Celeste tore through the alleyways, her breath ragged, heart hammering louder than her own footsteps. Bonbon’s tiny arms wrapped tight around her neck, the little panda’s sobs hot against her fur.

“Roedden nhw’n fy nychryn!” Bonbon whimpered, her voice breaking.

Celeste ducked under a washing line, nearly tripping over a bucket, her eyes darting between shadows. “I know, sweetie… they scared me too,” she panted, forcing a trembling smile. “But we’re going to get away now, alright? Just—just hold on, bach.”

She veered left, past the flickering glow of a mana lantern, the sound of footsteps echoing behind them—measured, patient. The kind of calm that only made panic worse.

Then—flash.

A ripple of green light cracked the air before her, and a jackalope materialised in a shimmer of leaves and runes. One of the Famdderwyddon. Antlers tipped in blossoms, eyes steady as moonlight.

Celeste skidded back, clutching Bonbon tighter.

“Stop,” the jackalope pleaded softly, voice like a breeze through tall grass. “Please, young one. For the safety of the clan. For the children. Your mana is unbalanced. If you run frightened, it may answer frightened.”

Celeste’s breath hitched.

For half a second, she almost listened.

The jackalope’s paws were raised, not threatening, not cruel. Her eyes were frightened too.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Celeste whispered.

“Then stop,” the jackalope begged. “Let us help you.”

Bonbon sniffled against Celeste’s shoulder. “Paid â mynd yn ôl…”

Celeste trembled.

Then something moved behind her.

A soft footstep.

Too soft.

Her ears twitched.

A second Mythic had crept up from the shadows behind a hanging curtain of moss—a slender fox in a druid’s cloak, fingers already weaving a spell. Silver threads snapped outward, forming a mana net that flashed toward Celeste’s back.

Celeste dropped.

Not stumbled.

Not ducked.

Dropped, sudden and catlike, flattening low with Bonbon tucked tight against her chest. The mana net whipped over her head and struck the wall instead, bursting into a web of glowing knots.

The jackalope gasped. “No—wait!”

But the moment was gone.

Celeste sprang forward, claws scraping sparks from the cobblestones as she bolted past the jackalope and down the opposite lane.

“I’m sorry!” she cried over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I can’t!”

Only to slam face-first into a barrier of golden light.

A gryphon, feathers glinting bronze beneath a druid’s cloak, stood in the middle of the street, wings half-spread.

“If you do not return,” he warned, his tone patient but firm, “we cannot help you, young one.”

Celeste’s breath came sharp and fast. The walls were closing in. She turned again, searching for any crack, any escape—

Surrounded.

But her muscles moved before her fear could stop them. She lunged sideways, vaulted over a table stall stacked with herbs and glass bottles, scattering petals and smoke. Bonbon squealed, clinging tighter as they tumbled down the road.

Then—silence.

Celeste skidded to a halt in the heart of Rustrows Square. Stone and root intertwined beneath her paws, the faint blue glow of the mana wells reflecting in her wide eyes. Her chest heaved; Bonbon’s tiny claws dug into her fur as the square went still, whispers turning to awe.

Then—light.

A familiar pulse of golden mana wrapped around her ankles and wrists, freezing her in mid-step. The magic coiled up her body, gentle but unbreakable.

“Forgive me, little one,” came a deep, measured voice. “But this is necessary.”

Her gaze snapped up—
“Brassmane?!”

The Luduan stepped out from between the mana pillars, his great mane shimmering like sunlight caught in molten glass. His eyes were kind, but his expression was unyielding.

“I had hoped,” he said quietly, “that we could have handled this privately.”

The others arrived just seconds later—Mezzo, Ray, Arcade, Lumina, Skye, even Bartleby and Kirrin—all frozen mid-motion by Brassmane’s mana field. Their voices filled the air at once.

“What’s going on?!” Ray barked.
“Let her go!” Mezzo shouted, tail flaring.
“Brassmane, explain yourself!”

But the golden aura tightened, holding them back like invisible ropes.

Celeste struggled, the glow around her paws flickering as her own mana tried—and failed—to break free. “Brassmane, please—what are you doing?”

