Within moments, the ragtag Knights scrambled together in the courtyard. Hughes straightened his coat, Ray tried to hide a scorch mark on her jacket, and Plum stealthily slid her stash under a crate.

Then the air seemed to shift—like a quiet storm rolling in.

Brassmane entered with two lion guards at his side, his golden mane catching the afternoon light like molten sunlight. His gaze swept over them with a kind of heavy patience, the kind that made everyone instantly aware of their posture.

He stopped in front of Celeste, arms folded. “Where is Topsy?”

Celeste blinked. “Good point. She left to find candy, and, um… we haven’t seen her since.”

Brassmane exhaled through his nose, the faintest glimmer of a smile tugging at his muzzle. “I am sure she will return when she has found what she seeks. She tends to… persist.”

Then his expression grew serious again. “But that is not why I am here.”

Celeste’s tail flicked nervously. “Oh? Then… why?”

Brassmane clasped his paws behind his back. “I am here to collect you.”

Celeste blinked rapidly. “Collect us? Like… library books?”

“Your trial, Commander,” Brassmane said simply. “You cannot put it off forever. It is time.”

He turned his amber gaze to Hughes. “You may come as well.”

Hughes frowned, folding his arms. “Are you sure, Brassmane? I’m not exactly young anymore.”

Brassmane smiled faintly. “All hybrids and mythics once underwent the trials. It was the Council that stripped you of that right—of the chance to understand what you truly are. Many hybrids come to us now for answers, and we give them what they seek.”

He began pacing slowly before them, his deep voice steady and reverent. “Hybrids are curious by nature—born of contradiction. You seek to use your mana like the mythics, but also to improve it, shape it, and build upon it, as the purebloods do. Never satisfied. Never still. Always creating. Always reaching.”

He paused, meeting Celeste’s eyes. “That combination makes you both difficult… and wonderful.”

A hush fell over the group.

Pitch shifted uncomfortably, his tail low. “Do we have to?”

Brassmane turned toward him, one brow raised. “As I am responsible for your order, yes. You must.”

Pitch frowned, glancing at Ray. “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you? How come you haven’t done it?”

Ray rubbed the back of her neck, a faint blush beneath her fur. “I… left. That’s why was in Clawdiff in the first place. Took a job in the city instead.”

Brassmane nodded, his tone softening. “Fear is natural. But the trials do not exist to punish. They exist to awaken.”

He turned to the younger ones—Lumina, Skye, and Bonbon—his voice gentle now. “The children must come as well. It is important for their heritage. They deserve to know who they are.”

Celeste’s brows furrowed, anxiety flashing across her face. “Are you certain it’s safe? They’re still young…”

Brassmane’s eyes softened, his voice like a calm tide. “They will not be harmed, Commander. The trials are ancient rites of reflection, not cruelty. I give you my word.”

The Knights exchanged uncertain glances, but one by one, they nodded.

Hughes hefted his rook. “Well… no sense delaying destiny, I suppose.”

Pitch smirked faintly. “If we survive this, I’m demanding a holiday.”

Mezzo stretched his arms with a grin. “If it involves snacks, count me in.”

Under Brassmane’s steady gaze, the Knights of Clawdiff gathered their things—children in tow, nerves jangling like distant chimes—and followed the lion out of the park and onto the path that led to the Rustrows.

The sun dipped low as they left the safety of their home behind, golden light spilling across the city ruins.

As the team gathered beside the convoy at the edge of Beauty Park, the air hummed with a mixture of nerves and excitement. The sun glinted off Brassmane’s armour, and the faint sea breeze carried the metallic tang of Clawdiff’s docks.

“Right,” one of Brassmane’s men announced, turning to face the assembled group. “Those chosen for the Trials, step forward.”

Celeste did. So did Mezzo, Ray, Pitch, Hughes, and the children.

Plum raised a paw. “I’m coming too.”

Kirrin, who had been leaning casually against a supply caravan, straightened. “Sorry, lass. This is a private matter. Hybrid business only.”

Plum frowned. “Excuse me? I literally got chocolate-snail bombed with them. I’m practically an honorary member.”

Before anyone could respond, the sound of frantic footfalls echoed down the ramp.

“Wait! Wait for me!”

Everyone turned.

Bartleby came sprinting from the side path, papers flying from his satchel, spectacles askew, and one very official-looking folder clutched against his chest like it might explode if dropped.

Celeste blinked. “Bartleby? I’ve never seen you run this fast—are you okay?”

