The Egg tree was unsure as Plum tapped her notepad with her pen, ears twitching. “Look—the mythics and the purebloods? They’re both barely holding it together against the zombies. You lot could help them, and in turn, they could help you. Meanwhile, I run the news feed, the radio station, get the word out. People will come. Survivors will join. They just need something to rally behind—and you’re it.”
Ray leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. Her voice dripped with dry bite. “And what makes you think the council won’t just slam the ban hammer on us? I’ve seen them do it. Sometimes just because someone said the wrong thing in the wrong tone.”
Plum wagged her pen like a conductor’s baton. “Ah, but if you’re useful, they won’t. And right now? You are useful. You play that edge until it bends.”
Pitch let out a booming laugh, though it carried no mirth. “You know it won’t work, carrot-top. Council doesn’t do ‘grateful.’ They do ‘control.’”
Plum leaned across the table, grin sharp. “And yet—they’ve got nothing to lose by letting you try. What have you got to lose? You’ve already taken out three generals. They noticed. Trust me—Cosmo dropped your names in the right ears. I know.”
Ray snorted. “The mythics aren’t much better. They’re indifferent at best. They want the council out of their hair just as much as hybrids do. They’re not gonna play nice.”
“True,” Plum said quickly, “but unlike mythics, you have a mana pool that rivals gods. You can fight longer, harder. And everyone’s watching. They can’t do what you can—and that scares them. But it also interests them. They can’t ignore results.”
Ray’s expression shifted, just a little. Her eyes moved back to the map.
“The mythics can’t kill them either,” she admitted. “Not properly. Not the way Celeste can. If they’ve been throwing magic at the zombies and still getting nowhere, they’re probably just as stuck as everyone else.”
Plum snapped her fingers and pointed at Ray. “Exactly. They don’t need to like you. They just need to need you.”
Pitch leaned back, eyes half-lidded. “That there is the prettiest ugly truth I’ve heard all morning.”
Ray sighed through her nose. “We’re heading there anyways, so maybe we can swing around. Check the tower route. See if the mythics are desperate enough to talk before they start shooting.”
Celeste, who had been fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, spoke up softly. “So… we’d help them, and in return, they’d… what, lend support? Resources?”
Plum’s grin softened into something warmer. “Exactly. You fight for them, and I make sure the whole world hears about it. Hope’s contagious, kitten. And if we’re going to take on the Dragon, we need as much of it as we can get.”
Hughes, who had been listening in silence with his arms folded, finally cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said, voice calm and measured, “before we decide anything, I think we ought to have a proper talk without half the room tripping over itself. Plum, would you mind waiting outside for a moment?”
Plum blinked. “Outside?”
“For a moment,” Hughes repeated.
Plum looked mildly affronted, but only for a second. “Oh, fine. Exiled from the council, exiled from the kitchen table—story of my life.”
She scooped up her satchel, straightened her cardigan, and padded back toward the door.
The Egg Tree opened for her with a creak of branches and a muttering shiver of bark.
A second later, her voice rang in from outside.
“Oh, you are joking.”
Everyone in the room paused.
Ray barely looked up. “What now?”
Plum’s voice drifted through the doorway, much smaller than usual. “Are you all quite sure that giant white zombie dragon is a good idea?”
Pitch leaned back on the couch and called out lazily, “Ma’am, where I come from, even a porch dog that looks mean as sin might just want a scratch behind the ears.”
Ray gave him a look. “That means nothing.”
“It means she’s friendly,” Pitch translated, waving one hand. “Or friendly enough.”
Outside, there was a low, sugary rumble.
Then a shriek.
Celeste jumped. “Oh dear.”
She hurried toward the door just in time to see Plum standing frozen at the base of the Egg Tree with both ears bolt upright and her satchel half-raised like a shield. Marzipan sat beyond her, vast and pale and terrible, curled around the trunk like some ancient guardian spirit made of frost and bone.
In Plum’s paws sat a damp capsule egg.
She stared at it as if it might explode.
Slowly—very slowly—she cracked it open.
Inside was a brand-new notebook, covered in tiny painted flowers and cheerful little bugcats tumbling across the cover in pastel rows.
Plum stared.
Marzipan lowered her massive head and gave one slow blink.
Plum looked down at the notebook again, then up at the enormous dragon. Her voice came out awkward and terribly small.
“…Thanks?”
Marzipan gave a single satisfied nod.
Behind Celeste, Pitch let out a bark of laughter. “Well, I’ll be. Dragon likes you.”
Plum clutched the notebook to her chest like a holy relic. “That is somehow worse. I think we’ve bonded.”
Celeste smiled faintly. “That’s usually a good sign.”
Plum gave Marzipan one last uncertain glance, then stepped back inside when Hughes waved her in again.
This time, she sat a bit more carefully—and kept the notebook in her lap.