The Luduan’s soldiers—tall, silent mythics in gilded armor—approached carefully. One reached for Bonbon.

“No!” Celeste cried, thrashing against the bonds as Bonbon was lifted from her arms. The panda squealed and reached back toward her.

Brassmane’s ears twitched, but his voice stayed calm.
“No harm will come to her, I promise you. But we need clarity.”

“Clarity?” Celeste’s voice broke with anger and fear. “You’re taking her!”

He looked pained but resolute. “We’ve begun to feel it—your core, Celeste. Not just the hybrids. The mythics too. It’s pulling at us… linking our mana without consent. That should be impossible.”

“I don’t know how,” she gasped. “I’m trying not to—I’m trying.” Her words went smaller, apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

Brassmane sighed, his tone almost sorrowful.
“If you were, Celeste Astallan, I would have already ended you.”

She froze—ears flattening, eyes wide.

“But left unchecked…” he continued, stepping closer, his presence vast and radiant. “You could become one. We do not wish to hurt you. We only want to understand. Perhaps even help you.”

“Help me?” she whispered, trembling.

“Yes. The balance is shifting. And Lady Umbranox demands answers as well.”

That drew a chorus of angry voices from the restrained team.

Mezzo spat, heat spiking. “Umbranox? You’re cosying up to the Council now, are ye? Grand—why not pour tea for the demons while you’re at it!”

Brassmane gave a low rumble, neither defensive nor apologetic. “She is not as unfeeling as you believe. The Council fears what it does not understand. My task is to make sure understanding comes before fear does.”

He turned back to Celeste. His voice softened again.
“My people only wish to study your core before the trial begins. To ensure you’re not in danger—from yourself, or from those who would use you.”

Celeste’s heart pounded. “You promise this won’t hurt?”

Brassmane nodded once. “No pain. I swear it on the First Flame. Just be still, little star.”

Behind him, the Daroganwyr and the Y Famdderwyddon arrived—robes and shawls swirling in the wind like the turning of seasons. Their leaders bowed low to Brassmane.

“Diolch, Lord Brassmane,” said Elder Arlo, relief in his eyes. “We could not contain her power alone.”

Brassmane inclined his head. “Then be quick about your work. I will hold her steady.”

Celeste swallowed, tears brimming in her eyes as the circle of seers closed in—
The oracles murmuring, the wise women chanting, the golden glow thickening until it hummed like a living heartbeat.

Bonbon’s cries echoed faintly from beyond the barrier, small and scared—
And Celeste, trembling and trapped in the Luduan’s radiant light, whispered through her fear,

“I’ll try to be very, very good,” she murmured, voice trembling into bravery. “Just… please don’t let me hurt anyone.”

Brassmane’s gaze flickered, a storm of pride and guilt behind his calm mask.

“I know,” he said softly.
“Which is why we must finally learn what you are.”

The mana storm built slowly—humming, thrumming—until the very air in the square trembled.
Celeste hovered just inches off the ground, wrapped in concentric rings of golden, violet, and white light. Her hair lifted like flame underwater; her eyes glowed glassy and unfocused.

Around her, the two ancient orders worked—The Y Famdderwyddon on one side, The Daroganwyr on the other—each circle of mystics layered in robes and sigils of their own craft. Their chants overlapped in conflicting rhythms: one melodic, rooted in the soil; the other deep, prophetic, and full of echoing thunder.

Bonbon cried softly in Hughes’ arms, reaching toward her with a trembling paw as the light brightened to a blinding brilliance.

“Hold her steady!” Brassmane commanded. His mana flared like a sun, keeping the opposing forces from tearing the girl apart.

From the first circle, the Famdderwyddon’s leader, a cath palug in a tall black hat and woollen shawl shimmering with ward runes, raised her staff high. “Begin the reading! Bring forth the layers of the child’s making!”

A web of sigils expanded beneath Celeste’s feet—runic constellations swirling in molten silver. One by one, shimmering shapes began to rise from her like reflections in mist.

The first was a lion-headed rabbit, delicate and twitching, crowned in halo light.
Then a ragdoll cat—soft, spectral, tail curling protectively around her legs.
A dragon, its wings vast and gleaming, roared soundlessly into the sky.
And finally, an alicorn, radiant and sorrowful, lowering its gem as if in mourning.

