The Rustrows unfolded before them like a dream caught between ruin and rebirth.

Twisted towers of rusted metal clawed at the sky like broken fingers, their frames draped in vines that glimmered faintly with bioluminescent moss. Conveyor belts and skeletal cranes jutted from the ground like fossilised bones of an age long past. But in the cracks of decay, life had returned—golden lights drifted through the air like will-o’-the-wisps, and somewhere in the distance, a wind chime sang with the voices of ancient runes.

The caravan slowed, Brassmane’s butterflies gliding gracefully to a halt on a ridge overlooking the valley. The massive creatures settled by a cluster of blooming nectar trees, wings folding like translucent sails.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Even Mezzo, miraculously, seemed to understand that this was not the sort of place one should immediately shout at.

Brassmane stepped down from the carriage first, his paws settling against the old road with quiet reverence. “This was once a factory site,” he said, gazing out over the rusted towers. “Built during the Technological Renaissance, when pureblood industry believed it could master the world through steel, engines, and clever hands.”

Arcade folded his arms, unimpressed. “So… old industrial estate. Got it.”

Brassmane continued as though he had not spoken. “But beneath it are older bones. Much older. The bones of the world our ancestors once inhabited.”

That made Celeste look up.

Bartleby nearly dropped his notebook. “Older than the Technological Renaissance?”

“Far older,” Brassmane said.

Arcade scoffed, though not unkindly. “Probably just Mythic ruins you lot forgot about. Happens all the time with old settlements. Someone builds over something, then everyone gets dramatic and calls it sacred.”

The air shifted.

Not dangerously.

But enough.

Brassmane turned his head slowly toward the half-buried stone arches visible between the metal carcasses below. Moss clung to them. Pale glyphs shimmered beneath the green, not bright like normal mana runes, but dim and deep, like stars seen through water.

“No,” Brassmane said quietly. “These are much older than us.”

Arcade’s smirk faded a little.

Brassmane let the silence settle before he spoke again. “Rustrows is not only a refuge. It is a trading point. A meeting place. Any who wish to join the Mythic clans may come here and be seen, tested, welcomed, or turned toward a path better suited to them.”

His gaze drifted across the settlement below—the caravans, the lanterns, the moving figures, the old factory skeletons softened by moss and magic.

“Clans meet here when roads cross. We exchange news, food, medicine, stories, warnings. Sometimes children find teachers here. Sometimes lost hybrids find names. Sometimes old enemies sit at the same fire long enough to remember they were once kin.”

Celeste’s ears flicked softly. “So everyone comes through here?”

“Most clans, sooner or later,” Brassmane said. “But we do not stay often. Not for long. Rustrows belongs to all of us, so no clan claims it too tightly. We make room for the next to arrive.”

Ray glanced toward the clustered caravans. “But you’ve been here a while.”

Brassmane’s mouth curved faintly, though the smile did not quite reach his eyes. “Yes.”

Celeste looked up at him. “Why?”

For a moment, Brassmane said nothing.

The wind moved through the rusted towers, stirring the hanging chimes until they whispered in low, metallic song.

Then he answered, carefully, “I had business with House Arcturus.”

Celeste’s tail twitched.

“And,” Brassmane added, even softer, “an old friend.”

That was all he said.

No name.

No explanation.

Only that calm, heavy silence that made it clear the door was not locked, exactly—but it was not open either.

Celeste had the sudden feeling that if she asked again, he would simply smile and become a mountain.

So she said nothing.

Arcade shifted awkwardly, glancing back toward the half-buried arches. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “So this place is older than Mythics, older than Council factories, and also somehow a community centre.”

Mezzo nodded solemnly. “With butterflies.”

“With butterflies,” Celeste agreed.

But her gaze lingered on the ruins below.

Older than Mythics.

Older than Council factories.

Older than the stories anyone still dared to tell.

The thought made the Rustrows feel suddenly vast beneath her paws, as if the rusted world above was only a lid placed over something sleeping.

Then Lumina squealed.

“They’re so pretty!”

The spell broke at once.

