The iron door slammed open, its hinges groaning like they resented the task.
Silent dragged Celeste back into the chamber, her shackles rattling with every step. Her boots scraped across the cold stone, fur singed, clothes damp with sweat, hair clinging to her cheeks. She didn’t cry. But she looked like she had.

The harsh light from the corridor carved her into silhouette—head bowed, shoulders trembling, but still upright.

The others surged to their feet, pressed against the bars.

“Quiet,” Silent growled, yanking her forward.

He unlocked her cell with a heavy clank, shoved her inside, then paused. His eyes lingered—not with sympathy, but something colder. Assessing. Memorizing.
Then he turned and left, the thick iron door thundering shut behind him. Darkness returned, soft and smothering.

Celeste stumbled forward. Her paw hit the wall, bracing herself.

The others pressed in.

Mezzo gripped the bars till his knuckles showed white. “Bloody hell, lass, what’d they do t’ye? You look like you’ve been dragged through a cave.”

Celeste forced a tiny smile. “It’s—oh… it’s fine. I’m fine, honestly.”

Her voice cracked on the word fine.

From the corner, Ray spoke—tone softer than her words. “Sure you are, blondie. You look like they wrung you out and hung you up to dry.”

Celeste didn’t answer. Just sank to the floor slowly, arms wrapped around her knees, blinking hard.

But there was no time to catch breath.

Because the door opened again.

This time, multiple boots echoed down the hall.

A group of guards filed in, dragging a new set of prisoners—Lumina, Skye, Bonbon, Hughes, Bracer, Carys, and—clutching her tablet defiantly—Plum.

Lumina’s eyes shimmered, but she lifted her chin, cheeks puffed in fierce defiance. “Celly!” she cried, small hands grabbing the bars. “They were mean!”

Skye’s jaw was tight, eyes sharp behind his fringe. “They touched my deck. You don’t touch my deck,” he muttered, voice trembling between anger and logic.

Bonbon clung to her oversized plush like it was a real weapon. “Rydych chi'n gadael fy mam ar ei phen ei hun!” she shouted at a guard, who just snorted.

Plum Clippings, however, was not quiet.

“Don’t touch me, fascist crabsticks,” she snapped, yanking her arm away from the nearest soldier. “I’m a press representative, you muzzle-scrubbing authoritarian nuggets.”

One of the guards—an older badger—snarled and raised his baton.

Another, a tall hawk, stopped him. “She’s a pureblood. Back off.”

The badger scoffed. “If she wasn’t, she’d already be bleeding.”

Plum glared at him, head held high. “Keep talking. It’s all you Council lapdogs are good for. Parrot orders and polish boots.”

The hawk’s feathers bristled. “Watch your mouth, missy.”

“I am watching,” Plum shot back. “And I’ll make sure everyone else does too—when this makes front page.”

“Enough,” barked a voice—Hughes, stepping forward, his Welsh lilt iron-hard. “Pack it in, all of you. We’ve bigger devils to fight than guards.”

Arcade’s gaze was sharp, his mind clearly working overtime. “Did they… find out anything?” His voice was careful, lower than usual.

Celeste hesitated, pressing her back against the wall. She glanced at Lumina, who hadn’t let go of the bars, eyes wet with worry. Then at Bonbon, curled up beside her with wide, frightened eyes.

She swallowed. “They… know about me. About Dad.” Her voice broke again, tears slipping unbidden down her cheeks. “They know.”

Bracer exhaled, tone heavy as steel. “Then time’s against us.”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

Pitch finally spoke, his voice a low, gravel-rich rumble. “Then tomorrow’s not a hearing—it’s a hunt. They’ll make a show of it. Weigh your worth, test your nerve… or string you up for decoration.”

Lumina gasped, shaking her head frantically. “No! They can’t! They can’t hurt her!”

Celeste dropped to her knees, pulling her sister’s tiny hands through the bars. “Shh, Lumi, love. I promised I wouldn’t leave you. I’ll keep that promise. I swear I will.” Her voice trembled, but she smiled anyway.

The group exchanged uneasy glances in the dark. For the first time since their capture, the weight of the Council pressed down on all of them—not just the threat of death, but the certainty that whatever tomorrow brought, it would change everything.

None of them slept that night.
Not truly.

The lights never dimmed. The hum of the suppression collars never stopped. The air was heavy with tension, fear, and static mana clinging to every breath.

Bonbon sat cross-legged in the corner of her cell, holding a plushie, mumbling made-up spells under her breath.

“Tostiwch Abraca! Ffoniwch frenin y sbageti!”

She paused, tummy rumbling.

“…Mam, dw i’n llwglyd iawn…” she whined pitifully, thumping her tail.

Lumina shushed her gently, wrapping an arm around her. “We’ll get pancakes after, okay? Like after the dentist. Just gotta be brave.”

Skye tried to distract them, playing an impromptu counting game with cracks on the wall, his fingers twitching anxiously each time Bonbon miscounted on purpose to make him sigh.

In the far corner, Pitch sat cross-legged, head low, eyes narrowed.

The moment the guards passed, he began twisting at the collar around his throat—slow, calculated movements. Fingers ghosting over the rune inscriptions.

If he could just get it off—just one slip—he could shadow-jump out. Cloak himself, maybe even cloak Celeste.

But the moment he applied pressure—

ZZZZZT!

He yelped, doubling over as the shock tore through him, his fur spiking like a static explosion.

“Stars damn this thing…” he muttered, teeth clenched.

Arcade winced. “Stop barbecuing yourself, man. Here—let the professional have a look.”

He reached for his own collar, analyzing its seams with surgical precision. “Hmm. Dual-layered. Pressure plates keyed to mana feedback. Nasty little piece of work.”

