As the others started gathering towels, blankets, snacks, and whatever counted as “beach equipment” in a zombie apocalypse, the clearing around the Egg Tree filled with the kind of excited chaos that usually meant someone was about to forget something important.

Bonbon tried to pack her bucket.

Lumina packed three sunhats and no shoes.

Mezzo insisted a guitar counted as an emergency survival tool.

Arcade was loudly arguing that if they had to relax, they should at least do it efficiently.

Then a shadow passed over the clearing.

Everyone froze.

The air shifted with the soft rustle of paper wings.

A familiar shape descended between the sugar-blossom branches — huge, white, and impossibly delicate-looking for something so massive. A dragon made of folded paper candy and sugared scales drifted down toward the ground, her wings creasing and flexing like parchment in the sun.

Marzipan landed gently near the Knights, claws barely denting the grass.

Bartleby Fairfax, who had been consulting a list of “acceptable beach conduct,” made a strangled noise and immediately drew his gun.

Kirrin reacted at the same time. Electric mana snapped around her paws, feathers lifting sharply as she dropped into a ready stance.

“Hold!” Celeste cried, darting in front of them with both paws raised. “It’s okay! It’s okay — Marzipan’s friendly!”

Kirrin stared at her as if she had just announced the sun was made of soup.

“In what world,” she demanded in her thick Scottish accent, “are ye casually friends with a giant zombie dragon?”

“A paper candy zombie dragon,” Mezzo corrected.

“That doesnae improve it!”

Bartleby adjusted his glasses with one trembling hand, still aiming his gun with the other. “My dear girl, the Council has been fighting creatures like this for weeks! The generals, the hordes, the monstrosities in the streets — and you’re telling me you’ve made friends with one?”

Celeste nodded earnestly. “Well… yes. But Marzipan wants to fight the zombies too. She’s been helping us. She also makes these capsules that help us.”

Marzipan lowered her enormous head to the ground, clearly trying to look less threatening.

Then she purred.

The sound was deep, rattling, and strange — but unmistakably happy.

Bartleby blinked. His gun lowered slightly.

“Well,” he said carefully, “that is… unexpectedly charming.”

Kirrin, however, kept her mana crackling. “The elders willnae like this. Not one wee bit.”

Marzipan tilted her head.

Then, with painstaking gentleness, she reached forward with one great clawed paw, scooped Kirrin up under the arms, and lifted her.

Kirrin let out a deeply undignified squawk.

“Oi! Put me down, ye oversized paper pastry!”

Instead, Marzipan placed her carefully onto her broad back, between two folded ridges of sugared scales, and settled low to the ground so Kirrin could climb off whenever she wanted.

She did not.

Because the moment Kirrin landed there, her expression changed.

Marzipan was warm.

Very warm.

Soft heat rose through her paper-candy hide like a living blanket.

Kirrin’s electric mana flickered out.

She blinked.

Then, very slowly, she sank against Marzipan’s back with the betrayed expression of someone whose principles had just been defeated by comfort.

“Oh, for the love of—” Kirrin muttered, one paw sinking into the warm sugared scales. “Ye are disgustingly cosy.”

Marzipan gave a pleased rumble.

The entire clearing stared.

Mezzo pointed. “So… are we still terrified, or is this cuddling now?”

Kirrin shot him a look from Marzipan’s back. “I’m half cat. How in blazes am I meant to ignore something this warm?”

Ray folded her arms. “You were about to fry her ten seconds ago.”

“Aye, well, circumstances changed.”

Marzipan made a soft, rattling laugh.

Celeste relaxed, smiling. “See? Friendly.”

Bartleby tucked his gun away at last, though he still looked like his soul had stepped briefly outside his body to review the paperwork.

“I can see she doesn’t appear dangerous,” he said. “At least not immediately. Though Lady Umbranox may want to know about this.”

Arcade shrugged. “She probably already does.”

Bartleby paused.

Then sighed. “Yes. Yes, that does sound like her.”

Celeste turned back to Marzipan, hands on her hips. “Where have you been?”

Marzipan lifted one shoulder in a huge, exaggerated shrug.

Celeste narrowed her eyes. “That is not an answer.”

Marzipan coughed.

A capsule popped out onto the grass with a soft plop.

Arcade perked up instantly. “For me?”

Marzipan nodded, then pointed toward the growing pile of beach supplies — towels, bags, floaties, cooler boxes, and Bonbon’s suspiciously overpacked bucket.

Arcade picked up the capsule and inspected it. “Oh. I’m guessing this is for the beach?”

Marzipan nodded again.

Celeste tilted her head. “Do you want to come with us?”

