The next day, the air was clear, the scent of mana solder and dew mixing on the breeze.

Mezzo dragged Celeste toward the half-built fence at the edge of the camp, one arm casually around her shoulders. “C’mon, Princess Pout. If you’re gonna mope, may as well do it while holding a hammer.”

Arcade was already waiting with a tablet and a bag of glowing fence nodes slung over his shoulder. He gave her a small nod. “We’ve got shielding to install. Ray fries anything bigger than a bugsquirrel, and the zombies are getting creative.”

Celeste blinked. She had expected tension. Avoidance. Maybe even a growl. But Arcade didn’t flinch. He didn’t even step back when her tail brushed his ankle.

Further up, Hughes and Bracer worked on reinforcing the watchtower scaffolding while Plum Clippings, perched on an ammo crate like a royal gremlin, barked orders and waved blueprints wildly over her head.

Even the kids were chipping in — lugging crates, dragging tools, and ferrying supplies in tiny convoys with makeshift wheelbarrows.

Mezzo passed Celeste a spanner and winked. “You’re in charge of making the screws regret existing.”

She laughed softly — surprised it came out real.

And slowly, like thawing frost, the weight eased.

Arcade passed her a mana cell without a word.

Mezzo and Celeste bickered over whose side was more crooked.

Eventually, even Pitch showed up — dragging a chainsaw along like it owed him money — and began bolting panels with his usual grim silence.

Then Ray.

She didn’t say a word. Just joined them, arms crossed, stance guarded — but present.

Celeste felt her throat tighten. It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it was something.

And then Mezzo, with all the subtlety of a thunderclap, produced a battered music player from his pack. He cranked the volume and launched into the worst, most exaggerated dance moves Celeste had ever seen — hips swaying, arms flailing, eyebrows working overtime like he was auditioning for some long-forgotten comedy musical.

Celeste snorted, then burst out laughing, the sound startling even her. One by one, the others joined in — Arcade with a stiff head-bob that looked like he was buffering, Hughes doing a half-hearted shuffle while muttering about “maintaining tempo,” and even Ray, who rolled her eyes but let herself get dragged into a sharp, stomping rhythm.

Plum, trapped in her box of blueprints, threw her voice into the chorus, belting tunelessly over the beat like the world’s angriest jukebox.

“What kind of music should we have on the radio, then?” Celeste called over the noise, her cheeks aching from smiling.

“Anything with a guitar is fine for me!” Mezzo whooped, twirling his hammer like a mic stand.

When he finally set the player down, wiping his brow in mock drama, the fence was taller and sturdier than before — woven together not just with steel and mana, but laughter.

“There we go!” Mezzo declared. “One world-saving fence to keep out all the zombie riffraff. Truly, our greatest work.”

Ray didn’t even glance up from tightening her gauntlets. “If this falls over in the wind, I’m blaming you.”

Mezzo gasped. “I am wounded. Wounded, I say.”

“You’ll live,” Ray said.

The others drifted back into their tasks, the laughter fading into the steady clink of tools and the buzz of mana nodes locking into place.

Celeste knelt near the lower fence rail, trying to hammer a bent bracket into position. The first strike missed. The second barely caught the edge. The third made the bracket spring sideways and smack her knuckles.

“Ow,” she hissed, shaking her hand.

A shadow fell beside her.

Ray crouched down without a word, picking up another hammer from the grass. For a moment, Celeste stiffened.

Ray didn’t look at her.

She only lined up the bracket and said, “You’re hitting it like it insulted your ancestors.”

Celeste blinked. “It might have.”

Ray’s mouth twitched.

Not quite a smile.

Almost.

They worked side by side after that, both pretending very hard that it was only about the fence.

Ray held the bracket steady while Celeste hammered. Celeste passed her screws before she had to ask. Ray tightened the left side. Celeste fixed the mana wire before it sparked against Ray’s glove. Their movements were awkward at first, careful and uncertain, like two people stepping around broken glass.

