Dawn spread through the Rustrows like pale fire.

Mist coiled low around the broken towers, and the faint hum of mana filled the air—subtle but tense, like the world itself was holding its breath.

One by one, the others emerged from their tents.

Ray was first, adjusting her gloves; Mezzo followed with a yawn, looking like he’d wrestled his bedroll in his sleep. Lumina and Skye stepped out together, while Bartleby came last—his fur perfectly brushed, his tie not perfectly straight for once.

They gathered in the open square, where the elder circle had formed. Crystals flickered in tall brass holders, surrounding a rune-marked dais. Bonbon sat on Hughes’ shoulder, clutching a toy wand and staring nervously toward Celeste’s tent at the edge of the circle.

Inside, Celeste remained unseen—her silhouette still, the faint light of her core pulsing through the tent fabric like a heartbeat.

Elder Arlo and Brassmane stood before the group, speaking in hushed tones with the Daroganwyr and the Y Famdderwyddon.

Each of the younger hybrids was called forward one by one.

A soft halo of light surrounded each as the elders examined their cores—visible flickers of energy where mortal and mythic blood met.

When Lumina stepped up, her aura glowed like a pastel sunrise, pure and shimmering.

When Skye followed, his light was sharper—electric blue, edged with motion, twitching like static.

Even Mezzo’s core burned a steady ember-red, wild but warm, radiating steady rhythm like a heartbeat set to music.

The elders whispered among themselves, fascinated.

“Twainvians with visible cores…” one murmured. “Such a thing was thought impossible.”

“It’s her influence,” said another. “The Kymara girl—her resonance amplifies theirs.”

One by one, the readings ended. Each hybrid returned to their place, dizzy but unharmed.

Yet every elder’s gaze drifted inevitably toward the final tent.

The one no one had yet approached.

The one that still glowed faintly from within.

Arlo turned to Brassmane. “They are stable,” he said quietly. “But their patterns shift near her. Like their mana is harmonising unconsciously.”

Brassmane folded his arms, his golden mane glinting under the morning light. “Then it confirms what I feared. Her core is broadcasting… calling to them.”

The Daroganwyr murmured from the side.

“And to us,” one whispered. “We feel it too.”

For a moment, even the air seemed to tense.

Mezzo fidgeted. “Okay, someone gonna tell us what’s going on, or are we just waiting for her to hatch?”

Brassmane’s eyes flicked to him—sharp, but not unkind. “Patience, Mr Swift. The Trial isn’t only for her—it’s for all of you. What we learn today decides how the worlds will treat hybrids going forward.”

Bartleby’s tail twitched. “And if her… resonance overwhelms the field?”

“Then,” Brassmane said simply, “we’ll reinforce it. Again and again if we must.”

The elders’ quiet murmurs filled the circle again. Lumina stood near the dais, still glowing faintly from her mana reading—her pastel aura fading back into her chest like a tide receding from shore.

For a moment, she looked pleased.

Proud, even.

Then she heard them whisper.

“Not a Kymara core,” one of the Famdderwyddon said softly to another. “It matches the resonance of the other Twainvians—not the Kymara girl.”

The words hit like a stone dropped into still water.

Lumina’s ears flicked, her tail twitching downward.

“Not… the same?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The elder froze, realising too late that she’d spoken aloud. “Ah, forgive me, child. It’s not an insult. Your core is stable. Very strong. Just… ordinary Twainvian mana. Not the anomaly your sister carries.”

Lumina’s throat tightened. “Ordinary,” she echoed, the word bitter on her tongue. “Like… boring-ordinary? Or just… me-ordinary?”

Skye stepped closer, putting a paw on her shoulder. “Hey, hey—don’t listen to them. Ordinary’s not bad. You’re glowing, Lume.”

But she shook her head, blinking hard. “No… if mine’s like everyone else’s, then why hers?”

Mezzo, leaning on his guitar, frowned. “Wait—hold up. Yesterday you mentioned a Kymara core, but what is that actually like? Can ye just pick one up in a ruin somewhere? Like, ‘congratulations, spooky ancient battery, five gold pieces’?”

Several elders stared at him as though he had kicked a sacred altar.

Mezzo lifted one paw. “That was a genuine question with only a tiny bit of disrespect.”