Celeste blinked and looked over just in time to see Lumina, Bonbon, and Skye already halfway out of the carriage, tumbling over each other to reach the butterflies.

“Can we pet one?” Lumina begged.

“Or ride one?” Bonbon squeaked, her tail flicking so fast it was a blur.

The handlers—two patient moth mythics in silk robes—smiled warmly. “Of course. They like gentle hearts.”

When one handler mentioned that there were moth versions in their sanctum, Celeste made a noise so high-pitched it startled even Brassmane’s guards.

“Moth ones?!” she gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “With floofy antennae and big soft wings?!”

Mezzo snorted, trying not to laugh. “Careful, starcat, you’re about to combust from cuteness overload.”

Celeste just squealed louder, hands clasped like a child meeting a celebrity.

Even Brassmane chuckled under his breath, his golden mane glinting in the sunlight. “Their kind sense joy, Commander. It seems you are in good company.”

Once the team had managed to pry Celeste and the children away from the winged giants, they approached the outpost gates. The ironwood doors creaked open, releasing a faint scent of rain and old incense.

Beyond lay a settlement carved into the cliffs themselves—a labyrinth of homes and sanctuaries built from the bones of old factories and ancient wyrm skeletons. Moss grew between cobblestones that shimmered faintly with rune-light. Faint symbols pulsed along the archways, like veins glowing beneath the world’s skin.

Wind chimes shaped like dragon wings turned lazily in the mountain breeze, catching the sun with flashes of blue and gold. Mythic children darted between bone-and-crystal homes, laughing as they carried mana lanterns that floated like jellyfish behind them.

Celeste stopped in her tracks, breath catching. “It’s… alive.”

“Reclaimed,” Brassmane corrected gently. “Not dead, not forgotten. Simply… reborn.”

Bartleby, meanwhile, looked like he was about to faint from excitement. His tail wagged like a metronome, and his notebook was already in paw. “Incredible! Absolutely incredible! Are those housing runes woven with illusion wards? And—oh! That atrium—it’s a gravity-defying structure, isn’t it?! Look at the stabilisers—those aren’t architectural, that’s mana geometry!”

Ray smirked. “You sure he’s not gonna implode from joy before we even get to the Trials?”

Hughes grunted. “If he does, at least he’ll die happy.”

Celeste smiled softly, watching Bartleby dart around like a scholar in paradise, tail wagging furiously as he sketched everything in sight.

Celeste walked beside Bartleby as the group moved deeper into the outpost, her cloak trailing softly over cobblestone that glimmered faintly with mana veins. The rhythmic flutter of wings and hum of runes gave the place a serene pulse—like the heart of something old still beating beneath layers of rust and moss.

“So, Bartleby,” Celeste said lightly, glancing sideways at him. “How much Caerfaenic do you actually know? I’d love to practise—it’s been ages since I had anyone patient enough to listen.”

Before he could answer, his attention had already been hijacked by a nearby humming stone tablet. The entire surface was etched in flowing script, glowing gently in shifting tones of amber and blue.

“Fascinating!” Bartleby breathed, eyes wide as he pulled out his notebook. “Runes and oral enchantment layering… This is more than standard warding—it’s living text. And—oh! Is that elder sap resin along the support beams? The binding agent alone could—”

Kirrin turned, mechanical lens whirring softly as it focused on him. “You weren’t this chatty last time, dogboy.”

Bartleby’s tail wagged despite himself. “I don’t have the entire Council breathing down my neck this time. I can actually ask questions.”

A grin spread across Kirrin’s muzzle. “Knew you weren’t that stuck-up. Don’t worry—we’ve got plenty of lore-keepers here. You’ll have more stories than your clipboard can handle.”

Bartleby’s face lit up. “Diolch yn fawr iawn!”

Kirrin’s eyes gleamed, tail flicking. “Croeso, fy ffrind.”

Mezzo squinted. “What the feck are they sayin’?”

Ray smirked. “He said thank you. She said you’re welcome, friend. It’s cute.”

Mezzo crossed his arms. “Great. The nerd’s got backup now.”

Celeste hid a smile behind her scarf. “I told you letting him come wasn’t a bad idea.”