Inside, Hughes glanced around the room. “Right. Thoughts?”
Bracer, the wolf, leaned back in his chair and twirled his moustache with one claw. “I think it’s a good idea.”
Ray looked at him flatly. “You mean unwanted attention.”
Bracer shrugged. “I mean jobs. Supplies. News. Structure. If Plum builds her station and starts spreading the word, folk will come. Folk with skills. Folk with things to trade.”
Arcade gave a slow nod from where he sat hunched over the droid head. “Ray’s right about the attention. It’s risky.” He adjusted his goggles and sighed. “But Bracer’s right too. We need supplies. Proper ones. I’m nearly out of copper wire, and I do not want to keep asking Marzipan for more unless I absolutely have to.”
From outside came a distant pleased rumble, as if Marzipan knew she was being discussed.
Arcade grimaced. “She’s already started expecting thanks.”
Celeste fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. “The mythics sound scary. Do we really have to go talk to them? I don’t… um… know what they’re like.”
Carys dried her hands on a towel and leaned against the counter. “Strange, mostly. Secretive. They avoid the council where they can. Stick to travel routes, sanctioned forests, mountain paths… places the council needs maintained but doesn’t want to touch themselves.”
Arcade nodded. “They’re the only reason the council gets half its valuable mana-based resources in the first place. Refined crystals, high-grade reagents, old leyline salvage, enchanted compounds—if the mythics didn’t handle that side of things, the council wouldn’t bother tolerating them at all.”
Celeste blinked. “What is the council?”
The room went silent.
Not thoughtfully silent.
Horrified silent.
Every head turned toward her.
Celeste shrank a little under the collective stare. “I mean—I know they’re the scary people on the speakers. And they make rules. But I don’t really know anything about them.”
Mezzo squinted at her from where he was still half-tangled in birthday streamers. “You’re joking.”
Celeste smiled weakly. “Not joking, no.”
Ray stared at the ceiling for one long suffering moment. “Of all the people, Artist, why—oh why—am I stuck with this clueless weirdo?”
Celeste hesitated, cheeks pink. “This is… maybe a bad time to ask who the Artist is?”
Ray threw both hands in the air and walked off in utter despair.
Hughes looked genuinely godsmacked.
Pitch doubled over laughing.
Arcade dragged one paw down his face. “I think I’m going to need to take her back to the library. She needs more books. Several books. Possibly all the books.”
Celeste went bright red and stared determinedly at the floor. “Sorry.”
Pitch, still chuckling, threw an arm around her shoulders. “Sugar, where I’m from we call that being so blissfully ignorant the wolves don’t bother eatin’ you ‘cause they’re too confused how you survived this long.”
“That is not comforting,” Celeste whispered.
“No,” Pitch admitted. “But it is amazin’.”
Hughes rubbed his brow, then let out a slow breath. “Celeste, don’t worry about the council. Best thing you can do for now is avoid them.”
Celeste nodded quickly.
“And the Artist,” Hughes continued, “is part of the Luminarch Doctrine. Basically pureblood religion. You don’t need to worry about that either.”
Celeste nodded again, though she still looked a bit lost.
“And finally—the mythics.” Hughes pointed for emphasis. “They speak Caerfaenic. Try not to insult them, and they won’t bother you. Got it?”
Celeste blinked. “I… guess so?”
“Good.”
Hughes straightened and tapped a knuckle against the table. “Then I think we should head to the Rustrows. Speak to the clan leader—likely Brassmane—and see if we can figure out what’s in our chests and whether they’re willing to trade for supplies.”
Celeste opened her mouth, clearly about to ask another question.
Hughes lifted a hand before she could. “Brassmane is the clan leader of Clan Wayfarer Briar. Or in Caerfaenic—Brassmane, Pennaeth y Llwyth Drain Grwydryn.”
Celeste shut her mouth again and nodded very seriously, as though committing it to memory through sheer panic.
Then, after a beat, she raised one paw anyway. “What about Skye’s birthday?”
Ray, now halfway across the room and still recovering from the Council Incident, answered without turning around. “We’ll do it when we get back. It won’t take long unless something explodes again, or Mezzo does something stupid.”
Mezzo drew himself upright with theatrical offence. “Excuse you! In my defence, most of the things what explode around me are emotionally motivated.”
“That sentence did not help you,” Arcade muttered.
Mezzo placed a paw to his chest, wounded. “I am bein’ slandered in my own home.”
“The tree isn’t yours,” Ray called back.
“It spiritually is.”
Arcade glanced toward the doorway. “What about Plum?”
Celeste looked up hopefully. “Maybe we can keep her? If we can get parts?”
Arcade blinked. “She isn’t a collectible plush.”
He looked around the room, then added dryly, “Although we do seem to be collecting them lately.”
