Celeste dreamed.

Not the chaotic glitch-drenched voids or the pain-slick memories she’d come to expect — but a quiet dream. A beautiful one.

She stood in a vast field of swaying flowers, each bloom humming softly in the wind. Their petals shimmered like glass, like memory, like light folded in on itself.

Ahead of her, the alicorn stood, luminous as ever — fur of moonlight and wings of dusk. Its mane danced like a galaxy, and its hooves never touched the ground.

Without a word, the alicorn turned and walked.

Celeste followed.

Over a soft hill.

At its crest, thirty flowers stood in a wide circle, each one a different colour, no two alike. Crimson. Amber. Ivory. Lilac. Jade. Silver. Coral. Indigo. Gold. Rose. Colours spilled across the hilltop like a living crown.

They pulsed with strange energy.

But as Celeste watched, one flower shuddered.

Its stem blackened.

Its petals curled inward and fell.

Then another followed.

And another.

One by one, the flowers began to die.

Some withered quietly, folding into themselves as though going to sleep. Others sagged as if exhausted. One cracked down the middle with a dry little snap. Another dissolved into ash that blew away on the breeze. Their lights dimmed, then vanished, until the hill grew emptier and emptier.

Thirty became twenty-five.

Twenty-five became eighteen.

Eighteen became twelve.

And then, at last, only ten remained.

These ten were different.

They stood in a tighter circle, each distinct, each carrying its own strange life.

One burned gold, though its petals looked half-charred.

One was white and translucent, like moonlit glass.

One had red-veined petals that opened and closed like a beating heart.

One green bloom leaned low to the earth, roots twisting above the soil as though trying to crawl away.

One black flower shimmered with tiny points of light, like a patch of night sky.

One turquoise bud remained curled tightly shut, not yet bloomed, but trembling with promise.

One yellow flower, once bright, had bent and warped, its shape wrong somehow, as though sickness or sorrow had grown into its stem.

One pink flower had long, soft tendrils instead of ordinary leaves, and it wound itself protectively around the flower beside it.

That flower was blue.

It flickered in and out of existence, its edges blurring and breaking apart, glowing wildly, its stem trembling so hard it looked ready to tear itself free. Light pulsed through it in frantic bursts, too bright, too unstable.

And then there was the purple one.

Wild. Thorned. Violent.

It thrashed against the air as though trying to escape some invisible restraint, petals lashing, stem twisting, its glow surging in sharp bursts. It looked furious. Afraid. Untamed.

The alicorn stepped delicately between the surviving flowers.

It touched the yellow flower gently.

Then the turquoise.

Then the white.

But its attention shifted when the blue flower gave a sudden, violent flare.

At once, the pink flower tightened around it, curling itself closer as though trying to shield it, to hold it together.

The blue flower only glowed more wildly.

The light became almost blinding.

Then, for the first time, the alicorn moved quickly.

It wrapped both hands around the blue flower, careful but firm, bowing its head as the light shivered against its palms.

And softly, in Welsh, it said,

“Wrth y goleuni safwn.”

By the light, we stand.

The blue flower trembled.

Its wild glow flickered once—

twice—

then slowly began to settle.

The trembling eased.

The light softened.

And little by little, it calmed.

The pink flower loosened, though it did not let go.

The alicorn remained there a moment longer, hands still around the bloom, as though making sure it would hold.

Only then did it rise.

And still—

it did not touch the purple one.

Never the purple.

And then the alicorn looked at her. Not with judgment, not with fear — but with knowing.

And just like that… she woke up.

tap tap tap

Celeste’s eyes fluttered open.

Her body ached. Her mind felt cotton-filled. She tried to move, and every joint groaned like rusted gears.

tap tap tap

She knew that sound.

The same rhythmic tapping she'd heard when she was trapped at the convention — when she thought she'd never be found. That helpless, maddening noise… until Bonbon had come.

She blinked again.

