The world became a storm of noise, breath, and panic.

Gunfire cracked through the fog.

Raiders shouted.

Prisoners screamed.

The kitsune girl gasped beneath Celeste’s shaking hands, blood spreading warm and dark across the cracked pavement.

For one terrible moment, the Dock District seemed to close around them like a trap. The fog pressed in from every alley. The streetlights flickered above the broken road. Somewhere nearby, the armoured van growled in reverse, its engine hidden but not gone.

Celeste squeezed her eyes shut, heart pounding like a drum being played badly by a frantic toddler.

“I can’t kill them… I just can’t… oh stars, why does everything have to be so stabby…”

Pitch dodged a blast and yelled, “Then do something that isn’t stabbing!”

“Right! Yes! Something unstabby!” Celeste babbled. “Absolutely! I’m thinking! I’m thinking very hard!”

Her hands darted to her belts, rummaging through pockets at reckless speed. Potions clinked. Charms rattled. Something sticky came away on her paw.

“Oh—that’s jam. Ignore that.”

Her fingers closed on something round and cool.

A mana bead.

A stabiliser bead used for calming mana storms during training.

Celeste blinked.

“Oh. Oh! That might work! Or explode! Hopefully the first thing!”

She leapt to her feet and raised the bead high.

“Everybody stop!” she shouted.

No one stopped.

Bullets whizzed past her ear.

Pitch yelled, “Cece, what are you doing?”

Celeste hurled the bead downward.

It hit the ground with a tiny plink.

Then—

FWOOOM.

A pale blue pulse rippled outward like a soft magical shockwave made of polite intentions and mild regret.

The raiders staggered as their weapons sputtered, mana cores shorting with sparks.

One dropped his rifle entirely.

Another stumbled sideways, tail sticking out at an awkward angle.

Celeste brightened.

“Oh! It worked! Sort of! Maybe! Please don’t explode!”

The pulse hit Pitch and Bartleby too.

Pitch jolted.

“Wh—hey—hey! Why do I feel like my limbs fell asleep?”

Bartleby swayed dramatically on the fire escape.

“Ah—marvellous—wonderful—my equilibrium is abandoning me—hold on—oh dear—”

He tipped over the railing.

Celeste gasped.

“Oh no no no—catching you!”

She threw a cushion charm upward on instinct. It expanded mid-air, turning into a glowing bubble that gently bounced Bartleby back onto the platform.

“Oh!” Bartleby wheezed. “How absolutely mortifying.”

The raiders, meanwhile, reeled. Limbs sluggish. Movements stuttering.

The stabiliser was not meant for people.

It was meant for raw mana.

Which meant the effects were strange, unpredictable, and temporary.

One raider tried to raise his rifle and ended up flinging it in a wide arc straight into a bin.

Another blinked slowly, swaying.

“Wh—why does everything feel… soft…?”

Celeste held her swords defensively, voice cracking.

“Please just… go home? Or somewhere that isn’t here? Somewhere safe and un-murdery?”

For a long moment, the raiders stared at her, bewildered, disoriented, and absolutely not equipped to deal with a tiny hybrid asking them politely to leave.

Finally, one growled, “Retreat. Effects unknown. Regroup.”

They pulled back, dragging their more dazed members with them, the van growling as it reversed into the fog.

Pitch jogged over, still shaking pins and needles from his arms.

“Okay. Okay. Cece. Kitten. Sweetheart. That was—what was that?”

Celeste puffed up, cheeks pink.

“A stabiliser bead! They calm mana storms, so I thought, well, you’re sort of stormy and they’re sort of stormy and—well—it made sense at the time! In a panicked, illogical way!”

Bartleby adjusted his crumpled coat, still trembling.

“I must say… wildly reckless, but brilliantly effective! In a partial, temporary, nearly disastrous sort of way!”

Celeste wrung her paws.

“I didn’t mean to affect you two as well. Sorry about that. Very sorry. Terribly sorry.”

Pitch sighed heavily, but a smile tugged at his mouth.

“Well… you bought us time. And scared them off. Non-lethally. Which is more than I managed.”

“But it was clumsy,” Celeste murmured.

“It was you,” Pitch corrected. “And it worked.”

Bartleby nodded.