That earned a laugh from Pitch and a snort from Bracer.
Hughes finally gestured toward the doorway. “Plum, back in.”
Plum popped her head around the frame instantly, as though she had been waiting for the cue. Given the way her ears were angled, she absolutely had.
Hughes folded his hands behind his back. “We’ll talk to Brassmane. If the mythics are willing to help with the tower, we’ll see what can be done.”
Plum lit up so brightly it was almost alarming. “Oh, splendid! Wonderful! Sensible! Inspired! I knew you lot had taste.”
“But,” Hughes said, raising one finger.
Plum stopped mid-bounce.
“If you stay here, you help around the base. And if the children need watching, you help with that too.”
Plum’s expression flickered into mild offence. “I am a journalist.”
Bracer twirled his moustache again. “Aye. And the rest of us still wash dishes.”
Plum looked around the room, at the patched walls, the sleepy little base, the improvised family it had somehow become. Her ears lowered a fraction. Then she sighed.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll help.”
Her fingers tightened around the flower-and-bugcat notebook. “Still better than sleeping in an abandoned car.”
Hughes gave a brisk nod. “Good. Then that’s settled.”
He pushed himself away from the table.
“Everyone grab your things,” he said. “We’re heading to the Rustrows.”
Bonbon’s ears perked from beneath the mixing bowl.
She waddled out of the blanket fort with great purpose, clutching her little wand in one paw and dragging a ribbon behind her like a very serious battle cloak.
“Fi dod!” she announced.
Celeste turned. “Oh—Bonbon…”
Bonbon planted her tiny feet. “Fi dod! Fi dod gyda Ceste!”
Hughes softened at once, but his voice stayed firm. He crouched slightly so he was closer to her height. “Na, Bonbon. Nid wyt ti’n gallu dod heddiw.”
Bonbon’s face changed.
It was not sadness.
It was betrayal.
The sort of betrayal only a two-year-old could produce, complete with trembling lip, offended ears, and the terrible inhale before doom.
“Naaaaa!” Bonbon wailed, stomping one little foot. “Fi dod! Fi dod! Ceste! Ceste!”
She flung both arms up, wand clutched dangerously in one paw.
Hughes winced as a tiny spark popped from the wand and singed the edge of Mezzo’s sleeve.
Mezzo looked down at the smoking thread. “Ah. Lovely. Murder toddler’s awake.”
Bonbon stamped again. “NA!”
Bracer rose from his chair, his moustache twitching with fond amusement. “Tell you what, little one. I’ll stay with you. We can play together, hm? Cards, blocks, blanket forts. Whatever your royal self demands.”
Bonbon paused mid-tantrum, still hiccupping with fury.
Bracer gave her a solemn bow. “I am entirely at your service.”
Carys smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. “And I’ll help with the birthday things. I’ll make a huge cake. There’s no shortage of sugar.”
Ray’s head snapped round. “Careful with the stuff outside. I’m still not sure if it turns people into zombies yet.”
Carys waved her off. “I got it from a store that was abandoned. Don’t worry.”
Mezzo lifted a finger. “Was that the one with the bunnybees inside it? Because I’m pretty sure they made a nest in there.”
Carys paused.
Mezzo shrugged. “Still. I’m not picky.”
Bonbon turned towards Celeste.
She knelt and opened her arms. “Oh, cariad…”
Bonbon launched herself at her.
Celeste hugged her tightly, pressing her cheek against Bonbon’s soft fur. “I won’t be long. I promise.”
Bonbon sniffled into her shoulder. “Ceste dod nôl?”
“Yes,” Celeste whispered. “Ceste dod nôl.”
Bonbon gave a tiny nod, still clinging to her.
Celeste smiled and brushed a paw over Bonbon’s ears. Then she added gently in Welsh, “A hefyd, mae gen ti ffon hud newydd ffansi i’w thrio. Ond tu allan, iawn?”
Bonbon’s eyes widened.
She looked at her wand.
Then toward the door.
Then back at Celeste.
The tantrum vanished with terrifying speed.
“Iawn,” Bonbon said, nodding seriously.
Ray pointed at the wand. “Outside. Away from faces. Away from walls. Away from anything that looks expensive, alive, or flammable.”
Bonbon nodded again, though whether she understood all of that was extremely debatable.
Bracer held out his paw. “Come on then, wand-master. Let’s see what you can do.”
Bonbon took his paw proudly, still sniffling but now wearing the expression of a child with a mission.
Carys turned back toward the kitchen. “Right. Birthday cake, then. If anyone sees flour, bring it to me.”
Plum lifted her new flower-and-bugcat notebook. “And if anyone sees a functioning civic society, do let me know. I’d like to interview it before it dies out completely.”
Arcade gave the room one last look, then nodded toward the door.
“Now,” he said, “before someone else adopts a side quest—move.”
