned. Recognition sparked—then warmth.
“RAY?” Saff’s voice cracked in disbelief before she sprinted forward and nearly tackled her in a hug. “We thought you were dead! Dex said you ran off with some tin-helmet freaks!”
Ray laughed, emotional. “I kinda did. And then I found better ones.”
Celeste watched, her heart softened by the reunion. But she also knew the political weight of this place would soon press in. Mythics were stubborn, and even allies came with strings attached.
Especially now.
They didn't make it ten feet into the camp before a voice sliced through the tension like steel on stone.
“Cerddwch yn araf.”
Low, firm. Authoritative.
Brassmane stood in the clearing like an immovable pillar—his form massive and commanding. A fusion of stag and lion. A Luduan with armour-like plating across his chest and shoulders, his antlers curled like ancient driftwood polished by time. Faintly glowing runes traced intricate patterns along his hide and onto the dark robes draped over his powerful frame. The robes blended arcane symbols with steampunk accents—brass gears and tiny steam vents embedded into the fabric—giving him an ancient yet mechanically attuned presence. His stare was enough to still the air.
C.H.I.P. beeped beside Arcade, then spoke up in its crisp, digitised tone:
"Directive issued: 'Walk slowly.'"
Beside Brassmane stood Kirrin, a sleek, sharply-featured gryphon with golden feathers along her ruff and wings tucked tightly behind her. Her lower half was lean and catlike, her talons clicking lightly as she shifted her weight. One emerald eye flicked toward the group, curious and dangerous all at once. She wore round, brass-rimmed goggles perched atop her head and a worn steampunk outfit—complete with leather straps, buckles, and intricate gearwork—that hinted at both elegance and battle readiness.
Her gaze lingered longer than expected.
Recognition sparked, and her feathers bristled ever so slightly. She leaned toward Brassmane, her voice low but urgent in Caerfaenic: “Dyna hi.”
That’s her.
Brassmane gave a single grave nod.
Kirrin’s sharp expression softened into something almost bewildered. Slowly, she lifted a talon and gave Celeste a small, hesitant wave.
Behind them, Saff emerged—dressed in rugged patchwork armour, her expression unreadable now, standing firm behind Brassmane like a loyal shadow.
Brassmane’s gaze settled on Celeste.
His voice was rumbling, measured.
He spoke in Caerfaenic again.
C.H.I.P. translated instantly:
"Is it true? The girl from the Park. The one with the power."
Ray blinked, recognising the words even before C.H.I.P. could process them.
“They’re asking about your ability,” she said quietly. “The rumours... everything.”
Celeste raised a brow. “Which part?”
Kirrin’s beak parted into a lopsided grin, her words tumbling out with a lilting burr, rough but warm, like stones skipping across water.
“The part where ye bent a zombie horde like it was nothin’ but paper. The part where ye hauled folk out o’ the sewers, drippin’ and half-dead.”
Her amber eye gleamed as she tilted her head, feathers rustling.
“And the part,” she added with a grin, “where they say a dragon’s watchin’ ye.”
Leaning closer, her tone dipped into a teasing growl, “The part where ye could bring this whole place crashin’ doon… if ye fancied it.”
The air thickened.
Pitch shifted closer to Celeste, hand subtly tightening around the hilt of his weapon. Hughes didn’t speak, but his eyes scanned the camp, calculating.
Celeste swallowed.
This was the part where she was supposed to sound brave. Or wise. Or important. Something dignified and impressive enough to belong in front of a clan leader with ancient antlers and a voice like a mountain deciding whether to move.
Instead, she lifted one paw in a tiny wave.
“Hello,” she said nervously.
Ray immediately stepped in front of her.
“Brassmane,” Ray said, voice sharp and urgent. “We need help.”
Brassmane’s eyes moved from Celeste to Ray.
For the first time, his expression shifted.
Not much. But enough.