This time, the fog cleared just enough to see the shape on the other side of the glass.

Small. Round. Excited.

Bonbon.

She was wearing a paper crown made from blueprint scraps and wielded a stick of celery like a wand. Her smile lit up the entire observation room.

“C’lest!” she whispered through the barrier. “Deffro! Toast time!”

Celeste sat up, groaning. Her back flared where the microchip had been pushed back in. Her skin, bandaged and raw, still pulsed faintly with fading runes.

“I… what…” Her voice cracked like stone.

Bonbon tilted her head, tapping again with both hands now.

“Mae'n rhaid i chi helpu! Mae Mezzo yn gwneud tost ac mae'r cyfan yn feddal ac yn anghywir! Mae tost i fod yn grimp! Ac fel glöynnod byw!”

Celeste blinked. The absurdity of the words didn’t quite register at first.

Butterfly toast?

Mezzo… making food?

Mezzo hated kids.

This had to be another dream.

She pinched her arm hard.

It hurt.

Her breath hitched.

She looked around at the sterile walls. The glass walls. The faint hum of containment magic. The bandages.

This wasn’t a dream.

Something had happened.

Something bad.

Celeste slowly swung her legs off the cot, her hands trembling as she leaned forward. Bonbon giggled and waved her celery wand again.

“C’mon! Let’s fly toast together!”

Celeste swallowed.

Her throat was dry. Her eyes burned.

But somehow, Bonbon’s smile made the weight on her chest feel a little lighter — even if it still pressed in from every side.

She reached out, fingers brushing the glass.

“...Bonbon,” she rasped, “what did I do?”

Bonbon blinked.

And for the first time, her smile softened — not confused, but quiet. Like maybe, somehow, she remembered too.

The smell of burnt syrup and scorched batter filled the base kitchen.

Celeste leaned further, trying to rise.

Her legs wobbled like jelly.

She stumbled forward—

—tripped on a trailing blanket—

—and slammed face-first into the glass.

CRACK!

The magic shimmered like water.

Then shattered.

A ripple passed through the ward seal. The reinforced barrier flickered and dissolved in a flash of dim light, the arcane glyphs hissing and vanishing mid-air.

Celeste blinked, dazed, clutching her forehead.

“Ow…”

Celeste stared at the now-broken glass, blinking in disbelief.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” she muttered.

Bonbon reached up, gently tugging her sleeve.

“Okay?”

Celeste nodded numbly. “I… I think so.”

Her stomach growled violently.

Bonbon’s ears perked. “Ooooh. Toast!”

Celeste, dazed, confused, and still sore, followed Bonbon out into the hall.

She didn’t know what was going on.

She didn’t know why she was walking.

But…

She was hungry.

And she didn’t want to be alone.

Celeste followed Bonbon through the winding halls of the base, blinking against the artificial lights. Everything looked... different. Upgraded. The faint hum of security cameras buzzed overhead—Arcade’s handiwork, no doubt.

She glanced down at her arms, still wrapped in bandages. What had happened?

The last thing she remembered clearly was Saff.

The pain.

Her rune being torn free.

Then only visions—Clawdiff ablaze, an ancient ruin crumbling into smoke, voices echoing in languages she couldn’t place.

The smell of burnt syrup and scorched batter dragged her back to the present.

Mezzo, sleeves rolled up, stood before an absurdly tall tower of pancakes, nearly a metre high, stacked with worrying structural integrity. He was humming a tune that suspiciously resembled ’90s techno, trying to balance a whipped cream canister on top like a cherry.

Behind him, the door slid open with a faint hiss.

“Rydych chi'n ei wneud yn anghywir,” came a soft voice.

Mezzo spun around, grinning. “Bonbon, I told you no—”

He froze.

The whipped cream canister fell in slow motion.