But slowly, the rhythm found them.

Tap.

Twist.

Hold.

Tighten.

Ray reached for a node just as Celeste offered it. Their hands brushed.

Both of them froze.

Then Ray gave a small, awkward smile.

Celeste returned it, shy and nervous, but real.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything.

The fence hummed softly between them.

Ray looked down at the hammer in her hands, turning it once. “Celeste…”

Celeste glanced at her.

Ray swallowed. Her ears angled back, her usual sharpness slipping into something rawer. “About the other day. I—”

The whirring shriek of thrusters shattered the moment.

BOOM.

A sleek, armoured van burst through the clouds, light blazing from its underslung engines. It hovered, casting long shadows over the camp as laser muskets snapped forward, aimed directly at the crew.

Council soldiers in gleaming black and crimson armour dropped like ironclad angels, fanning out with militant precision. The symbol of the Royal Council of Clawdiff — the all-seeing eye — glowed from their breastplates.

A broad, gold-trimmed bear in command gear stepped forward, voice like a gavel.

“We are the Royal Council. The Matron of Sight has issued a warrant for one Astallan.”

Celeste froze mid-movement, a bolt in one hand. Her ears twitched. Her tail stiffened.

Her name echoed like a gunshot.

Ray moved forward on instinct, hands halfway raised. “What’s this about?”

Pitch, calm and clipped, put a hand up. “If this is a—misunderstanding, we don’t need—”

CRACK.

Two stun bolts fired before he could finish.

Both Ray and Pitch dropped to their knees, twitching in place, eyes rolling back.

“Speak when you’re spoken to, mutts,” the commander growled, reholstering his weapon with zero remorse.

A tall gazelle Pureblood in Council armour stepped forward, adjusting a crystalline monocle. She began scanning the backs of each rebel’s neck — reading the rune signatures embedded in their ID chips.

She pointed sharply at Pitch.

“Mr. Blak. Violation of probation — leaving containment without Council escort.”

Pitch hissed, trying to sit up. “I was the bloody escort.”

The gazelle ignored him, moving on. She held her scanner near Ray’s neck, letting it ping.

“You, Miss Tanllwyth, have an open warrant.”

Ray’s jaw dropped. “For what?!”

The gazelle flipped a holographic screen.

“Abandonment of registered corporate property.”

Ray’s face turned storm-red. “You’re kidding — my Comic-Con booth?! I left it ’cause the world exploded!”

The gazelle’s tone didn’t budge.

“You know the rules of work, hybrid. Property unclosed is property forfeited. Your work license was tethered to that stall.”

Celeste stepped forward, fists clenched, voice thin with disbelief. “You’re taking people over a Comic-Con stall? This is insane—”

Arcade growled under his breath, pushing his glasses up. “They are serious. And they’re just getting started.”

The soldiers turned, training their rifles on Celeste.

“Miss Astallan, you are hereby detained for questioning under Clause Seventeen of the Royal Accord — conspiracy, illegal mana manifestation, and evasion of authorized containment.”

Her heart thundered in her chest.

Behind her, the kids had stopped moving. Even Bonbon dropped her plushie. They ran to Hughes.

Mezzo shoved himself forward. “You’re not taking her,” he snarled, trying to look bolder than he felt.

The commander raised a paw — and half a dozen rifles lit up with stun bursts aimed at Mezzo’s chest.

Ray looked to Pitch.

Pitch looked to Arcade.

Arcade whispered, “Stars help us.”

Mezzo looked like he was sweating. His eyes darted left, toward the treeline.

Just one dash.

Just one opening.

He shifted his weight, ready to bolt—

“Mr. Swift.”

The gazelle’s scanner snapped up. “You also abandoned your registered post as security liaison at the Clawdiff Convention Centre.”

Mezzo paled. “Oh come on — that’s not even—!”

Before he could finish, the gazelle turned to Arcade.

“And you, Mr. Davies. Unauthorized possession of Council-level restricted tech. Specifically… an Arcbracer.”