He skidded to a halt in front of Brassmane, panting but grinning wildly. “I—yes! Perfectly fine! Mostly fine! A little winded. Possibly dying. But administratively successful!”

Mezzo leaned towards Plum. “That is the most Bartleby sentence I’ve ever heard.”

Bartleby shoved the folder towards Celeste with both paws. “More paperwork from Lady Umbranox. She said it was urgent, though she said it in the tone one uses when pretending not to know about enormous crimes.”

Celeste’s ears dipped. “Oh dear.”

Bartleby adjusted his spectacles and read from the top page, clearing his throat with grave importance. “Documentation regarding your recent donation to the Knights of Clawdiff, listed as emergency civic support from recovered, unclaimed assets.”

Plum’s eyes narrowed. “Recovered, unclaimed assets?”

Bartleby flipped a page. “Yes. Apparently, it is very sad that no lawful claimant could be found for the late Lord Melarms’ estate.”

Mezzo blinked. “Lord who?”

“Melarms,” Bartleby said. “Old money. Terrible moustache. Several tax irregularities. Apparently, his estate has now gone missing under tragic and mysterious circumstances.”

Celeste went very still.

Plum slowly looked at the duffel bags.

Mezzo slowly looked at the sky.

Bartleby smiled brightly. “But, legally speaking, if anyone asks, your donation was very generous, very public-spirited, and absolutely not sourced from a bank vault, because that would be absurd.”

Celeste gave a tiny, strained laugh. “Yes. Absurd.”

Ray muttered, “Umbranox is terrifying.”

“She also included receipts,” Bartleby added, awed. “Several. In triplicate.”

Then his gaze shifted past them.

He saw the mythic caravans.

The butterflies. The brasswork. The old runes glowing along the frames. The gathering of hybrids and mythics preparing to leave for the Trials.

Bartleby froze.

His mouth slowly fell open.

“Oh,” he whispered.

His folder drooped in his paws.

“Oh no.”

Hughes raised an eyebrow. “Lad?”

Bartleby’s eyes went huge behind his spectacles. “You’re going to the Trials.”

Brassmane’s mane rippled slightly in surprise. “We are.”

Bartleby took one small, reverent step forward. “The Trials of Mythics and Hybrids. Actual living ritework. Old Accord transport. Possibly pre-Council ceremonial structures. Oh, stars preserve me, those are butterfly-drawn caravans.”

Mezzo grinned. “He’s gone.”

“I am not gone,” Bartleby said, his voice climbing. “I am experiencing an appropriate scholarly reaction.”

Ray crossed her arms. “Looks like begging.”

Bartleby immediately clasped his paws together. “Please let me come.”

“There it is,” Plum said.

Bartleby turned to Celeste so fast that his papers nearly took flight. “Commander, please. I know this isn’t my place, and I know I’m not a hybrid, and I know the Council would have twelve separate fainting episodes if they knew I was even asking, but I would be an absolute fool to miss this.”

Hughes interrupted dryly. “This isn’t a field trip, lad.”

“I know!” Bartleby said, already halfway to desperate. “I know, truly, I do. But I promise I won’t interfere. I’ll stay out of the way. I’ll take notes quietly. I’ll breathe quietly. I can even blink quietly if required.”

Mezzo whispered, “Can he?”

Plum whispered back, “No.”

Bartleby barely noticed. “The Council frowns upon my research, and I never get a chance to witness things like this firsthand. Mythic culture, hybrid rites, old languages, living ceremony—do you realise how much has been deliberately buried? Please. Please let me come. I’ll carry bags. I’ll translate labels. I’ll be useful in an extremely anxious way.”

He was practically on his knees by now, his usual prim composure abandoned in a flurry of nervous energy, fluttering paperwork, and hopeful eyes.

Brassmane watched him, amused, the faintest smile tugging at his muzzle. “It’s not my decision. This is Commander Celeste’s call.”

All eyes turned to her.

Celeste blinked, looking from the desperate archivist to her team. Mezzo was grinning. Ray was smirking. Arcade had his Arcbracer half-raised, clearly filming.

Celeste sighed, rubbing her temples. “…Sure, yes. Fine. Just—please stop begging before you sprain something.”

Bartleby’s eyes went wide with pure joy. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, Commander! You have no idea how much this means to me!”

Before Celeste could react, he almost hugged her—but caught himself just short, his paws trembling with excitement. “I’ll get my books! My best quills! My newest tech recorder! Oh, and the rest of the Umbranox forms. There are so many forms. Frighteningly helpful forms!”

