The fog had thinned by the time they began the long trek back toward the city outskirts.

The armoured van was long gone.

The fires had smouldered into embers.

Only silence—and the far-off groan of collapsing machinery—breathed through the ruins.

Echo, the husky hybrid, walked beside Celeste with uncertain, shuffling steps. His grey fur was streaked with ash, his glasses cracked, tail flicking in small nervous jerks.

“I—um—so… I don’t really know how to thank you,” he said, still breathless, still wired. “I’m Echo, by the way. And you were just—wow. Absolutely amazing.”

Celeste blinked as though he had handed her a glowing artefact instead of a compliment.

“Oh! Ah—well—that’s very kind, but I mostly didn’t trip. That’s the impressive bit, really.”

Echo laughed faintly, emboldened.

“Do you always fight like that? With the summoning—the swords were incredible! Are they mana-bound? Can you teach that? Do you have a team name? What’s your favourite snack? Favourite colour? Favourite—”

Then he stopped.

His eyes narrowed behind his cracked glasses, not with suspicion, but recognition.

“Wait…”

Celeste tilted her head. “Wait?”

Echo pushed his glasses up with one paw, staring at her as though the fog had just cleared from an old memory.

“I know you.”

Celeste blinked. “You do?”

“You were at Comic Con,” Echo said softly. “The day it started. When the candy zombies broke out.”

Celeste’s ears perked.

Then her face lit up.

“Oh stars—you’re right!” she said, pointing at him. “You saved me!”

Echo stared at her.

“I did?”

“With the fire extinguisher!” Celeste said, as if this explained all things in the universe. “You hit one of the zombies with it and gave me time to run. It was very heroic. Also very loud. And foamy.”

Echo pushed his glasses up again and gave a sheepish little laugh, cheeks warming beneath his fur.

“Oh. Right. That. I was mostly panicking, if I’m honest.”

“Well, it was extremely effective panicking.”

Pitch, walking behind them, squinted at Echo.

“Hang on,” he said. “I remember you too.”

Echo turned, ears flicking nervously. “You do?”

Pitch pointed at him.

“You knocked over my stand.”

Echo’s face fell.

“Oh no.”

“My survival magazines,” Pitch said, voice solemn as a funeral bell. “All over the floor. Volume Fourteen of How Not To Die Horribly During Civic Collapse got trampled by a child dressed as a marshmallow knight.”

Echo winced. “I’m so sorry.”

Pitch sniffed.

“As you should be.”

Celeste looked between them, horrified and amused. “Pitch.”

“What? That was a limited print.”

Echo adjusted his glasses again, sheepish but smiling now.

“In my defence, there were zombies.”

Pitch considered that.

“Fine. Partial forgiveness.”

Celeste smiled properly for the first time since the fight.

Echo’s own smile grew a little braver.

Behind her, Pitch let out a chuckle—the exhausted, fond kind.

“Commander’s got herself a fanclub starter kit.”

Celeste rubbed her arm sheepishly, gaze drifting downward.

Her smile stayed for a moment.

Then it wilted as the fight replayed through her mind—the jackal’s laugh, the gunfire, the choice she had made.

By the time they reached the broken tram station, the sky had softened into pale grey morning. The kitsune sisters bowed gratefully before heading toward the industrial blocks. Echo lingered near the edge of the platform, shifting his weight like someone debating whether to ask one more question.

He looked toward the cracked skyline.

“I’m heading for the university ruins. Some of us are trying to rebuild the old radio hub there. If it works… maybe we can link with your signal.”

Celeste tilted her head, blinking.

“You… heard about that?”

Echo grinned.

“Everyone did. Word spreads fast when somebody lights a lantern in the dark. People listen.”

He lowered his voice conspiratorially, like sharing forbidden treasure.

“Oh—and something else. A red squirrel’s been spotted near the old candy depot on the east line. Trades snacks for batteries. Calls herself Topsy. Talks a mile a minute.”

Celeste stopped as if the world itself had snagged her cloak.

“Topsy…?”

Echo nodded.

“Yeah. Weird one. People say she pops up, hands out sweets, then vanishes. But lately… someone’s been rounding up anyone carrying candy stock. She might be in danger.”

Celeste’s breath hitched.

Her eyes shimmered, hope breaking through exhaustion like sunrise through smoke.

“She’s alive…” she whispered, voice thin and trembling.

Pitch glanced sharply at her.

“You know her?”

Celeste nodded, a tiny smile trembling at the corners of her mouth.