The Famdderwyddon gasped, murmuring to one another.

“She is made of four bloodlines—mythic and mortal both.”
“Predator and prey in one shell. Mana-rich and mana-starved energies… warring within.”
“It’s a wonder she’s still alive at all.”

Celeste’s breath trembled. “Warring?” she whispered. “You mean… they’re fighting me?”

“Not you, child,” one of them said softly. “Each other. Predator against prey. Magic against void. Your body is the battlefield.”

Before she could speak again, the Daroganwyr stepped closer. Their leader—a tall figure draped in blue silk and silver chains, his eyes pure white—spoke in a voice that sounded like wind through a cathedral.

“No,” he said coldly. “You’re looking at the surface. The core tells another tale.”

With a gesture, he summoned a dark prism of mana—a relic of the old seers, built of obsidian and starlight. It hovered before Celeste’s chest, vibrating faintly as it aligned with her heartbeat.

The seers began to chant in unison. A deep, pulsing hum filled the air. The prism brightened—then darkened.

The blind oracles gasped. One dropped to his knees. Another hissed through her teeth.

Elder Arlo frowned. “What do you see?”

The seer’s voice shook. “We… we see nothing. Her original core—it’s gone.”

“What?” Brassmane’s mane flickered with static.

“Removed,” said another. “Dead. Only fragments remain.”

The Famdderwyddon exchanged panicked glances.

“But something else beats there now,” the lead oracle continued. “Something vast. Something borrowed.”

The light around Celeste deepened—turning from gold to white, then to iridescent flame that rippled like oil on water.

“It is not her own,” the seer whispered. “The true core lies dormant… locked within. The being who once owned it is alive—inside her.”

Celeste’s breathing quickened. “Inside me—?”

“It feeds on her mana,” said another Daroganwyr, their voice trembling. “Drawing power through her as a conduit. Its hunger grows. It is not mortal. It is not of this age.”

Brassmane’s jaw tensed. “Name it.”

The seer raised a shaking hand. “A… Kymara core.”

Gasps rippled through both circles.

Arlo stumbled backward, gripping his cane. “That’s impossible. The Kymara were wiped out when the Void came!”

Brassmane’s mane flickered, his jaw tightening. “That was seven thousand years ago. Every core we have stumbled upon since has been empty, cracked, or smashed beyond song. You are saying there is one intact inside her?”

Arcade, still held by the golden mana field, gave a sharp little scoff. “Assuming the Kymara were ever real.”

Every Mythic within earshot turned to stare at him.

Arcade’s ears flattened slightly. “What? I’m just saying, from a historical verification standpoint—”

Ray hissed, “Arcade.”

He shut his mouth.

The lead oracle did not look away from Celeste. “Real or not, something answers to that name.”

One of the Famdderwyddon stepped forward, holding a delicate wand of copper and quartz. “If we can see the resonance, perhaps we can isolate it.”

She touched the wand gently to Celeste’s chest.

“Reveal your light, child. Show us your truth.”

Celeste tried to obey—eyes fluttering closed as she focused on her mana. Her aura flared, soft blue and white at first… then brighter, richer… changing.

The air turned crystalline. The glow became iridescent—a living rainbow of refracted mana, spiraling into patterns no mortal mind could follow. The light bent reality itself, turning symbols into galaxies, colors into sound.

The copper wand slipped from the elder’s hand and clattered to the floor.
Her datapad followed, shattering on the stone.

And for the first time, the blind oracles—the Daroganwyr—turned their sightless eyes toward Celeste, seeing her.

One whispered in awe, voice trembling like glass in the wind.
“Mamgoleuni.”

The others fell to their knees.

Brassmane’s breath caught. “Mamgoleuni…” he murmured, voice low with reverence—and dread.

Celeste stood frozen in the center of the storm, tears streaming down her cheeks, the iridescent glow of her core casting soft halos across the square.

“I don’t understand…” she whispered. “What does that mean?”

The oldest oracle bowed low, forehead touching the ground.

“It means,” he said softly, “you are not just a child of light. You are its return.”