Marzipan shrugged.

Celeste sighed. “You are as indecisive as a teenager sometimes.”

Marzipan’s tail flicked.

Celeste yelped as it swept her legs out from under her and knocked her neatly onto the grass.

The dragon laughed again.

Mezzo burst out cackling. “She’s got your number, Cece.”

Celeste sat up, cheeks pink. “I take it back. She’s evil.”

Kirrin, still sprawled comfortably on Marzipan’s back, scratched lazily at the dragon’s warm scales. “If she’s evil, she’s evil with excellent temperature control.”

Plum, carrying a stack of towels, stared up at Kirrin. “Are you coming to the beach, or are you moving in?”

Kirrin’s eyes had drifted halfway closed.

“Ask me again in five minutes.”

The Knights laughed as Marzipan purred beneath her, warm and huge and strange beneath the sugar-blossom branches of the Egg Tree.

Bartleby cleared his throat, still glancing between Marzipan, Kirrin, and the growing pile of suspiciously beach-shaped supplies.

“Well,” he said, tugging his waistcoat straight with what little dignity the heat allowed him, “as this situation has become… unexpectedly dragon-adjacent, I should probably request formal approval before everyone wanders off toward the coast and accidentally starts an international incident.”

Arcade looked up from the capsule Marzipan had given him. “That’s very specific.”

“I work for the Council,” Bartleby said. “Specific disasters are my speciality.”

He lifted his Arcbracer, tapped through three wrong menus, muttered something unflattering about interface updates, then finally opened a secure call.

A shimmer of golden light flickered above his wrist.

Lady Umbranox appeared in miniature, her face framed by the projection. She looked composed, elegant, and absolutely furious at the temperature. One clawed hand moved a black lace fan with slow, murderous rhythm.

“Lord Fairfax,” she said. “This had better not be another request for hazard pay.”

“No, my Lady! Well — not immediately.” Bartleby adjusted his glasses. “I am calling to request approval for an investigative mission to the Baruc Island coast. The Knights have expressed an interest in surveying the area, and given recent coastal instability, I thought it prudent to—”

“Approved,” Umbranox said.

Bartleby blinked. “Oh. That was considerably easier than expected.”

“The zombies appear to be retreating from open streets because of the heat,” Umbranox said, fanning herself with increasing irritation. “So there is little useful work for the Knights today unless I wish to watch them collapse dramatically in alleys. Which, while briefly entertaining, would create paperwork.”

Mezzo whispered, “She does care.”

Ray elbowed him.

Umbranox continued, “However, ships have gone missing near Baruc Island. Small vessels at first. Then supply craft. Two patrol boats failed to report back yesterday.”

The clearing quieted slightly.

Celeste’s ears lifted. “Ships are going missing?”

Umbranox’s tiny projected eyes shifted toward her. “Yes, Commander Astallan. So I advise caution. Investigate the coast. Do not be foolish. Do not split up unnecessarily. Do not touch anything ancient, glowing, singing, sealed, chained, buried, cursed, or suspiciously convenient.”

Celeste winced. “That feels… very directed.”

“It is.”

Behind Bartleby, Bonbon waddled past with a bright inflatable ring shaped like a smiling sun.

Umbranox’s eyes narrowed.

“Lord Fairfax.”

Bartleby went still. “Yes, my Lady?”

“Is that a beach recreation toy?”

Bartleby turned very slowly.

Bonbon froze behind him, holding the floaty around her middle.

She blinked innocently.

Bartleby whipped back toward the projection. “No! No, no, my Lady, absolutely not. Some of the younger members of the Knights are merely being creative with heat-management resources. For morale.”

Umbranox did not look convinced.

Her fan snapped open a little harder.

“For morale,” she repeated.

“Yes, my Lady. Morale is terribly important in field operations. Sunstroke has a devastating effect on discipline.”

Bonbon chose that moment to drag another floaty past him, this one shaped like a giant pink shell.

Bartleby’s expression became the expression of a man spiritually leaving his own body.

Umbranox stared.

Behind Bartleby, Mezzo silently turned away, shoulders shaking.

Umbranox exhaled through her nose. “Very well. Investigate Baruc Island. Try not to become decorative corpses.”

“Of course, my Lady.”

“Commander Astallan.”

Celeste straightened. “Yes?”

“Good luck with your investigation. And do not get distracted from your mission.”

Celeste glanced at the pile of towels, coolers, floaties, and one giant zombie dragon currently being used as a heated chair by Kirrin.

“Of course,” she said, entirely unconvincingly.