After a moment, he sighed, leaning back. “When I get out of here, I’m going to learn exactly how these operate. Then I’ll invent something to shove them back up the Council’s—”

“Arcade,” Celeste said gently, almost like scolding a kitten.

He exhaled. “Fine. I’ll make it polite revenge.”

Only Plum, Carys, and Bracer were given food. A tin tray with proper portions, hot tea, even utensils—clearly marked for pureblood consumption only.

She looked at it for exactly three seconds before pushing it through the bars toward the kids’ cell.

“No offense,” she muttered, “but it smells like warmed-up glue.”

Bonbon devoured the bread. Skye split the stew with Lumina, who ate with slow, calculated bites like she was timing every chew.

Plum watched silently, arms crossed.

By morning, the silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of heels on concrete.

Silent stepped into the corridor, his coat billowing faintly behind him like smoke.

He glanced over the group, voice dry and unfeeling:

“Do any of you have a lawyer?”

Mezzo raised a paw slowly, expression deadpan. “Aye, I do. Name’s None-of-Your-Business, Esquire.”

ZAAAP!

His body jerked as his collar lit up again. He slumped forward, smoke curling from the ends of his hair.

Silent didn’t even flinch. “Try humour like that in the trial. See what happens.”

He turned to the guards. “Escort them. It’s time.”

Shackles clanked. Doors unlatched. The kids were lifted gently—too gently—like glass dolls being moved to display. The adults were not given the same courtesy.

One by one, they were led out of the cell.

Down the corridor.

And into the yawning, cold-lit tunnel… that led to the Council’s Main Hall.

Where fates were decided, mercy was rare…

…and spectacle was everything.

They were just being herded out of the cell corridor—chains clinking, expressions grim—when a sudden crash echoed from behind.

CRASH!

A blur of velvet blue and parchment white came skidding around the corner, followed by a shrill, “I’m coming! I’m coming! Oh stars, the ink’s still wet—!”

THUMP.

A young border collie in a crumpled waistcoat and twisted Council sash faceplanted spectacularly onto the stone floor, papers exploding outward like startled pigeons.

A book hit Mezzo square in the chest.

“Ow!—bloody hell, watch it!”

The dog scrambled up with all the dignity of a spilled teapot, fumbling for his tech monocle. “Ah—yes! Good! Right! I’m here! No need for alarm! Everything is… entirely under—well, let’s not say control, per se, but certainly momentum!”

He thrust out a scroll and a badly bent badge. “Lord Bartleby Fairfax, Junior Council Member, seventh son of the House of Fairfax, holder of high honours in Mana Ethics and Legal Doctrine, third place—third place, mind you—in the Junior Debate Regionals, and—most importantly—your… ahem… your lawyer.”

Carys blinked once. “…Your what now?”

Bartleby straightened, chest puffed out despite the ink blot on his muzzle. “Yes! Lawyer! Legal advocate! Defender of rights, protector of clauses, master of fine print! I was appointed personally by Lady Umbranox herself—very sudden decision, rather flattering, still mildly terrifying—and I’ve come to ensure none of you are, erm… summarily executed without due process!”

He adjusted his monocle gravely. “Not that summary execution is, uh, common, but still, one likes to be thorough.”

Bartleby saluted Silent with his elbow. “I’m to represent these fine individuals in the trial, and—should the stars smile upon us—act as their liaison to the Council. I even brought my own quill!”

He proudly produced a pen from behind his ear. It promptly exploded in ink across his face.

Arcade tilted his head. “…And what are our odds of survival with you?”

Bartleby dabbed at his vest with a scroll, then glanced at his clipboard. “Now then! Let’s see… oh yes—Miss Clippings, Miss Gobaith, and Mister Sharpe! Your odds of acquittal are rather respectable—sixty percent, give or take a mercy vote. The rest of you…” He cleared his throat delicately. “…hybrids, radicals, unpredictable mana conditions—yes, well—five percent. Perhaps four and a half on a good day. And today?”

Mezzo snorted. “So generous.”

“Do keep in mind,” Bartleby said, wagging his pen for emphasis, “it’s an uphill battle! And today, well, not the most auspicious of mornings—Lord Pendleton’s got a migraine, Judge Cairne’s mourning her bugpup, and someone spilled starberry jam on the upholstery, which has caused a minor constitutional crisis over seating order.”

Celeste stared, wide-eyed. “Stars, we’re screwed.”

“Ah—ah—no, no!” Bartleby said quickly, waving his paws. “Let’s not leap to doom! Doom is such an… overcommitted word. Lady Umbranox’s involvement does give you a statistical bump—seven percent! Eight, if she brings snacks. She usually brings snacks.”

Pitch groaned. “Great. We’re trusting our lives to a Labrador with pastry-based optimism.”

“Border collie,” Bartleby corrected automatically. “Very different professional temperament.”

Mezzo rubbed his face. “You’re tellin’ me our legal defense is a jittery dog with an ink addiction.”

Bartleby grinned nervously. “Oh, I wouldn’t say addiction. More of a… lifestyle.”

Lumina blinked up at him. “Are you even allowed to be our lawyer?”

“Oh, legally?” He smiled too wide. “Absolutely not. But! I filed so many forms that the system got confused and accidentally approved me.”

Arcade muttered, “So he weaponised bureaucracy. I’m almost impressed.”

Pitch groaned. “I knew I should’ve drunk the good craft beer yesterday.”

Mezzo rubbed his temples. “You’re telling me our legal defense is a puppy who reads too fast and sweats ink.”

Bartleby beamed. “Exactly! And you’re lucky—usually I represent tax code violations and emotionally volatile mana golems. This is my first big case.”

Arcade muttered, “He might be a genius or a liability.”

“Or both,” Ray sighed.

Bonbon was staring at him in awe. “Dw i eisiau un.”