Arcade’s fingers flew across his bracer. One flick, one swipe — data packets launched, whizzing away to encrypted relays.

Beep.

Deleted.

“Oops,” he muttered.

A soldier cracked him across the back of the skull.

“That was a mistake.”

Arcade slumped, dazed, but smirked. “Yeah, well — add it to the list.”

Then the commander’s gaze shifted.

Not to another Hybrid.

To Plum.

Then Hughes.

Then Bracer.

Then Carys.

His lip curled.

“Purebloods,” he said, the word thick with disgust. “Fallen so low you need to live with Hybrids now?”

Plum went very still on her ammo crate, blueprints clutched tight in both hands.

Bracer straightened, expression locked behind discipline.

Hughes stepped half in front of the children without seeming to move at all.

Carys shrank behind him.

The commander continued, voice carrying across the yard. “You were told to report to the safe zone. All uninfected Pureblood citizens were instructed to relocate under Council protection. So why are you here?”

No one answered.

The gazelle adjusted her monocle again, scanner chiming as she brought up another file.

“Plum Clippings,” she read. “Denied entry to Safe Zone Three following public nuisance classification, insubordinate mechanical conduct, and improper use of emergency infrastructure.”

Plum bristled. “Improper? I fixed their door!”

“You rewired the checkpoint gate to call the commander a boiled cabbage every time it opened.”

“It improved morale.”

The gazelle ignored her and turned the screen toward Bracer.

“Bracer. Denied entry under combat-risk classification. Prior disciplinary flags. Repeated refusal to surrender weaponry. Unapproved defence activity.”

Bracer’s jaw clenched. “I was defending evacuees.”

“Without Council authorization,” the gazelle replied.

Then her gaze landed on Carys.

“And Carys Gobaith. Denied entry for destruction of sewage infrastructure beneath the east evacuation route.”

Carys went pale.

Her voice came out so small it barely existed. “But… we were trapped. That’s not fair.”

The gazelle’s head tilted. “Repeat that.”

Carys froze.

The whole yard seemed to hold its breath.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

The gazelle stared down at her. “I thought not.”

Hughes’ eyes darkened. “Wait.”

The soldiers shifted.

Hughes lifted one hand slowly, keeping himself between the Council and the children. “Brassmane will want to know of this. We’re part of his clan.”

For the first time, the gazelle looked almost amused.

“Irrelevant.”

Hughes’ face hardened.

The commander gave a dismissive snort. “Clan ties do not supersede Council evacuation law. Nor do they excuse collaboration with contaminated elements.”

“Contaminated?” Celeste whispered.

The word struck harder than the rifles.

The bear commander loomed over Celeste, bringing a Council-grade scanner to the back of her neck. A low hum.

“Hmm… Celeste Bianca Astallan. Interesting. Your rune is… classified by the Council.”

He stepped back, frowning. “The Matron of Sight did not order this. That means… you’re using a stolen identity.”

“What?! No — this is my rune!” Celeste cried. “You’ve got it wrong, I swear!”

But she didn’t get to finish.

ZAP.

She dropped like a marionette with cut strings, body twitching.

A guard snapped an anti-mana collar around her neck with a hiss.

She groaned, trying to rise — but her magic was gone.

One by one, they were pushed into the van: Ray, Arcade, Pitch, Mezzo… and Celeste.

They barely had time to catch each other’s eyes.

No words.

No fight left.

Just disbelief.

Outside, a soldier pointed toward the tower.

The commander’s paw rose; rifles focused on Mezzo. “We move these five. The rest are expendable. If they interfere — clean it up.”

Ray glared like a live wire. She spat, “You pick one scrap of ours and try that—”

The commander gave a nod.

The doors slammed shut.

The van rose skyward with a thrum, dust kicking up around the scorched grass.

Inside, the group sat chained, collars buzzing softly, eyes wide with unspoken fear.

They all knew one thing.

They weren’t being taken in for questioning.

They were being taken to vanish — alive or dead.