Elder Arlo sighed through his nose. “No, Mr Swift. You cannot simply pick one up.”

One of the Daroganwyr turned his blind face toward the old ruins beyond the square. “In all our years, we have never seen one intact. Not once. Only dead vessels. Broken hollows. Cores split open, their songs long gone.”

Brassmane’s expression darkened. “Every ruin we have found has told the same story. Empty chambers. Smashed lattices. The dead remains of something we barely understand.”

Arcade folded his arms. “So Celeste is carrying the only working one anyone’s seen?”

No one answered.

Which answered enough.

Lumina turned toward them sharply. “Replaced?” she asked, voice small.

“Yes,” said Elder Arlo, stepping forward gently. “When we scanned her mana, we saw what remained of the original structure.”

His face softened, but the words still landed hard.

“Something destroyed her Twainvian core. Not removed neatly. Destroyed. The blast left fragments of the original behind, like glass after a window has shattered.”

The circle went quiet.

Ray’s ears lowered. “Destroyed?”

Arlo nodded once. “And in its place, the Kymara core took root.”

Pitch’s eyes narrowed. “Wait.”

Everyone looked at him.

He shifted, uncomfortable but sharp. “You said removing a core can kill someone.”

Arlo’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”

Pitch pointed toward Celeste’s tent with one claw. “Then how is she alive with a core that isn’t hers?”

A heavy silence followed.

The Daroganwyr whispered among themselves.

The Famdderwyddon did the same, voices low and uneasy.

None of them answered.

Pitch gave a dry, humourless laugh. “That comforting, huh?”

Lumina’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. “I got mine after I ate candy,” she said suddenly.

The elders all turned toward her.

One of the Famdderwyddon shook her head, her voice soft. “No, child.”

Lumina blinked. “What?”

“Your friends did,” the elder said carefully. “Their cores appear to have awakened after the Zygurr candy changed them. But yours…” She stepped closer, studying Lumina’s fading aura with a gentler gaze. “Yours was already there.”

Lumina went still.

“The candy you ate did not give you a core,” Elder Arlo said. “It seems to have reconnected the mana to your body. Like a severed thread finding the needle again.”

Lumina’s mouth opened, then closed.

Skye looked from her to the elders. “So she always had magic?”

“In some form,” Arlo said. “Dormant. Blocked. Waiting.”

Arcade stared at Lumina, then toward Celeste’s glowing tent, then back to Arlo.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Now this mystery is getting weirder.”

Mezzo nodded solemnly. “Aye. We’ve gone from haunted chest gem to ancient core murder to surprise pre-installed Lumina magic. That’s a lot before breakfast.”

Lumina ignored him. Her eyes had gone glassy.

“Then why wasn’t mine changed too?” she whispered.

The elders exchanged looks—no one answering.

Her little hands balled into fists. “Daddy’s got lots of explaining to do!” she blurted, cheeks puffing out like a tiny volcano.

Skye looked away. “Maybe that’s why they kept you locked up,” he said quietly. “In the mansion. Maybe they were afraid of… I dunno, making another one like her.”

Lumina’s eyes burned as she glared at the ground. “That explains Celeste, not me!” she snapped, her tail puffed in frustration. “I missed everything—friends, freedom, sunlight—because I wasn’t like her?”

Her voice broke at the edges.

Mezzo’s tone softened. “Ah, lass, don’t be doin’ that to yourself. None o’ us knew what we were. We’re all just patchwork till we figure it out.”

Lumina exhaled sharply, her light flickering faintly around her eyes. “No,” she said, quieter but shaking. “I just want to know why I wasn’t the same.”

The circle fell silent.

Even the elders looked uneasy now, shifting under the weight of her words.

From the shadows near the trial dais, Brassmane finally spoke—his voice calm but carrying.

“You are enough, child,” he said. “But Celeste’s core… is not a blessing. It is a burden. One I would never wish upon another.”

Lumina didn’t look convinced.

Her gaze drifted toward Celeste’s tent, her jaw tight, hurt twisting behind her glowing eyes.

“Then why does it always feel,” she whispered, “like she’s the one who matters?”

No one answered that either.

The morning mist moved between them all, pale and cold.

Brassmane turned to the elders, voice steady. “Is the circle ready?”

One of the Famdderwyddon nodded. “Reinforced twice over. No Council tech. Only Mythic weave and nature binding.”