Umbranox’s gaze slid back to Bartleby. “As for you, Lord Fairfax, return to the Council immediately.”

Bartleby’s face fell. “Immediately?”

“Yes. The courier guilds are trying to kill each other over emergency contract rights, three noble houses are claiming priority delivery privileges, and someone has submitted a formal complaint written entirely in threats and marmalade. The paperwork is intense.”

Bartleby made a small, wounded sound. “Ah. Yes. Naturally. The marmalade file.”

“I require your particular brand of miserable competence.”

“That is… kind, my Lady. In a way.”

Umbranox flicked her fan. “I am ending the call.”

Except she did not.

The projection remained hovering above Bartleby’s wrist.

Umbranox turned away from the visible frame and snapped at someone off-screen.

“No, not that fan, the other fan. The black one makes the heat look less insulting. Stars preserve me, this building is an oven with committee seating. I could kill for a pina colada.”

The Knights went very still.

Arcade’s mouth opened.

Ray slowly covered it with one hand.

Umbranox continued, apparently unaware. “And why is the Council swimming pool still not fixed? I have endured plague, treason, incompetence, and three separate speeches from Lord Veyr this week. I deserve chilled fruit and water deep enough to drown my patience.”

A servant murmured something inaudible.

“I do not care if the lower filtration rune has teeth now. Find someone expendable and polite.”

Bartleby’s eyes widened in horror.

“My Lady,” he whispered.

Umbranox turned.

For one perfect, terrible second, she stared directly through the projection.

Everyone stared back.

Her fan stopped moving.

“Lord Fairfax.”

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Forget what you saw.”

“Instantly, my Lady.”

Her eyes flicked toward the Knights.

“And heard.”

Mezzo made a strangled noise.

Celeste looked like she might apologise for witnessing it.

Umbranox’s expression sharpened into pure royal menace.

“All of you.”

Then the projection vanished.

For half a second, silence held.

Then the clearing erupted.

Mezzo doubled over laughing. “A pina colada!”

Ray turned away, shaking with silent laughter. “I’m dying.”

Arcade wiped at his eyes. “The filtration rune has teeth.”

Celeste pressed both hands to her mouth, horrified and giggling. “We weren’t meant to hear that.”

Kirrin, still sprawled against Marzipan’s warm back, wheezed, “I respect her more now.”

Bartleby closed his eyes. “I am going to be reassigned to a basement for this.”

“Probably with marmalade,” Pitch said.

Bartleby sighed with the deep sadness of a man who had just lost both a beach day and plausible deniability. “Well. I wish you all the very best of luck with your investigation.”

He turned toward his hover car, shoulders slumped.

Before he could climb in, Marzipan made a soft coughing sound.

Everyone paused.

A capsule popped from her mouth and rolled across the grass, stopping neatly by Bartleby’s shoe.

Bartleby blinked. “For me?”

Marzipan nodded.

Carefully, he picked it up and opened it.

Inside lay a quill.

It was elegant, silver-white, and impossibly smooth, with a tiny line of cool blue light running through the feather. Bartleby lifted it with reverence.

Arcade leaned over. “Huh. It’s enchanted.”

CHIP beeped. “Analysis: self-regulating ink reservoir. Leak-proof. Infinite ink capacity. Temperature-adaptive comfort field.”

Bartleby’s eyes grew wider with every word.

CHIP continued, “If the user is hot, it cools them. If the user is cold, it warms them. Designed to allow uninterrupted writing in hostile environments.”

Bartleby stared at the quill as if Marzipan had handed him a holy relic.

“I…” His voice softened. “That is possibly the most thoughtful gift I have ever received from a dragon.”

Marzipan chirped and dipped her head.

Bartleby bowed to her sincerely. “Thank you, Miss Marzipan.”

Marzipan gave a pleased little rumble.

Bartleby tucked the quill carefully inside his coat, climbed into his hover car, then paused with one hand on the door.

“Please do try not to die,” he called. “It would create a simply dreadful amount of paperwork.”

Mezzo saluted. “We’ll die in triplicate if we must.”

“Please don’t.”

The hover car lifted unsteadily into the hot air and sputtered away toward the city.

Kirrin patted Marzipan’s back, still making no effort to climb down. “Right then. Baruc Island coast, missing ships, possible sea monster, and a beach trip.”

Celeste smiled nervously. “That sounds… manageable?”

Pitch gave her a look. “Kitten, you know better than to say that out loud.”

Marzipan laughed in the strange, rattling way only a zombie dragon could.

And beneath the sugar-blossom branches of the Egg Tree, the Knights resumed packing for what was rapidly becoming much less of a day off.