Back at the Egg Tree Base, chaos reigned—but the good kind.

Dozens of new refugees crowded the perimeter, patching together tents from canvas and tarp, trying to make homes out of wreckage. The old tree’s branches were strung with lanterns and battery lights, giving the camp a faint golden glow.

But the defences… well, they looked like a sneeze could flatten them.

Mezzo kicked one of the perimeter poles, which wobbled alarmingly.

“Y’know, if a zombie so much as farts in our direction, this fence is gone.”

Arcade was hunched over a pile of salvaged parts, C.H.I.P.’s small drone form hovering beside him, projecting schematics.

“Working on it,” Arcade grumbled. “If we had more of those capsules Marzipan gave out, we could actually build something that doesn’t resemble a pile of trash blessed by optimism.”

“Could we not just ask her for more?” Lumina asked, adjusting the flickering perimeter lights.

“Oh, I’ve got a list,” Arcade said, eyes glinting. He flicked his holo-display open for everyone to see. “Option one: an infinite generator—solves our power issues forever. Option two: repair the fridge that breaks things down into components. We could recycle materials and create medicine refills. Option three: a self-refilling well. Unlimited clean water. Maybe flavoured, if I’m feeling generous.”

Skye whistled. “That’s… actually genius.”

Ray crossed her arms. “Yeah, but that’s if she wants to. And if she ever comes back.”

Arcade shrugged. “Maybe. But I’d rather use them to stop dying of thirst than build another pointless mana beacon.”

Celeste smiled faintly as she watched them bicker, her heart warm despite the exhaustion. Around them, hybrids and mythics began to settle—families, scavengers, people who’d lost everything. For now, this was safety.

Mezzo, leaning against a post, looked toward the tents and muttered, “Y’know, I’m surprised most of ’em aren’t in the Warrens.”

Celeste tilted her head. “The… Warrens?”

Everyone turned to look at her like she’d just asked what water was.

Ray blinked. “Wait. You’re a hybrid and you’ve never heard of it?”

Mezzo smirked. “C’mon, Ray, remember—our girl here’s posh. Grew up in a mansion. Probably thought a gutter was a brand of wine.”

Celeste’s ears drooped, mortified. “Oh—oh stars, I didn’t mean to! I just—”

Mezzo waved her off, laughing. “Relax, lass, we’re jokin’. The Warrens is just Clawdiff—but underground. Big ol’ undercity of tunnels, markets, black-market traders, hybrid housing, and bugrats the size of small dogs. You’ll love it.”

Celeste blinked. “Bugrats the size of dogs?”

Skye chuckled. “Yup. And they probably pay rent down there, too.”

Celeste sighed dramatically, pressing her paw to her forehead. “Wonderful. I can’t wait.”

Ray grinned. “Don’t worry, sugar. We’ll take you down there soon enough. You’ll fit right in after five minutes of chaos and questionable plumbing.”

Arcade muttered from behind his holo-screen, “Assuming the fence doesn’t fall over first.”

Celeste smiled tiredly. “Well… at least the hybrids have somewhere to go. For now, that’s enough.”

She glanced across the park at the patchwork city of tents and half-built barricades. Lanterns swayed in the breeze. Smoke from cookfires curled through the air like tired sighs.

“Don’t hybrids live up here, too?” she asked quietly. “There’s plenty of room in the city.”

Ray was sitting on a crate nearby, hammer across her lap, her expression turning grim.

“Purebloods don’t like that. They say it’s about safety, mana control, stability—whatever makes ’em feel smart—but really?” She spat into the dirt. “They just don’t want to see us. Out of sight, out of mind. Keep the shiny folk up top and the glowing ones below.”

Arcade snorted, flipping a wrench between his fingers. “It’s because they think we might expl—”

“Arcade,” Ray cut in sharply.

He froze, mouth still half-open.

Celeste’s ears twitched. “Might what?”

Ray shot Arcade a look that could have nailed him to the fence more securely than any of his repairs.

Arcade cleared his throat and suddenly became very interested in his holo-screen. “Might… explain the structural weaknesses in this camp. Which are many. So many. Tragic, really.”

Celeste frowned, unconvinced. “That is not what you were going to say.”

“Nope,” Mezzo muttered. “Not even close.”

Ray sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Some Purebloods still believe hybrids are unstable. Dangerous. Like if we get too emotional or our mana flares wrong, we’ll go off like faulty grenades.”

Celeste stared at her.

Ray’s jaw tightened. “It’s rubbish. Cruel rubbish. But they’ve been saying it for years, and people like believing things that let them sleep better after treating folk badly.”

Celeste’s ears flattened. “But… hybrids go to university now, right? I mean, I lived in the dorms for a while. Nobody liked me much, but I was allowed there.”

Arcade gave a bitter little laugh. “Some do—if they’ve got ‘unique talents’ or someone important pulling strings. It’s not exactly merit-based, lass. Usually takes a sponsor to vouch for you. That’s how I got in—some old Council researcher thought I’d ‘add diversity’ to his tech department.”

He made air quotes with two greasy fingers.

“Which is code for cheap labour that glows in the dark.”

Celeste opened her mouth to reply—but the low hum of an engine cut through the air.

A sleek Council carriage descended from the skyway, flanked by two armoured hover guards. The hybrid refugees went still, watching nervously as the vehicle’s sigil gleamed: the golden eye of the Council of Sight.

The carriage touched down at the edge of the park, and the doors hissed open.

Caedrix Umbranox Arcturus stepped out first, her robes immaculate despite the dust. She surveyed the ramshackle camp with her usual unreadable calm—half disapproval, half calculation. The morning light caught the gold filigree on her sleeves, haloing her in quiet authority.

