The Council worked the Knights of Clawdiff to the bone.

Every day brought another order, another route, another pocket of candy-zombies clawing up from drains, alleys, collapsed tunnels, or abandoned shops where the sugar rot had settled too deep. The Knights were sent wherever the Council soldiers did not want to go first — flooded streets, broken tram stations, half-melted market roads, old service tunnels still sticky with sherbet residue.

They killed zombies until their arms ached.

They cleared roads until their boots split.

They escorted convoys, rescued trapped families, burned out nests, patched barriers, and dragged survivors from buildings that should have fallen days earlier.

And still, most of the nobles looked down on them.

In the Council papers, they were called a “useful provisional militia.”

In the noble salons, they were called worse.

Hybrid novelty. Umbranox’s pets. A temporary embarrassment with weapons.

No matter how many people they saved, the upper rings refused to take them seriously. They smiled behind fans, sniffed through speeches, and spoke of “containment success” as if the Knights were not the ones standing ankle-deep in candy gore making it possible.

Lady Umbranox, to her credit, made sure they were paid fairly for their service.

That caused a scandal all by itself.

Unfortunately, fair pay did not last long when the Egg Tree needed repairs, the radio tower needed parts, the fencing needed reinforcing, and half their gear had been either burned, chewed, melted, stolen, or exploded by Topsy under what she insisted were “experimental battlefield conditions.”

So the money came in.

Then immediately vanished.

Still, little by little, the work began to matter.

The zombie hordes thinned around the southern ridge. Trade carts started moving again under armed escort. The first crop teams returned to the outer growing fields, planting quick-root vegetables under mana lamps and hoping the soil had not been too badly poisoned. Shopfronts reopened with boarded windows. Street vendors returned with nervous smiles. Children began appearing outside again, never far from doorways, but laughing all the same.

Peace did not return all at once.

It crept back.

Cautious.

Bruised.

But real.

The Council tried, on occasion, to launch direct assaults against the larger threats — the Dragon, Gumball, and whatever other candy-warped horrors still ruled parts of the ruined districts.

Each attempt ended quickly.

Painfully.

Usually with expensive machinery thrown through buildings.

After three failed strikes, two shattered power suits, and one humiliating incident involving a noble commander being glued to a clocktower by molten caramel, the Council stopped trying.

The official report called it “strategic reassessment.”

Mezzo called it “getting their fancy backsides handed to them with sprinkles.”

The next few days bled together in a haze of hammer strikes, humming generators, and unrelenting heat.

The Knights of Clawdiff had turned the clearing around the Egg Tree into a proper worksite—half-built radio tower gleaming against a white sky that felt more like fire than light.

“Stars above,” Mezzo groaned, fanning himself with a clipboard, “I didn’t survive prison and zombies just to melt to death.”

Arcade was sprawled under the tower’s shade with a cable spool as a pillow. “If one more person asks me to lift something, I’m rerouting the leyline into a fan.”

“Do that,” Ray muttered, “and I’ll marry you.”

Bonbon had turned a bucket of water into her personal pool while Lumina fanned her shield like a parasol. Even Hughes had abandoned his usual stoic posture, coat slung over one shoulder as he grumbled, “This isn’t weather—it’s punishment.”

Then, from the distance, came the sputtering whirr of a hover van.
Everyone paused.

The vehicle descended crookedly into the clearing, bumping the ground once before settling with a loud thunk. The door swung open and—
Bartleby Fairfax , The professional disaster in a waistcoat, tumbled out in a heap of papers and exhaustion.

Plum let out an unrestrained snort of laughter. “Oh stars, he fell out again.”

Bartleby struggled upright, fanning himself with a sheaf of documents. “It’s—it’s far too hot for professionalism,” he panted. “And this blasted vehicle’s air conditioning was sabotaged by gremlins, I’m certain of it!”

Mezzo smirked. “You’re just not used to sunlight, mate. Now—what’s the Council want this time?”

“Ah! Right! You have—ah—several assignments to fulfil!” Bartleby blinked, trying to remember his own purpose. “Firstly—recovery of stolen Council weapons, very top-priority, frightfully dangerous hands! Secondly—escort duty for a southern district convoy. And third—assisting in reopening the mythic supply vaults. The Council requires all of these to begin, erm… within the week!”

Mezzo wiped sweat from his brow. “Mate, it’s too hot to think, let alone fight. We’ll schedule our apocalypse when the air stops cooking us, alright?”

Bartleby blinked, then sagged in defeat. “Yes—yes, quite reasonable. Perfectly logical. I shall, ah, inform the bureaucracy that you are temporarily… simmering.”