“Ray,” he said, his deep voice softening around her name. “You came back. I thought you were done after—”
“Never mind the trial,” Ray interrupted quickly.
A few mythics nearby exchanged looks.
Saff’s face tightened.
Ray’s jaw set hard, like she had just slammed a door shut inside herself. “This is bigger. The power Kirrin mentioned? We don’t know what it is. We’ve got these glowing core things in our chests.”
She tugged the edge of her jacket aside just enough for the faint glow beneath her chest to show.
A murmur rippled through the Rustrows.
Then gasps.
One by one, eyes moved across the group.
Celeste. Ray. Arcade. Lumina. Mezzo. Pitch. Skye.
The whispers spread like sparks.
“So there are more of you,” someone breathed.
Brassmane’s stare sharpened.
Ray lifted her chin. “We aren’t the only ones.”
That silenced them properly.
Even Kirrin’s teasing expression faded.
Brassmane’s gaze swept over the group again, slower this time. The runes along his hide pulsed once, faint and golden, as if something ancient beneath his skin had heard a word it recognised.
“We can explain later,” Ray said. “But right now, we need to know what’s happening to us before the council decides we’re a problem they can solve with collars and fire.”
Plum popped up from behind Hughes, notebook hugged to her chest. “We are also here for radio parts.”
The entire clearing shifted awkwardly.
A few of the mythics muttered.
Arcade closed his eyes. “Wonderful timing.”
Plum lowered her notebook slightly. “What? It’s true.”
More murmurs moved through the Rustrows now, sharper than before.
“Radio?”
“Broadcast tech?”
“Nullborn parts?”
“Council tricks?”
Brassmane raised one hand.
The murmurs died.
“We do not normally trade with Nullborn,” he said.
Celeste looked at Hughes.
Hughes, already anticipating the question, leaned slightly toward her and muttered, “Purebloods.”
Celeste nodded quickly, cheeks warming.
Brassmane continued, “But if you come with the Twanvians, we can make an exception.”
Celeste looked at Hughes again.
“Hybrids,” Hughes said quietly.
“Oh,” Celeste whispered. “Right.”
Arcade gave her a sideways look. “I am begging you to read literally one history book.”
“I’ve been busy nearly dying,” Celeste whispered back.
“Multitask.”
Brassmane’s attention settled on Celeste once more, though his words were for all of them.
“Your cores draw unwanted attention. Stay in the square while the elders and I discuss this.” His eyes moved to Ray. “Ray. You are responsible for them.”
Ray nodded once. “Understood.”
Brassmane turned, robes shifting around him with the soft clink of brass charms and old metal. Kirrin lingered a moment, watching Celeste with a strange mixture of curiosity and concern, then followed him. Saff gave Ray one unreadable look before moving after them.
The elders disappeared inside the largest structure at the far end of the square—a converted factory hall covered in hanging charms, painted ward symbols, and scraps of old banners.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Pitch exhaled slowly. “Well. That went better than I expected.”
Arcade stared at him. “They implied we might be magical disasters and banished us to the square.”
“Exactly,” Pitch said. “Nobody got stabbed.”
Mezzo folded his arms. “Yet.”
Plum’s pencil scratched eagerly across the new notebook. “This place is marvellous.”
Ray shot her a warning look.
Plum stopped writing.
“For personal notes,” she said quickly. “Private. Very private. So private even I might not read them.”
Ray looked back toward the factory hall, her shoulders tense despite her calm face.
Celeste stepped closer to her. “Are you alright?”
Ray didn’t answer straight away.
Around them, the Rustrows watched.
Children peered from behind crates. Elders whispered near fire barrels. Mythics with horns, feathers, claws, and old glowing eyes studied the group like they were a prophecy that had arrived late and badly dressed.
Finally, Ray gave a short breath.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just don’t wander off.”
Celeste glanced around the square, ears twitching.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Arcade adjusted the strap on his tool bag. “Good. Because if this turns into another kidnapping, I’m charging everyone overtime.”
