They geared up in the yard beneath the Egg Tree while the village watched.
The morning was cold enough to turn breath pale, though the candycorn lanterns still glowed faintly under the branches, reluctant to surrender to daylight. Hiraeth was awake early, as it always seemed to be now. Smoke curled from cookfires. Fresh washing fluttered on lines strung between sugar-brick homes. Somewhere nearby, someone was hammering roof tiles back into place while a child laughed at something unseen. The whole town smelled of caramel dust, damp earth, engine oil, and warm bread.
It felt, infuriatingly, like a place worth protecting.
That only made leaving harder.
The two teams gathered by the vehicles with weapons strapped on, packs checked, Arcbracers humming softly as runes synced and maps updated. Villagers lingered nearby in little clusters, some pretending not to stare, others openly calling out well-wishes, blessings, or last-minute advice no one had asked for.
“Try not to get eaten!”
“That’s usually the first objective,” Arcade muttered.
An elderly Mythic woman pressed a charm made of spun moonmoth fur and copper wire into Ray’s hand and told her it would ward off false saints. Bonbon ran between everyone’s legs like an overexcited herald, shouting encouragement in mismatched Caerfaenic and Prydainic until half the yard had started cheering just because she looked so serious about it.
Silver was checking the seal on one of the mana cases when his Arcbracer chimed.
He glanced at the name.
Lysander.
For a moment, his expression shifted into something easier.
Then he stepped aside, just far enough from the others to make the call look private without making it look suspicious.
“Lysander.”
The projection flickered into place above his wrist. Lysander Whytemere appeared immaculate, as always, though there was a tightness around his eyes that even perfect grooming could not fully conceal.
“Silver,” Lysander said warmly. “I have the corrected data prepared. If you would still like it, you may collect it later.”
Silver’s mouth curved.
“How reassuring. I was beginning to think you had gifted me stationery records as an elaborate insult.”
“A tempting idea, but no.” Lysander sighed, pressing two fingers lightly against his temple. “And I apologise for earlier. I was short with you.”
Silver raised a brow.
“You? Never.”
“I am stressed,” Lysander admitted. “The zombies are becoming rather a nuisance to my operations.”
Silver’s eyes flicked briefly toward the half-built houses, the wounded villagers, the people boiling water over cookfires.
“A nuisance,” he repeated.
Lysander did not appear to hear the edge in it.
“There are Hybrids and Mythics being born in the city with no suppression runes. No registration. No stabilisation. It is chaos wrapped in sentiment and called mercy.” His smile returned, thin and polished. “I am trying to get my company running properly again before the situation becomes impossible to manage.”
Silver leaned against the side of the van.
“That sounds like a great deal of pressure.”
“It is.”
“I can help, if you want.”
Lysander’s expression softened.
Just enough.
“Thank you. Truly. But my lawyers are doing an excellent job making themselves unbearable, which is all one can really ask of lawyers.”
Silver gave a faint laugh.
“Then why do you sound as though you are about to ask me for something?”
Lysander looked at him for a moment.
Then said, very carefully, “I need you to convince Celeste to go to the Church today.”
Silver’s eyebrow rose.
“The Church?”
“Yes.”
“We were splitting the teams. One to Godiad, one to the cathedral.”
“No.” Lysander’s voice remained gentle. “She needs to be at the Church. Today. No matter what.”
Silver’s amusement thinned.
“That is oddly specific.”
“It is important.”
“To whom?”
Lysander smiled.
But it did not reach his eyes.
“To all of us, I think.”
Silver studied him.
Behind him, Celeste was kneeling beside Bonbon, adjusting the child’s tiny knitted scarf while trying to listen to Ray and Hughes argue about routes at the same time.
Silver’s gaze lingered on her.
Then sharpened.
“Very well,” he said.
Lysander’s relief was small.
Controlled.
But visible.
“Thank you, Silver.”
The call ended.
Silver lowered his wrist slowly.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he walked toward Celeste.
She looked up as he approached.
Her whole face changed.
Not dramatically.
Not enough for anyone who did not know her to see how badly she had been waiting for this.
But Silver saw it.
The startled hope.
The immediate brightness.
The wounded little relief.
“Oh,” she said, standing too quickly and almost catching her sleeve on Bonbon’s scarf. “Silver. Hello. Are you—did you need something?”
“I do.”
Celeste straightened, eager despite herself.
“Right. Yes. Of course.”
Silver stopped close enough that his voice would not carry.
“I need you to tell the others we are all going to the Church.”
Celeste blinked.
“All of us?”
“Yes.”
“But we agreed to split up. Church and Godiad. Because if we only go to one, then the other might have time to hide things, and Arcade said simultaneous pressure is harder to cover up, and Ray agreed, and Hughes said it was sensible, which is rare enough that I wrote it down—”
“Celeste.”
She stopped immediately.
He smiled.
Not kindly.
Softly.
Worse.
“Darling,” he said, “would you like to remain tolerable to me, considering what you did?”
The words struck her like a small slap.