He turned and bolted off again, papers fluttering behind him like confetti.

Mezzo leaned towards Celeste with a smirk. “You realise you’ve unleashed a historian on caffeine, right?”

Celeste groaned softly. “Yes. Yes, I have.”

Brassmane chuckled beneath his breath. “Then it’s settled. Let the scholar come. Curiosity, after all, is the spark that forges wisdom.”

Celeste shot him a tired look. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely,” the Mythic rumbled.

As Bartleby’s distant voice echoed down the hall—“Don’t start without me! I have translation scrolls and suspiciously legal receipts!”—the group couldn’t help but laugh.

The caravan rumbled forward, a mechanical marvel of ancient craftsmanship and organic grace. Brassmane’s carriage—pulled not by bughorses, but by two colossal butterflies—glided across the old trade road, their wings glimmering with mana dust that painted the air in soft trails of violet and gold.

Each beat of their wings stirred the misty air around them, sending ripples of colour through the sky. The caravan’s frame gleamed with etched brass and runes, each glowing faintly as the butterflies carried them steadily towards the Rustrows.

Celeste leaned forward, eyes wide. “It’s… beautiful.”

The others murmured in agreement. Even Hughes, who rarely looked impressed by anything that wasn’t clockwork or caffeinated, gave a soft, approving grunt.

Brassmane chuckled, his deep voice warm. “Few have ridden in the Wings of the Old Accord. You honour them with your awe.”

Arcade leaned back, arms crossed, feigning disinterest. “It’s pretty, sure. But, you know… this thing’s design is ancient. Outdated propulsion system, inefficient energy output, no stabilisers—”

“Arcade,” Celeste interrupted gently, “not everything needs a USB port.”

Arcade pouted. “Still could use one.”

Despite the banter, the view silenced them. Below, sprawling valleys gave way to the endless glitter of the hybrid hordes—thousands moving in unison like waves of living light. The shimmering patterns reflected in their eyes, like an aurora caught in motion.

Ray frowned, leaning towards the window. “The horde seems to move whenever we get close. Like they’re… avoiding us.”

Celeste squinted. “You’re right. They’re not even looking at us, but somehow they know exactly where we are.”

Then she saw it.

At the far edge of the horde, coiled around the enormous, cracked mana gumball that powered the Rustrows, was a dragon. Dead and not-dead. Its body glistened with crystallised syrup and decayed gold, its wings draped across the ruins like a broken cathedral roof. Its hollow eyes glowed faintly—an eerie pink-gold hue that pulsed in rhythm with the horde’s every movement.

The realisation struck her like a chill running up her spine.

“It’s… controlling them,” Celeste whispered. “Like a hive mind.”

Brassmane’s ear twitched, but he said nothing.

Celeste’s gaze lingered on the undead dragon. The longer she looked, the stronger the pull became—a strange, instinctive tug deep in her chest. Faint but unmistakable. Like the thrum of one heartbeat answering another.

She forced herself to look away, clutching her arm to stop the trembling.

Meanwhile, in the back seat—

Bartleby sat stiffly beside Skye, clutching an old, folded map as though it were a holy relic. His fur was freshly brushed, his vest perfectly pressed, and his tie knotted with near-military precision. Only his tail betrayed him, twitching in tiny, controlled spasms of panic.

Mezzo twisted around from the front seat, munching from a bag of spicy snacks. “You alright back there, Barts? You look like you swallowed a diplomacy handbook sideways.”

Bartleby gave a laugh that was half embarrassment and half existential dread. “I’ve simply… never dealt with Mythics without a Council shield. Or a schedule. Or—proper escort protocol.”

Skye didn’t look up from his sketchpad, where he was quietly doodling dragons made of wires and circuit boards. “Just don’t talk much. Blend in. They like that.”

Bartleby blinked. “Oh. I… see.”

After a pause, a nervous smile tugged at his muzzle. “That’s remarkably sound advice. Thank you, Skye.”

Skye shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

Mezzo nudged Lumina with his elbow. “Why can’t you give advice like that? All you ever say is ‘breathe’ and then throw glitter in my face.”

Lumina puffed out her cheeks. “It’s healing dust!”

Ray deadpanned from the other side. “Tastes like strawberry glue.”

Celeste couldn’t help laughing softly, though her gaze drifted back towards the horizon—where the undead dragon’s faint glow still pulsed in time with her heart.

Somewhere deep inside, that same strange pull stirred again.

Like something ancient was watching her.

Waiting.

The Trial of the Hybrids had begun.