“Yes. She’s one of ours. And she’s still looking for Zygurr candy?”

Her voice wobbled in an affectionate sigh.

“That’s… exactly like her.”

Echo watched her reaction, curious but respectful. Celeste composed herself, brushing a tear from her cheek.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “You’ve just given me something I thought I lost.”

Echo looked startled.

Then touched.

“I hope you find her.”

“I will,” Celeste said gently. “And when you get your comms crystal working… tune in to Radio Gobaith.”

A small, hopeful spark lit her eyes.

“You’ll hear her laugh again.”

Echo chuckled. “Deal.”

He tightened the straps on his pack, offered a nervous wave, and disappeared into the lifting fog, heading toward the broken university spires.

Celeste watched him go, hope and dread mingling in her chest.

Behind her, the city waited.

Broken.

Dangerous.

Unfinished.

And somewhere in its winding ruins, a red squirrel with a pocket full of sweets was still laughing.

Pitch walked several paces ahead of them, his coat fluttering in the cold breeze that swept through the ruined streets. The fog had finally lifted, leaving the city’s bones exposed—broken towers, rusted trams, and the faint hum of old neon still trying to stay alive.

The silence between them stretched until he stopped and turned back, his face dim beneath the cracked streetlights.

“We need to talk,” he said quietly.

Celeste met his gaze, wary. Bartleby lingered a few steps behind, silent but listening.

Celeste froze mid-step, ears drooping.

“Oh dear… that sounds like the sort of sentence that comes before very upsetting news.”

Bartleby halted too, clutching his satchel nervously, clearly prepared to witness something dreadful.

Pitch rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m not trying to rip you apart, Cece. Honest. But right now… you’re a liability.”

Celeste’s breath punched out of her.

“A— I… um… what?”

Pitch sighed, running both paws through his hair.

“You’re a good person. Like, too good. Gold-star, teacher’s-pet good.”

He gestured vaguely at her.

“And that’s the problem. You’re trying to save everybody.”

Celeste fidgeted, tail curling protectively around her leg.

“Well… yes… but only because they look so very savable—”

“Yeah, and that’s adorable but dangerous,” Pitch cut in gently.

“Today? Me and Bartleby stepped in early because if you die—the whole house of cards crashes. You’re the anchor, kitten. The rest of us?”

He shrugged helplessly.

“We’re just stuck orbiting around you.”

Celeste didn’t answer, her tail curling around her leg like a nervous habit.

“You’re too important,” Pitch went on, softer now. “We don’t need you to be a hero. We just need you to stay alive. Keep breathing, and you’ll save more lives in the long run.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking up to hers.

“But mercy?”

His tone hardened.

“Mercy will bite you in the arse someday. You can’t fix people who don’t want to be saved.”

Celeste looked down at her hands, still stained faintly from the battle.

“I know what’s at stake,” she said quietly. “But if I lose myself to that—if I become like them—it’s not victory. It’s just another kind of death.”

Pitch’s expression softened.

Just a little.

“You sound like Plum,” he muttered. “All ideals, no armour.”

Before Celeste could reply, a low groan rose from the alley beside them.

A figure stumbled out—bloated, candy-fused, dripping caramel and blood.

A Jellonaught.

Its jaw hung loose, one side melting into a jawbreaker plate.

It lunged.

Celeste darted forward with a startled squeak.

“Oh no no—please stop doing that—!”

Her blades flashed, slicing the creature clean in two.

But not before its claw raked Pitch’s shoulder.

Pitch staggered, gritting his teeth.

“Augh—really? I just healed that!”

Celeste panicked immediately.

“Pitch! You’re leaking again! Oh stars, you’re leaking terribly!”

“I’m fine,” he grunted, clutching his arm. “Just a scratch. A charming scratch.”

Bartleby pressed cloth to the wound, fussing.

“You say that, but we’re nearly out of bandages, and honestly, at this point I suspect denial has become a coping mechanism.”

Pitch smirked despite the pain.

“Adds to my mystique.”

A shadow tore across the pale morning sky.

Not a cloud.

Not a bird.

Something huge and red-black streaked above the broken rooftops, wings beating so hard the loose shutters rattled in their frames. A shrill, undead-dragon shriek split the air as Marzipan shot overhead like a bat out of hell, trailing sparks, sugar-dust, and what looked suspiciously like a half-chewed street sign.

She did not slow.

She did not circle.

She did not even look down.