“Yes, yes, quite right! Furthermore, the bead interference confirms that the raiders’ augment cores are unstable. If we analyse the disruption pattern, I might even deduce—”

Pitch waved his arms.

“Nerd later. People now. We need to get these civilians out.”

Celeste looked at the rescued prisoners—trembling, wounded, alive.

She exhaled shakily.

“I… I did something good. Didn’t I?”

Pitch rested a paw on her shoulder.

“Yeah, kitten. You really did.”

Behind them, deeper in the fog, an engine revved.

The raiders had not gone far.

But Celeste had found something crucial.

A way to fight without killing.

Even if it terrified her every single time.

The fog drifted apart in tattered sheets, revealing the aftermath—stunned raiders sprawled across cracked pavement, some groaning, some unconscious, all disarmed. Gunpowder lingered sharp in the air.

Celeste stood among them, small and trembling, blades still glowing faint blue.

The injured kitsune—pale, frightened, but alive—now clung to her sister. Their breaths were shaky, but steady.

The young husky hybrid stepped forward.

He was thin and light-grey, soot staining his fur, round glasses cracked at the edge. He pushed them up with one shaking paw.

“You… you saved them,” he whispered, voice tiny with awe. “Even when it would’ve been easier not to. Thank you.”

Celeste blinked, startled that gratitude could exist in a night like this.

Her voice came out small, a little wobbly, but gentle.

“Oh—um—well, I just thought… dying is awfully permanent, isn’t it? And they were scared too, and I didn’t want to add more fear on top of everything else…”

She smiled nervously.

“We’re not monsters. We don’t have to turn into the things chasing us.”

The battlefield quietened around them. Raiders limped off. Others lay unconscious. Kitsune children clutched each other with trembling paws.

The fog seemed to settle too.

Waiting.

Listening.

Celeste turned toward the young husky hybrid, opening her mouth.

Then—

CLACK.

A tiny metal canister rolled to her feet.

Celeste blinked. “Ooo—what’s that? It’s blinking—”

FWOOOM.

A blinding white flash swallowed the world.

Celeste cried out, stumbling back, eyes burning.

Pitch roared, “Oh, come on—flashbangs? Really?”

Bartleby flailed in circles, ears ringing.

“I cannot see. I cannot see anything. Good heavens—”

As the light faded into painful spots, a cold metallic pressure touched Celeste’s temple.

She froze.

A tall jackal stepped out of the fog, his long, unkempt black hair hanging like shadows, one cracked lens glinting. His other eye burned bright with hatred. His gun pressed firm against Celeste’s skull.

“Well, well…” he purred. “Look at you. A pretty little hybrid hero. Working with Council dogs. How disappointing.”

His gaze drifted to Pitch.

He lingered.

Too long.

With something sharp and knowing.

Pitch stiffened.

For one brief moment, his eyes widened.

Then he looked away.

Celeste noticed.

The jackal smiled as if he had noticed too.

“Traitors, the lot of you.”

Celeste swallowed, blinking away tears from the flash.

“I think you should… um… drop the gun. Please. I’m warning you.”

The jackal smirked.

“You summoned those weapons earlier. What are you, a Mythic?”

“I’m just—well—hybridish,” Celeste muttered. “Mostly hybridish. Partially something else-ish. It’s complicated.”

He chuckled darkly.

“A pity. You could’ve joined us. We take care of our own. Instead… you tied yourself to them.”

He said them like poison.

Celeste’s breath shook.

“Who are you?”

The jackal’s grin sharpened.

“Conrad Bogmaw.”

Pitch’s jaw tightened.

Again, he looked away.

Only for a second.

But enough.

Conrad’s smile widened.

“Ask your wolf about me sometime.”

Behind him—unseen—space shimmered.

Pitch stepped from shadow with Lady Luck pressed to the back of Conrad’s skull.

His voice dropped low, deadly.

“Hey. Buddy. That is a really bad idea.”

Conrad went still.

Slowly, he lifted his paws.

The gun fell from his hand and clattered to the street.

Celeste stumbled back, breath hitching.

“What do you want with the Purebloods?” she asked, voice cracking.

Conrad turned his head just slightly toward her, enough to reveal the grim pride burning in his single visible eye.

“An experiment,” he said. “And retribution.”

Bartleby descended from the fire escape with more enthusiasm than balance, landing in an awkward heap before scrambling upright, bow trembling.