“Good.”

He looked toward Celeste’s tent, exhaling slowly. “Then bring her out.”

Inside the tent, the air shimmered faintly with wards—lines of gold and violet light forming a protective lattice along the walls. It hummed softly, as if the fabric itself were breathing.

Celeste sat cross-legged on a woven mat, her tail flicking anxiously as she glanced between her two watchers.

One was a young Cath Palug, her blue-grey fur sleek, long navy hair tied back with twine. A faint rune glowed above her left brow like a second pupil. The other was a weathered Adar Llwch Gwin, his crimson feathers dulled by years, wings folded neatly behind him, each movement careful and deliberate.

They’d been silent for a while.

The kind of silence that wrapped around you and refused to leave.

Finally, Celeste sighed. “So… is this really necessary? All this guarding and glowing and—” she gestured to the softly humming tent, “—bubble of judgement?”

The Cath Palug smiled kindly, her accent lilting. “Not judgement, cariad. Safeguard. We can feel your mana stirring; it doesn’t yet know which voice to follow.”

The Adar Llwch Gwin nodded, his tone gravelly but calm. “Our task is to hold your core in balance should it overreact during the Trial. It’s precaution, not punishment.”

Celeste’s ears flattened slightly. “I see. Well, I’d rather not explode and ruin everyone’s morning tea, so… precaution’s nice.”

Bonbon, perched beside her with a tiny braid half-done in her fur, tugged at Celeste’s sleeve. “Mam is squishy, not a bomb,” she said firmly, her little ears flicking.

Celeste blinked, caught off guard, and then laughed softly. “You’re too sweet for this world, you know that?”

The Cath Palug chuckled. “She is right, though. Fairies rarely misjudge such things.”

Celeste looked up. “You’re really not worried about her being here?”

The Adar Llwch Gwin gave a low, amused hum. “A fairy’s instincts are their armour. Should she be in danger, her mana will tear open a rift and carry her away before you can blink.”

Celeste gasped. “She can teleport? Stars above—that’s brilliant! …and a little terrifying.”

The Cath Palug smiled. “All fae of her line can. It is their answer to fear.”

Celeste turned to Bonbon, who beamed proudly. “Told you, Mam. Rydw i’n hud hefyd!”

Celeste’s eyes softened. “You certainly are, my little spell.”

Then she hesitated. “So… you said you could sense her mana. Does that mean she’s… related to anyone here?”

The Cath Palug tilted her head. “In our culture, kinship is not blood, but bond. A parent is the one who shelters and teaches—who stays.”

Celeste’s voice stumbled over itself. “Oh no, I— I just found her! At a comic convention of all things! She… followed me home and now she’s— I mean— I’m not— oh dear.”

The Cath Palug’s eyes warmed. “Then you are her mam. The fae do not follow strangers home.”

Celeste turned pink to her ears. “That’s not—well—I mean, she did follow me—but I’m hardly qualified for—oh stars, this is embarrassing.”

Before the mythics could reply, a deep, steady voice echoed from outside.

“Celeste.”

Elder Arlo’s silhouette appeared through the tent wall, light spilling in as he lifted the flap.

“It’s time.”

He looked her over once and gave an approving nod. “And I see the robes fit. You wear them well.”

Celeste looked down at herself—the cream-and-violet training robes shimmered with stitched runes, sleeves flowing, hem tucked with Mythic braids. A silver belt cinched at the waist, a small moon crest resting over her heart.

She tugged at the sleeves, flustered. “I look like a bard who’s about to sing the wrong verse in front of a very judgemental audience.”

Arlo chuckled warmly. “Then you’ll fit right in. The Trials are old songs, after all. Come—the chorus awaits.”

Bonbon hugged Celeste’s leg tight. “Gall Mam ei wneud.”

Celeste managed a trembling smile, brushing Bonbon’s hair gently aside. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

With that, she rose, her guardians falling in step behind her as she followed Elder Arlo out into the glowing morning.

The crowd shifted uneasily as the flap stirred.

And as Celeste stepped into the light, the morning seemed to tilt—every colour, every shadow bending faintly toward her.

Her eyes glowed faintly beneath her hood.

Her core shimmered with hidden light.

And the elders, who had once looked proud, now looked wary—curious, reverent…

and a little afraid.