The tent flaps slammed open.

A cold wind swept through as robed figures entered—faces covered, eyes white and sightless. The Daroganwyr, the blind oracles of prophecy. Their arrival silenced the chant instantly. Even the crystals dimmed.

One stepped forward, voice ringing like a bell through fog.

“Show us the one who carries the core.”

Elder Arlo straightened, his cane glowing faintly. “She is under the protection of the Famdderwyddon. This ritual is delicate—”

“Delicate?” the oracle snapped. “The stars themselves shudder at her heartbeat. You feel it too. The core calls—we must see it.”

The two groups began arguing in low, urgent tones—magic crackling in the air like a brewing storm. Celeste took an uneasy step back.

“I—I don’t want to interrupt,” she murmured, edging toward the tent flap.

Before she could move further, one of the Famdderwyddon flicked her wrist, and glowing vines of energy snaked up from the moss, coiling gently but firmly around Celeste’s ankles.

“Stay, little light,” the woman said softly. “We must keep you still.”

Bonbon’s lower lip trembled. “G-gadewch iddi fynd…”

One of the Daroganwyr turned sharply toward the sound, nostrils flaring. “The fae-mana interferes,” he hissed. “She should not be here.”

Celeste blinked. “Wait—what? Fae mana? You mean she’s—”

“Yes,” another oracle said, head tilted as if listening to some unseen choir. “Her voice resonates with fairy harmonics. Her song disturbs the reading.” He pointed at Bonbon. “She must leave.”

Bonbon began to cry, clutching Celeste’s leg tighter. “Na! Dw i’n aros!”

Celeste’s breath hitched. “Please—don’t take her! I—I’m scared. Where’s Brassmane?”

“He will want to know what you are,” said one of the Famdderwyddon, not unkindly. “Now hush, child. Hold still.”

The chanting resumed—louder now, more insistent. Circles of runes whirled around Celeste’s feet and chest, threads of mana tugging, weaving, pulling. The oracles joined in, their voices hollow and deep, hands raised as they tugged at the luminous shape of her core.

Celeste gasped as the air thickened, pressure building in her skull. Her fur bristled. The light around her pulse deepened from gold to white-hot.

She could feel it—the thing sleeping inside her—stirring.

Something ancient.

Something scaled.

Her claws dug into the earth as heat rippled beneath her skin. Her scales shimmered faintly under her fur, glinting like molten glass.

Inside her core, something shifted.

A whisper.

A shimmer.

A pulse that wasn’t her own.

Some of the Famdderwyddon began whispering among themselves, their voices lilting in Welsh—soft, like prayers caught between the folds of thunder.

“Mae’r Crefft y Goleuni yn dysgu yn Llyfr y Wehyddu…” one murmured.

“The Craft of Light teaches in the Book of Weaving…” another translated under her breath.

“That the Mamgoleuni herself once bore such a core,” an elder finished, awe and fear mingling in her tone. “A living sun woven into mortal flesh.”

Several gasped, crossing themselves with trembling paws.

“Yna… a allai hi gael ei haileni?”

Then… could she have been reborn?

A few of the oracles turned sharply at that, their sightless eyes narrowing.

“That goes too far,” one hissed. “This is science—pureblood meddling, not prophecy.”

“Science?” one of the Famdderwyddon snapped. “Look at her body. Look properly. No natural hybrid stabilises this cleanly. Dragon. Alicorn. Feline. Rabbit. All threaded into one living shape without collapse.”

Another woman stepped closer, her crystal lens trembling in her paw. “Her body is too perfect. Too balanced. Either it is a miracle… or it was engineered.”

Celeste’s blood went cold.

One of the Daroganwyr tilted his covered face toward her, listening to something beneath her breathing. “Or occupied.”

The word landed like a stone.

Celeste’s ears flattened. “Occupied?”

“Possessed,” another oracle said bluntly. “Something wears the vessel. Something vast. Something old.”

Bonbon whimpered. “Na… Celeste yw hi.”

Celeste gathered her closer with shaking paws. “It’s alright. It’s alright, sweetheart.”

But the debate spread anyway—half faith, half doubt—like sparks dancing on dry straw.

“She cannot go through the Trials with a core like that,” one of the oracles muttered, his tone brittle with fear. “It’s unstable. One surge, one flicker of emotion, and she could unravel herself—or worse.”

“But the Trials are meant to teach control,” countered a younger Famdderwyddon, her eyes glowing faintly blue beneath her hat. “If she faces them, the core may learn her rhythm. Her mana might harmonise. Suppressing her will only make it worse.”

Another shook her head. “No. We should strengthen the seal around the core. Reinforce it—keep the spirit inside from slipping free.”

A hiss of disapproval followed. “And doom every hybrid who draws mana through kin resonance? You would silence them all just to keep your hands clean?”

The first speaker’s expression hardened. “If that is what it takes to stop a breach, yes.”

One of the older Famdderwyddon lifted her lens higher, staring through layers of mana, flesh, and light. Her face paled.

“It is a miracle the lattice has not burned through her body already,” she whispered. “The pressure should have scorched her veins hollow.”

“No,” said another, quieter. “Look there. The body is adjusting.”

The others turned.