“Retribution?” he squeaked. “You’re abducting civilians! Executing the unarmed! You call that retribution?”

Conrad bared yellowed teeth.

“For years they chipped us. Leashed us. Treated hybrids like cattle.”

His voice thickened with spite.

“We’re simply returning the favour.”

Bartleby’s whole body shook.

“He does not deserve to leave this place intact!”

Celeste lifted a hand.

“No. We’re not killing captives. We’re not like them.”

Pitch stared at her, incredulous.

“Celeste, he was literally two inches from blowing your brains out.”

He looked like a man being asked to walk into a fire wearing nothing but disappointment.

As they argued, Conrad palmed a small metal capsule.

PFFT—

Smoke erupted, thick and choking.

“Smoke grenade!” Bartleby yelped, spinning helplessly. “Oh no—not again—”

Pitch swore loudly.

“Why is it always smoke with you people?”

Footsteps scattered through the haze.

Shadows bolted into the fog.

By the time the air cleared, Conrad and the remaining raiders were gone, swallowed whole by the night.

Celeste coughed, wiping ash from her fur. Her heart pounded sickeningly against her ribs.

The kitsune sisters clung to each other.

The husky hybrid stared blankly at the ground.

Bartleby seethed.

“Next time… I don’t hesitate.”

Pitch didn’t speak.

He just stared at Celeste.

Jaw tight.

Eyes troubled.

Like Conrad had peeled back something raw in him.

Then he turned away.

Celeste looked down at the spot where Conrad had stood.

The weight of her choice pressed heavy on her chest.

She had spared a life.

But in Conrad’s final look—that strange, sharp lingering on Pitch—Celeste realised something terrible.

Not all monsters are strangers.

Some are secrets waiting to break loose.

Pitch’s voice cut through it, low, simmering, edged.

“You spared them.”

Celeste’s ears dipped.

“Well… yes. They couldn’t fight anymore. It would’ve been murder, Pitch.”

Pitch dragged in a long breath through his nose, shoulders rising and falling as if trying to keep a lid on something volcanic.

“Kitten… that mercy you’re handing out like coupons? That’s going to come back to bite us. Hard.”

Celeste’s heart squeezed.

“I know. I just—when I look at them, I don’t see a threat. I see someone who could’ve been me, if things had gone differently.”

Pitch holstered Lady Luck with a sharp click.

He stepped toward her, voice deepening—the kind he used when he was scared, but refusing to say so.

“Yeah, well, if you freeze every time you see a face instead of a weapon,” he said, “someone we care about is going to bleed out while you’re hesitating.”

His jaw tightened.

“Maybe I should’ve taken charge.”

Bartleby, who had been fussing over his musket, snapped upright with a rare spark of indignation.

“Absolutely not,” he declared, voice sharp and uncharacteristically steady. “She is Knight Commander. She must learn to make these decisions, and she will.”

Pitch let out a short, humourless laugh.

“Then she needs to learn faster. Because right now? These decisions are bad ones.”

The words hit Celeste like a physical blow. She stiffened, breath catching, but she did not look away.

“Then… then I will learn faster,” she whispered, trying to steady the crack in her voice. “I have to.”

Silence followed.

Thick.

Heavy.

Choking.

The rescued hybrids watched them from behind, eyes wide in fear and fragile hope.

Far off, sirens wailed.

Or maybe ghosts screamed.

In Clawdiff, it was often both.

After a long moment, Celeste turned to the husky hybrid and offered her paw.

“Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get you somewhere safe before something else awful happens.”

He nodded quickly.

“Yes—yes, Commander.”

Celeste helped him up and guided him forward, her shoulders squared but trembling.

Pitch watched her walk ahead, expression tight—not angry now, but troubled.

Bartleby stepped beside him, murmuring like someone trying not to be heard.

“She’s trying, you know. She’s young, and she’s trying her absolute best.”

Pitch didn’t look away from her.

His voice softened, just a little.

Enough to show the worry behind the fire.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what scares me.”

The fog thickened again, curling around overturned crates and cracked concrete, swallowing the street like the city wanted to hide what had happened.

Somewhere beyond the drifting grey, Conrad Bogmaw raised his head, ears pricking.

Already planning his next move.

Already smiling.