There stood Celeste, weak but standing, wrapped in an oversized hoodie, her hair still frizzy from sleep, bandages peeking out beneath her sleeves. Beside her was Bonbon, holding a glittery stick with a plastic lollipop taped to the end, blowing bubbles into the air with glee.

“HOW DID SHE GET OUT?!” Mezzo shrieked, diving behind the kitchen island like she was a bomb about to go off.

Celeste blinked, rubbing her head sheepishly.

“Um… oh. The cage thing? I—I sort of tripped into it and… broke it? Sorry.”

“With WHAT, your eyes?!” Mezzo yelped. “That ward could tank a mana nuke! I’m lodging a formal complaint with Arcade immediately.”

Bonbon giggled and waved her wand. “Roedd hi'n drist, felly gwnes i swigod!”

A pop echoed as a large one drifted across the ceiling and popped against the pancake tower, dislodging a flapjack near the top.

At that moment, Pitch and Ray burst into the room, arms full of scavenged supplies.

They froze.

Ray’s bag slid from her shoulder with a thud, scattering canned beans across the floor.

Pitch’s hand instinctively summoned his shotgun. His stance rigid, his eyes locked on Celeste.

“...Hell no. You’re not supposed to be up yet.”

Celeste raised her hands in mock surrender. “Surprise?”

Ray’s voice was quieter, unsure. “We… weren’t ready for this. You should still be resting.”

From the hallway, a loud crash sounded.

“OH COME ON!” came Arcade’s voice, followed by the splintering of ceramic.

“OH, FOR—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Arcade stormed in, holding the shattered handle of his mug. “That was a limited edition—imported ceramic, mind you! And I just wasted my last good roast because of—”

His eyes met Celeste.

He stopped talking.

No one said anything for a long, awkward moment.

Only the faint hiss of syrup burning on the stovetop filled the silence… and the pop-pop-pop of Bonbon’s cheerful bubbles floating in oblivious rebellion against the tension.

Finally, Mezzo peeked up from behind the island.

“...We should really talk about this,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Celeste agreed, brushing a hand through her hair and meeting Pitch’s guarded eyes. “We really should.”

Celeste took a shaky step forward—then another. Her legs felt like pudding.

As she reached out to steady herself, her hand brushed Pitch’s arm. Instinctively, he flinched.

Her face fell.

“I… are you afraid of me?” she asked quietly, guilt thick in her voice.

Pitch sighed, jaw tight but not unkind. “Little bit, kitten. Last time fried my rune like a cheap circuit board. So yeah—call it healthy paranoia.” He forced a crooked grin. “Don’t take it personal.”

Celeste nodded slowly, adjusting the wonky glasses sliding down her nose.

“So… what I did… it must have been really bad.”

Arcade leaned against the doorway, mug handle still dangling from his fingers. “Bad? Oh, only catastrophically catastrophic. Lucky the Council didn’t come knocking—because they saw the whole show. We just got there first.”

Before Celeste could even process that, two blurs darted in from the corridor.

“CELESTE!”

Lumina and Skye.

Lumina launched herself forward, tackling her sister in a tight, unexpected hug.

Celeste stumbled slightly under the impact, arms flailing.

“Whoa—Lumina?!”

Lumina buried her face in Celeste’s hoodie. “You better now? Say you’re better! Please say it!”

Celeste froze—then softened, gently hugging back. “Oh, um… mostly? My head’s like… porridge, but less tasty? But that’s… that’s an improvement, right?”

Skye lingered nearby, her eyes red-rimmed but calm, watching Celeste like she wasn’t sure this wasn’t just another dream.

Celeste pulled back a little, looking between them all, clearly overwhelmed.

“C-could someone… maybe… tell me what I did?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Ray crossed her arms, jerking her chin toward the other room.

“Come on,” she said, voice softer than usual. “Let’s take this to the cookie table.”

Celeste blinked. “The what?”

Ray was already walking. “Meeting table got renamed. You’ll see why. C’mon. This talk’s gonna hurt.”