Meanwhile, Topsy was rummaging through supply crates with increasing frustration. “Ugh! No candy! No gumdrops! No caramel! How is a girl supposed to be a knight without any powers?”

Arcade raised an eyebrow from his spot under the tower. “We’re finding some. You’ll have to wait.”

“But i need my powers!” Topsy cried, clutching her tail dramatically. “Without powers, I’m just… a slightly sticky mortal with glitter-based optimism!”

Lumina giggled. “You’re still sparkly enough to blind a dragon.”

But Topsy wasn’t listening. She paced, thinking hard—then snapped her fingers. “That’s it! I’ll find some!”

Celeste blinked. “Wait—Topsy, you’re not going out there, are you? It’s terribly hot and—um—everything’s on fire.”

“Exactly!” Topsy declared, striking a heroic pose. “Perfect adventure weather! To the city! Or the ruins! Or the nearest corner shop that still exists! I’ll be quick, promise!”

Hughes groaned. “You’ll roast before you reach the next block.”

Topsy waved cheerfully, already bouncing toward the path. “Nonsense! I thrive in chaos and mild heatstroke! Back soon—don’t miss me too much!”

The team watched her vanish into the heat shimmer.

Mezzo squinted after her. “...She’s actually doing it.”

Hughes sighed, tugging his hat lower. “That squirrel’s mad.”

Arcade smirked. “Yeah. But if anyone can find candy in a wasteland, it’s her.”

Mezzo sighed, dragging a paw down his face. “Five quid says she brings back a haunted vending machine.”

Ray muttered, “Ten says it explodes.”

Celeste rubbed the bridge of her nose, ears flattening. “Stars help me… she’s going to, isn’t she?”

Arcade grinned. “Definitely.”

Celeste smiled faintly, brushing sweat from her cheek. “Let’s just hope she finds her way back before she finds trouble.”

Bonbon, floating lazily in her bucket. 

Lumina muttered, “Or before trouble finds her.”

As the Knights of Clawdiff finished bolting the last steel panel onto the radio tower, the air shimmered with heat so thick it felt drinkable. Sweat clung to fur, tools slipped from paws, and tempers wilted faster than the flowers around the Egg Tree’s roots.

Skye, Mezzo, and Bonbon had given up pretending to be productive, sitting under a patch of shade with melting ice lollies in paw. Bonbon’s muzzle was already sticky with syrup.

“Mango fy un i,” she mumbled proudly.

Skye grinned, his tongue blue. “Mine was mango. Now it’s soup.”

Mezzo squinted at his own. “Pretty sure this one was strawberry… or despair. Hard to tell anymore.”

From behind them, Carys approached with a small basket and a sweet smile. “Here, darling,” she said softly, offering Celeste a half-melted strawberry lolly. “Made them yesterday—though I can’t promise they’ll survive another hour.”

Celeste accepted it gratefully, the cold instantly numbing her fingers. “Thank you, Carys. You’re an angel.”

Carys gave a soft laugh, brushing a curl from her face. “I’m just relieved you’re alright, honestly. You’re my favourite person here, you know that?”

Celeste blinked, the compliment catching her off guard. A faint pink crept into her cheeks. “That’s… really nice of you to say.”

Carys smiled, resting a hand gently on Celeste’s shoulder. “You deserve it, Commander. Oh—and Topsy seems like she’d be good company for you. Maybe you could make something together. You did finish that mug for Ray’s birthday, didn’t you?”

Celeste perked up, tail flicking sheepishly. “Almost! I just need to glaze it. I want it to sparkle like her hammer.”

Carys chuckled. “That’s very ‘you’ of you.”

Nearby, the others were sprawled out in various stages of sun-induced despair.

“Zombies are thinning out around the southern ridge,” Arcade reported, shrugging off his jacket. “Might be clear for another week or so—assuming the next horde hasn’t unionized.”

Mezzo flopped dramatically onto the couch under the Egg Tree. “And it’s bloody melting out there. I swear I saw a bugpigeon burst into flames! It’s too hot. Like, oven-with-no-escape hot. I am a confection, not a casserole.”

Bonbon, pouting under her candy-striped sunhat, nodded solemnly. “Rhy boeth,” she muttered. (“Too hot.”)

Arcade, half-tuned to a floating holoscreen, flicked it off with a groan. “The Council’s report isn’t due until next week. We’ve got time.”

There was a pause—then Skye, still half-melting, said, “Why don’t we just… take a day off?”

Mezzo sat up instantly. “You mean not getting chased, shot at, or roasted alive? I like this plan already.”

Bonbon gasped, eyes shining. “Beach!”

Celeste blinked, caught mid-bite of her melting lolly. “The beach?”