The woman traced a shaking sigil through the air. A ghostly image of Celeste’s core shimmered above the ritual circle—golden, blue-white, and beneath both, something deep and iridescent, pressing outward and inward all at once.

“The core is acting like a dam,” she said. “Holding back the flood. Holding her shape. If it breaks…”

She did not finish.

Elder Arlo’s brow furrowed deeply. “I can see that,” he said, voice suddenly sharper than before. “It is obvious even to old eyes. What I am asking is whether the dam is stable.”

Silence.

None of them answered.

Arlo’s gaze hardened. “Well?”

The Daroganwyr spoke first. “No.”

One of the Famdderwyddon answered at the same time. “Possibly.”

The two groups turned on each other at once.

“Possibly is not enough!”

“And fear is not wisdom!”

“She is a danger to the settlement!”

“She is a child!”

“She is a door!”

The tent filled with hushed, fearful voices. Some argued that Celeste’s core was a danger waiting to explode. Others believed it was a gift that, if guided, could reshape the balance between light and void.

Then an elder raised her staff, silencing them. “Enough. Whether curse or blessing, the core is awake. To bind it too tightly would dim all hybrid flame… and without that flame, who will stand when the Nullborn rise again?”

The tension in the tent snapped like a thread drawn too tight.

The air crackled. Voices rose—not in reasoned debate this time, but in overlapping Caerfaenic, fierce and terrified.

“Ni allwch ei gadael yn rhydd!”

You cannot let her go free!

“Bydd hi’n marw os ydych chi’n ei hatal!”

She’ll die if you restrain it!

“Gwrandewch! Mae’r craidd yn siglo—mae hi’n gollwng egni!”

Listen! The core is trembling—she’s leaking energy!

“She cannot leave this clan,” one of the Daroganwyr said, voice hard as stone. “Not until we know what looks out through her eyes.”

Celeste’s breath caught.

Another oracle nodded. “Seal the exits.”

“No,” one of the Famdderwyddon said quickly, though fear trembled in her voice. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” the oracle snapped. “Would you wait until she tears the Rustrows open?”

“She is frightened!”

“She is dangerous!”

Their words tangled together until they became a storm of prayer and accusation. Mana spun wildly through the tent, whipping the candles into ribbons of blue fire. Celeste’s fur rose, her breath coming short and sharp. The circle’s light coiled tighter around her like a living serpent.

“P–please stop!” she gasped, clutching her chest. “Please, it hurts—stop!”

But they didn’t.

One of the oracles reached forward, his palm blazing with white fire, and thrust a stream of mana straight toward her chest.

It struck her core—direct contact.

Celeste screamed.

The world became sound and heat and pressure. Her vision fractured into shards of gold and scarlet. Her mana convulsed, twisting out of control.

“Hold her steady!” someone shouted.

“She’s breaking the seal!”

“Na! Peidiwch!”

Then everything shattered.

A wave of light burst outward, hurling the wise women to their knees. Runes scorched into the moss, and the crystal coils exploded in showers of blue sparks.

At the centre of it all, Celeste’s eyes blazed like twin moons.

Her scales shimmered through her fur, molten veins of iridescent beneath the surface. Her face changed—not its shape, not completely, but its presence. The softness drained away. The frightened girl vanished behind something old, bright, and impossibly still.

When she spoke, her voice was no longer just hers.

It carried another voice beneath it.

Vast.

Ancient.

Commanding.

“DIGON!”

Enough.

The Daroganwyr froze.

Their blind eyes widened beneath their veils.

For the first time, they saw truly.

Not the trembling hybrid.

Not the frightened girl.

Something beneath her.

Something looking back.

The oracles dropped to their knees.

One by one.

Not forced.

Not yet.

They bowed.

A Famdderwyddon gasped, hand flying to her mouth. “Mam oleuni…”

Celeste’s head tilted.

The air changed.

Her aura spread through the tent—not fire, not wind, not light alone, but command. It locked around every limb, every breath, every spell. The Daroganwyr and Famdderwyddon froze in place as though the world had stopped obeying them.

Bonbon sobbed harder. “Celeste…”

The thing wearing Celeste’s eyes turned slowly across the circle.

Then it spoke again in old Welsh, each word soft and terrible.

“Peidiwch â chwilota. Rwyf yma.”

Stop prying. I am here.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Then Celeste blinked.

The glow vanished.

Her face became hers again all at once—terrified, pale, and shaking.

She looked around at the bowed oracles, the frozen wise women, the scorched circle, the cracked crystals, Bonbon crying against her leg.

Her mouth opened.

“I…”

The aura released.

The elders gasped as movement returned to them.

Celeste stumbled backward, horror flooding her face. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

“Celeste,” Arlo said softly, but she was already backing away.

Bonbon clung to her skirt, trembling. “Awn ni. Os gwelwch yn dda.”

Celeste scooped Bonbon into her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, voice breaking.

Then she ran.

Mana light shattered behind her as she tore through the tent flaps, barefoot paws pounding against the cobblestones, the night air burning cold in her lungs.

Behind her, the oracles’ voices echoed faintly:

“The seal weakens…”

“The light must return…”

But Celeste didn’t hear them.

All she could hear was Bonbon’s trembling sobs—

and her own pounding heart,

beating far too loud for one soul alone.