Behind her descended Lady Locket Revel, resplendent in crimson silk and smug disinterest, and a new figure Celeste didn’t recognise—a tall Korat cat with slate-grey fur, sharp eyes, and a politician’s polished smile. His presence was composed, elegant… dangerous.

Umbranox’s gaze swept across the Knights, lingering briefly on Celeste before she spoke.

“I’ve reviewed Bartleby’s report,” she said, voice carrying like a blade through mist. “The Council has decided to deploy our ships to engage the Kraken directly.”

Arcade muttered under his breath, “Good luck with that.”

“However,” Umbranox continued smoothly, “if the creature possesses a weakness that only hybrids can exploit, I want the Knights of Clawdiff on standby.”

Her tone made it clear—this was not a request.

She turned slightly, gesturing to her companions.

“You already know Lady Revel.”

Revel gave a faint, performative nod, lips curving in something that might have been a smirk—or admiration.

“And this,” Umbranox went on, “is Lord Lysander Whytemere, newly appointed to the Council’s political branch. A junior judge. He will be assisting in oversight of military operations moving forward due to the zombie plague.”

Lysander inclined his head politely, his golden eyes catching the light.

“Charmed,” he said softly. “I’ve heard much about you, Commander Astallan. I look forward to seeing your… potential.”

Celeste blinked, unsure whether it was a compliment or a threat.

Ray whispered to Mezzo, “Well. That’s one way to say ‘we’re watching you.’”

Mezzo muttered back, “He’s got that ‘stab-you-with-a-smile’ vibe. Don’t like him.”

Celeste straightened her back, masking her unease with polite composure.

“We’ll be ready, my lady,” she said to Umbranox. “Whatever the Council needs.”

Umbranox gave the faintest nod, the sunlight glinting off her gold-trimmed collar.

“See that you are, Knight Commander. The next battle may decide more than any of you realize.”

Umbranox’s tail flicked once—a subtle signal for attention. Her golden eyes swept across the ragged little camp, the patchwork tents, the barely-standing radio tower still lined with exposed wiring.

“There are preparations that must be made,” she said crisply. “I expect your team suited up and well-armed when the Council’s ships depart.”

Hughes adjusted his collar, brow furrowed. “And… with what funds, my lady?”

Bracer, ever the pragmatic one, added dryly, “Yes, and perhaps a list of where we’re supposed to get supplies. Our last ration crate was eaten by a mutant candy pigeon.”

Umbranox blinked slowly, her voice perfectly even.

“I recall saying you would receive full supplies from the church once you were official knights.”

She paused, the faintest curl of amusement tugging at her lips.

“You are not—yet. Therefore, I suggest you make do.”

Mezzo groaned under his breath. “Classic.”

“Of course,” Umbranox continued smoothly, “you could always apply for a loan from the Common Bank.”

Arcade snorted. “That place is overrun with zombies and corporate debt collectors. Same difference.”

Umbranox’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp as glass, before settling—intentionally—on Celeste. The faintest smirk ghosted across her face, a silent message passed without words.

Celeste blinked.

Then it clicked.

That look.

That deliberate pause.

Permission.

Mezzo’s ears perked up, catching it too.

“Oh, I see,” he whispered, grinning wide. “She’s not telling us to rob the bank. She’s just saying… it’s there.”

Ray hissed, “Mezzo!”

“Just sayin’,” he whispered back, winking. “She’s clever, that one.”

Umbranox’s smile deepened by the smallest, most dangerous fraction.

“Several banks have been abandoned since the plague began,” she said, as if discussing weather. “The owners of two are currently deceased. Tragically, that does make formal permission rather difficult to obtain.”

Hughes stared at her.

Arcade slowly lowered his wrench.

Ray’s brows climbed. “Are you… saying what I think you’re saying?”

Lysander’s head turned sharply toward Umbranox.

“My lady,” he said, voice clipped, “are you suggesting theft?”

Umbranox looked at him with mild offence, one hand resting delicately against her chest.

“Theft?” she repeated. “Lord Whytemere, what an uncharitable imagination you possess.”

Revel’s mouth curved.

Umbranox continued, voice smooth and darkly amused.

“Fine, lawful, upstanding Pureblood citizens would never rob a bank. Not when they already live in such privilege. Not when the city’s wealth has been so fairly distributed. Not when Hybrids and Mythics have been treated with such generosity that resentment could never possibly take root.”

Her eyes slid toward the Knights.

Then she winked.

Celeste almost choked.

Meanwhile, Lysander stepped forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His tone was measured, his smile polite—but his words, sharp.

“With all due respect, Lady Umbranox, I doubt the hybrids will be necessary. The Navy’s firepower should suffice. Deploying untested militia is… risky.”

Umbranox didn’t even turn her head.

“We must always be prepared, Lord Whytemere,” she said, voice cool as winter. “Especially when facing an enemy that adapts.”

He inclined his head, retreating behind his perfect manners.

Beside him, Lady Revel stepped forward and handed Celeste a thin folder of papers. Her perfume smelled faintly of roses and gunpowder.

“New reports and tasks from the Council,” Revel said, her voice melodic but sharp enough to slice. “Scouting routes, missing shipments, and a few… loose ends that need tying.”

Celeste accepted them carefully.

Umbranox’s eyes flicked to the horizon, where the rising sun cast molten gold over the battered skyline of Clawdiff.

“We are cut off from the outside world. No reinforcements. No aid. The barrier dome remains intact. If this city is to survive, you will be the first line of defense.”

Her gaze returned to Celeste.

“You have five days, Knight Commander. Do not waste them.”

With that, she turned sharply, her robes swirling like storm clouds as she stepped back into her carriage. The guards followed in perfect formation, and within seconds, the transport lifted off, its engines humming a deep, resonant tone before fading into the smog-heavy sky.