Her ears dipped.
She nodded.
Silver’s eyes stayed on hers.
“Then I suggest you make yourself useful and ask the Knights to go to the Church.”
Celeste straightened.
Immediately.
The change was so clean it was almost mechanical.
Her shoulders lifted.
Her eyes cleared.
A pleasant, obedient smile appeared on her face.
“No problem,” she said brightly.
Silver’s smile faltered by the smallest amount.
Something about that had not felt like winning.
It had felt like a lock clicking shut somewhere he had not known there was a door.
“Good,” he said, though the word came out slower than intended.
Celeste turned away at once and walked back toward the others.
Silver watched her go, unsettled despite himself.
Celeste clapped her hands together lightly.
“Change of plans. Sorry. We’re all going to the Church together.”
Ray looked up from the route map.
“What?”
“We’ll go to Godiad later,” Celeste said.
Arcade frowned. “That is the opposite of the plan.”
“I know,” Celeste said, still smiling. “I’m sorry. But we must go there first. It’s important.”
Hughes lifted his head.
“What about the plan, lass?”
Celeste’s smile twitched.
Only slightly.
Just enough to look painful if anyone watched closely.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “But we must go there first.”
She adjusted one of her gauntlets with careful, nervous precision.
“Now, let’s all do our best and not get into trouble like last time.”
There was a wave of grumbling.
Ray muttered something under her breath.
Arcade looked personally insulted by the concept of changing plans without a seventeen-step argument.
Topsy raised one hand.
“Does ‘not get into trouble’ mean no explosives, or just polite explosives?”
“No explosives,” Hughes said.
“Crap.”
No one argued with Celeste.
Not really.
She was Knight-Commander.
And she looked so determined.
So oddly cheerful about it.
Hughes did not grumble with the others.
He looked past Celeste.
Silver was standing near the van, watching.
Smiling.
Not broadly.
Not triumphantly.
But enough.
Hughes’s eyes narrowed.
“Silver.”
Silver’s smile faded.
“Yes?”
Hughes nodded toward the mana cases stacked near the supply tarp.
“Bring those to the door.”
Silver looked at the cases.
Then back at Hughes.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“I am not a porter.”
“No,” Hughes said evenly. “You’re a Knight today. Bring the cases.”
For a moment, Silver looked as though he might refuse on principle.
Celeste returned to Silver with that same bright, obedient smile still fixed in place.
“All done,” she said.
Silver looked over her shoulder at the others grumbling around the vehicles, then back at her.
For a moment, satisfaction warmed his expression.
He lifted one hand and patted her lightly on the head.
“Good girl.”
Celeste beamed.
The praise hit her so cleanly, so immediately, that her whole face lit with relief. Her ears lifted. Her shoulders loosened. For one tiny, terrible second, she looked genuinely happy.
Like she had done something right.
Silver’s smile sharpened.
“Oh, don’t look so pleased,” he said softly. “I haven’t forgiven you.”
The brightness slipped from her face.
Celeste blinked up at him.
“You’re lucky I haven’t told everyone what you did.”
Her breath caught.
Silver leaned a little closer, voice still quiet enough not to carry.
“Especially Umbranox. Imagine what she would think, hm? Her own Knight-Commander forcing her heir to kneel.”
Celeste went pale.
Her hands tightened around nothing.
“I didn’t mean—”
“No,” Silver said. “You rarely do. That is rather the problem.”
Her eyes darted toward the others.
Toward Hughes.
Toward Ray.
Toward anyone who might have heard.
No one had.
Not clearly.
That seemed to frighten her more.
Silver glanced at the mana flasks near the supply tarp.
“Those need taking to the van.”
Celeste moved at once.
“Yes. Sorry. I’ll do it.”
She gathered the flasks carefully, almost too quickly, clutching them against her chest as though being useful might make the fear quieter. Then she hurried toward the van without looking back.
Silver watched her go.
Smug.
Composed.
Victorious.
Hughes had seen enough.
“Silver.”
Silver’s smile faded by inches.
“Yes?”
Hughes nodded toward the heavier field bags stacked beside the cases.
“Grab those.”
Silver looked at them.
Then at Hughes.
“They’re heavy.”
“Aye.”
“I was under the impression Commander Astallan had just handled the supplies.”
“She handled the flasks,” Hughes said evenly. “You can handle the bags.”
Silver’s jaw tightened.
“I am not a pack bugmule.”
“No,” Hughes said. “Pack mules are generally more useful and complain less.”
Arcade made a small noise that might have been a cough.
Ray suddenly became very interested in the route map.
Silver’s eyes narrowed.
Hughes did not blink.
After a long, offended silence, Silver snatched up the first heavy bag.
Then the second.
The straps pulled his immaculate coat out of line.
His expression suggested several ancient noble houses had just died inside him.
“Wonderful,” he muttered. “Manual labour. Truly the apocalypse has spared no one.”
Hughes watched him carry the bags toward the van.
And this time, he did not look away from Silver until the last one was loaded.