Celeste and Pitch both tilted their heads back, watching her vanish toward the eastern districts.

Pitch blinked.

Celeste blinked.

“She was in a rush,” Celeste said.

Pitch nodded slowly. “Yeah. I wonder where she’s going today.”

Bartleby stared at the empty sky, mouth slightly open.

“I still cannot believe,” he said carefully, “that you have a zombie dragon as a friend.”

Celeste brightened at once, as if this was the most reasonable thing anyone had ever said.

“Oh, well, she’s very useful. Very useful. Extremely useful, actually. She spits up these little gashapon eggs, and then they have things inside them. Useful things. Sometimes strange things. Once there was a tiny spoon, which was less useful, but still emotionally interesting.”

Bartleby blinked.

“I remember,” he said. “I still have my pen.”

Celeste’s ears dipped. “Sorry about that.”

“I was not complaining. It writes beautifully.”

“Oh. Good. That’s nice. I’m glad the zombie dragon egg pen is meeting expectations.”

Pitch snorted.

Bartleby adjusted his glasses, still looking troubled.

“But why is she helping you? Have you considered that she may not simply be… friendly?”

Celeste frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Bartleby said gently, “do you think she could be one of the zombie generals?”

The words sat coldly between them.

Celeste’s ears flattened.

Pitch shifted his wounded shoulder with a wince.

“If she was a general,” he said, “she’d have eaten us by now.”

Celeste pointed at him quickly. “Exactly.”

Pitch sighed. “Though I do wish she’d stopped. Could really do with another Sparkshot.”

Celeste looked up at the sky again, where Marzipan had disappeared.

“She seems friendly,” she said, softer now. “Maybe she’s just… intelligent. A very intelligent zombie. With wings. And questionable digestion.”

Bartleby’s face tightened with discomfort.

“Celeste…”

She looked at him.

He chose his words with visible care.

“We are killing her kind.”

Celeste went still.

Bartleby swallowed.

“And eventually, when the candy undead are gone, you know the Council will want her gone too.”

Celeste’s mouth fell open.

Then she made a small, offended noise.

“No.”

Bartleby winced. “I am not saying I agree—”

“No,” Celeste said again, louder, flapping her arms in distress. “Absolutely not. She helps us. She brings supplies. She gives us little prize eggs. She hasn’t eaten anyone important. Or anyone unimportant. I mean, I don’t think she has. We would have noticed. Probably.”

“Celeste—”

“And she listens!” Celeste insisted. “Sometimes. In a dragon sort of way. And she is lonely. I can tell. She does that sad roof-sitting thing when she thinks no one is looking.”

Pitch rubbed his face with one paw.

“Bartleby’s right, kitten.”

Celeste turned on him, wounded.

Pitch’s voice gentled, but did not soften enough.

“The Council won’t care that she helped. They’ll see zombie dragon and go straight to kill order.”

“But that’s not fair.”

“No,” Pitch said. “It isn’t.”

Bartleby stepped closer.

“Celeste, a zombie dragon is not the same thing as a hybrid. She is infected. Dangerous. We do not know how much of her mind is truly her own.”

Celeste’s tail lashed.

“She has enough mind to help.”

“I understand that, but—”

“No, you don’t.”

The snap in her voice made both of them stop.

Celeste’s cheeks flushed hot beneath her fur. Her paws curled into fists at her sides.

“So hybrids explode, and everyone wants us gone unless we’re useful. Unless we fight. Unless we protect people. Unless we prove we’re safe enough, helpful enough, good enough.”

Her voice cracked.

“Well, I’m useful. Very useful.”

She looked toward the sky where Marzipan had vanished.

“And so is Marzipan.”

Bartleby opened his mouth, but no words came.

Celeste bent, helped Pitch up more firmly than necessary, then started toward the base with her tail lashing behind her like an angry banner.

Pitch let her support him, though his eyes stayed on her face.

Bartleby watched her go, shaken.

“A zombie dragon is not the same thing,” he said quietly.

Pitch looked after Celeste.

The sharpness had gone from his expression.

Only worry remained.

“Is it?”

Ahead of them, Celeste kept walking.

Her jaw was tight.

Her eyes burned.

And under her breath, through gritted teeth, she whispered, “I’m useful. I may be soft, but I’ll prove I’m useful.”

The words were not meant for them.

Maybe not even for Marzipan.

Maybe they were meant for every council chamber, every old law, every polished Pureblood voice that had ever decided a life was only worth keeping if it served a purpose.