Arcade nodded. “We’ve cleared it on Dawnsveil—no activity in days. We could take the van, set up camp. Just for a day. Clear our heads before walking into… whatever that is.” He gestured toward the gleaming invitation to the mythic trials tacked to the wall.

The tension in the air melted a little—like the ice lollies in their paws.

“A little sun might do us good,” Pitch admitted, a rare smirk tugging at his muzzle.

Ray rolled her eyes, slinging her hammer over her shoulder. “Fine. But I’m not touching the water unless it’s to drown Mezzo for flipping the floaties again.”

Mezzo gasped dramatically. “It was one time!”

Celeste blinked, her ears perking up. “Wait—when did you go swimming?”

Ray turned to her, shrugging like it was no big deal. “A couple of days ago. We went down to the river. Topsy found some floaties lying around, and, well, I figured I deserved a break.”

Mezzo snorted, pointing a paw at her. “You figured you deserved a nap in the river, you mean. I just—uh—might’ve helped you roll off the floatie a little faster than expected.”

Ray narrowed her eyes. “You flipped me.”

“Details,” Mezzo said with a grin.

Celeste crossed her arms, mock-offended. “And no one told me?”

“In our defence,” Mezzo said quickly, holding up both paws, “you were on patrol with Pitch at the time.”

Celeste gave an exaggerated sigh, tail drooping. “Everyone does fun things when I’m not around.”

Carys patted her shoulder consolingly, voice warm and teasing. “There, there, darling. Tomorrow, I’m sure we can find a delightful floaty just for you.”

Celeste brightened instantly, clasping her hands together. “I want one shaped like a donut, please!”

“Stars help us all,” Hughes muttered under his breath, trying not to smile.

Hughes stretched, wiping sweat from his brow and looking toward the blazing horizon. “You lot go on ahead,” he said, leaning on his crook. “I’ll probably stay and wait for Topsy to get back—just in case she actually finds candy and brings the whole bleeding apocalypse home with her.”

Mezzo chuckled. “A noble sacrifice, mate. We’ll build you a statue if she blows up the park.”

Nearby, Bracer was half-buried under a tangle of wires, teeth clamped around a screwdriver. “Aye, well, someone’s gotta finish hooking up this side of the tower. I’ll stay too. No point in running off when the job’s half-done.” He grunted, twisting a cable into place with a spark. “Besides, I can’t leave Hughes alone. He’d fall asleep and miss her arrival.”

Hughes huffed. “One time, Bracer. One time.”

Overhead, a gust of wind announced the arrival of Kirrin, the gryphon swooping down in a glittering blur of feathers and attitude, a crate of supplies clutched in her talons. She landed hard, setting the box down with a thud.
“I’m goin’ too,” she declared, her thick Scottish accent cutting through the air. “Jeepers, in this heat I’ll melt faster than chocolate on a dragon’s back.”

“Cheerful as always,” Mezzo muttered with a grin.

Plum, adjusting a panel on the tower, wiped her paws on her jumpsuit. “I’m coming too. I need to report on the coastal readings once the radio’s up. The bay region’s been unstable since the pulse, and—” she squinted at the sparking circuits “—at this rate, we’ll have signal by sundown.”

Kirrin groaned, fluffing her wings. “About time! All this runnin’ between Clawdiff an’ Rustrows is doin’ me in.”

Then she straightened suddenly, eyes flicking toward Celeste. “Oh—speakin’ of Rustrows,” she said, her tone shifting to something a bit more serious. “It’s time for your trial, lass.”

Celeste blinked. “Our what now?”

Kirrin smirked. “Elders sent word. You’re due in Rustrows. It’s a Mythic thing—training, purification, all that sparkly nonsense. Bit of chantin’, bit o’ glowy water, maybe a vision or two if you’re lucky. Tests if your mana’s balanced—or if you’ll blow a hole clean through the floor.”

Arcade, sitting cross-legged beside CHIP, groaned aloud. “Great. More hippy chanting and smoke circles.”

Kirrin flicked her tail at him. “It’s not chanting, it’s spiritual focus—and it’s your trial, tech-brain. You’ll see when we get there. It’s the Mythic version of training. Lots o’ staring into glowing water and trying not to fall asleep.”

Mezzo leaned back with a grin. “So... spa day, then?”

Kirrin shot him a look. “You’ll wish it was.”

The laughter that followed rolled through the clearing, easy and unguarded. For a brief, precious moment, the heat, the worry, and the weight of Clawdiff’s chaos all fell away.

Celeste laughed softly, glancing toward the distant horizon. The heat, the laughter, even the faint hum of the leyline—it all felt… normal.

For once.

The council. The plague. The endless weight of Clawdiff’s ruin—it would all still be there tomorrow.

Maybe, for one day, they could just be.