Just then, a voice rang out from behind a crate of spare reactor parts.

“Oi—who’s the fancy one?”

A young pegasus stepped into view, wings sleek and black with streaks of neon green that shimmered when they caught the light. He looked to be about Ray’s age, maybe younger, but his stance carried the same kind of scrappy confidence. A half-finished gadget hung from his belt, still sparking faintly.

His bright eyes fixed immediately on Bartleby. “He looks like he just walked out of a fundraising brunch and fell into the apocalypse.”

Bartleby blinked. “I… beg your pardon?”

Kirrin snorted. “Don’t mind him. That’s Solas. Our local mechanic and chaos technician. And he’s not wrong.”

Solas gave a lazy little salute, but his gaze had already moved past Bartleby.

It landed on Celeste.

His expression changed.

Only slightly.

The teasing edge remained, but his eyes sharpened with something colder. Suspicion. Caution. Maybe fear, though he hid it badly under arrogance.

He looked her up and down—her cloak, her ears, the faint shimmer of scales beneath her fur, the carefully contained mana around her like a storm pretending to be a candle.

Then he muttered under his breath in Welsh, low enough that he clearly thought she would not catch it.

“Croesryw ansad… mae’r henuriaid yn wallgof am ei gadael hi’n ôl i mewn.”

Celeste went still.

She did not know every word.

Not perfectly.

But she knew enough.

Unstable hybrid.

The elders are insane letting her back in.

Her ears dipped for half a heartbeat.

Then she smiled politely and said nothing.

Solas did not notice. Or perhaps he did and decided not to care. He turned away with a little huff, already pretending the comment had never happened.

Ray elbowed Kirrin lightly. “Be nice. He’s harmless.”

“Harmless?” Arcade added with a grin. “I saw him duel a diplomat with a rolled-up policy scroll once.”

“She was very rude about quorum protocols,” Bartleby muttered, straightening his tie with all the dignity of a man in over his head.

Solas tilted his head, one brow arched. “Is he gonna faint if he sees bare wires?”

Kirrin grinned. “Only if they’re not colour-coded.”

That earned a laugh from most of the team. Even Brassmane cracked a smile, shaking his mane.

Celeste laughed too.

Softly.

Carefully.

But beneath it, Solas’s words stayed with her like a thorn under the skin.

As they walked further into the settlement, the humour faded into quiet awe. The deeper they went, the more the architecture shimmered with living mana—walls of bone and crystal, bridges woven from golden light, and children’s laughter echoing like chimes through the air.

Celeste’s smile softened… until she noticed something strange.

The mythic children—the ones who had played with them the last time she’d come—paused when they saw her. Their laughter dimmed to whispers. Their eyes followed her warily, some stepping back, some clutching at each other.

Celeste froze mid-step, her ears drooping. “Oh… stars.”

She remembered.

The last time she’d been here—when her rune broke free. When her power had gone wild and she’d nearly levelled half the Rustrows in a single breath.

She lowered her gaze and took a careful step back.

“It’s alright,” she said softly. “I won’t come too close.”

But Lumina and Skye didn’t share her hesitation. The two children bounded ahead, waving. Within moments, they’d joined a small circle of mythic kids who were conjuring glowing orbs of elemental light.

“Is that—?” Celeste started.

“Magi Ball!” Lumina called happily.

The kids tossed the shimmering sphere—a ball of swirling fire and water—back and forth, keeping it alive with their mana. Each time it dimmed, another child recharged it with a burst of their own.

“Whoever keeps it going longest wins!” Skye shouted.

Celeste smiled faintly, relief warming her chest.

Bonbon, however, had no such confidence. The tiny panda clung to Celeste’s leg like velcro, peeking out from behind her tail fluff.

Celeste stroked her soft head gently. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Go play if you want.”

Bonbon shook her head. “No. I stay.”

Celeste chuckled quietly. “Alright then. You’re my brave little shadow today.”

Bonbon nodded solemnly, clutching tighter.

And as the Magi Ball game flared to life again—bright bursts of colour lighting up the courtyard—Celeste let herself breathe.

For the first time in days, it felt almost peaceful.

Almost.