Carys had claimed the kitchen like a battlefield general.

Pancakes were everywhere.

Stacked on plates. Balanced on trays. Cooling on cloths. Wrapped around sausages. Stuffed with fruit. Dripping with syrup. One entire side table had become a pancake fort, and Topsy was already orbiting it with the intensity of a starving comet.

Carys moved through it all with terrifying efficiency, shoving pancakes into any mouth that passed too close like the entire Egg Tree was a nest of baby birds and she alone had been chosen by destiny to keep them alive.

“Eat.”

Topsy took one in both hands. “I already—”

“Eat.”

Pitch opened his mouth to protest and found a folded pancake placed neatly into it.

Hughes walked in and accepted one without breaking stride, because Hughes had survived enough wars to recognise when resistance was pointless.

By the time Celeste wandered in, still slightly rumpled from the airhorn incident, the table was already full—plates stacked high, steam curling from mugs, the smell of something warm and grounding filling the base.

Her arcbracer immediately lit up.

Then lit up again.

Then again.

And again.

Celeste froze as messages began pouring across the screen.

MISSED CALL: LADY UMBRANOX ARCTURUS

STATUS UPDATE: WAR COMMITTEE ASSEMBLING

SUPPLY REQUEST: FIELD ARMOUR CONFIRMATION

MILITARY FORM: AUXILIARY UNIT MOVEMENT AUTHORISATION

COUNCIL NOTICE: FAILURE TO RESPOND MAY RESULT IN FORMAL—

Celeste stared at the stream of notifications, slowly going paler.

“I don’t know what any of this means.”

Hughes reached over, took her wrist gently, and angled the arcbracer toward himself.

“Right,” he said. “You eat. I’ll stop the paperwork from eating you.”

Celeste blinked. “Can you do that?”

“Lass, I was filling in requisition forms before most of these nobles learnt to spell requisition.”

He tapped through three screens, dismissed two warnings, answered a field query with one hand, and stole another pancake with the other.

“Armour’s on the way,” he added. “Lady Ivory confirmed delivery. Proper fittings, reinforced plating, emergency repairs. Should arrive before we move.”

Mezzo, already halfway through a stack of pancakes, sighed with deep relief.

“Just in time. I was one bad hit away from fighting a kraken in vibes and a jacket.”

Celeste sat opposite Carys and took a bite.

“Oh—this is really good,” she said honestly.

Carys smiled, then leaned forward and gently brushed a loose strand of hair out of Celeste’s face without thinking.

Celeste froze. “…Oh.”

Her ears warmed.

Just a little.

Carys, blissfully unaware—or pretending to be—went on talking. “I’ve been working on a new art piece. Well. Trying to. I was hoping we’d have time to finish it together soon.”

“The quilt?” Celeste asked. “Yeah. It’s… taking forever.”

Carys laughed softly. “I know.” Then, quieter, “I think I want it to.”

Celeste tilted her head. “Why?”

“So I get more time with you.”

Celeste smiled, completely missing the implication. “That makes sense! I’ve learned so much from you. Like—way more patience than I thought I had.”

Carys looked away, lips pressed together, staring into her mug like the answer to a very important question might be hiding at the bottom.

Celeste watched her for a second. “You look cute when you do that.”

Beat.

Celeste’s eyes widened. “I—oh stars—sorry—I didn’t mean—not like that—I mean—”

Carys flushed anyway, cheeks pink, but instead of pulling back she smiled—soft, fond, just a little resigned. She reached across the table and touched Celeste’s hand.

“You’re so sweet,” she said gently.

Celeste’s brain… stopped.

She stared at their hands like they belonged to someone else entirely.

Before she could say something catastrophically awkward, Ray walked in.

The warmth dropped out of the room.

Ray’s hair was tied back. Her boots were already on. Her expression suggested she had been awake for hours and had spent every single one of them becoming more annoyed.

Celeste sat up quickly, nearly knocking over her mug.

“Ray! Morning. Um. I know yesterday was bad. With Bonbon. And me running after her. And the pipe. Not your pipe. The pipe you used. I mean—not that it was your pipe emotionally, unless you bonded with it after—”

Ray’s stare sharpened.

Celeste panicked harder.

“I just mean I understand why you were angry, and I’m sorry I made it worse by escaping and then accidentally rescuing people without telling anyone, but also Bonbon is safe, so that’s good, right? Not that it makes ignoring orders good. It doesn’t. Orders are important. I like orders. When I understand them. Which I often don’t. But I’m learning.”

Ray’s eyes narrowed to slits.

Somehow, this had made everything worse.

Pitch slowly lowered his fork.

Hughes closed his eyes.

Mezzo whispered, “Abort, Commander.”

Celeste whispered back, “How?”

Her arcbracer rang again.

Loudly.

The projection burst open over the table before anyone could stop it.

A thin-faced noble lord appeared in formal morning robes, looking furious enough to curdle tea.

“Commander Astallan,” he snapped. “This is Lord Merrow of the Inner War Council. Your failure to respond to mobilisation orders has already caused—”

Celeste jolted upright so fast she almost saluted with a pancake.

“Oh! Sorry! I thought you were one of the warning pop-ups.”

The kitchen went silent.

Lord Merrow stared.

Celeste realised what she had said.

Her soul departed.

“I didn’t mean—you’re not a pop-up. Obviously. You’re a lord. A very… real lord. With a face. And consequences.”

Lord Merrow’s expression turned glacial.

“There will indeed be consequences.”

Ray stepped forward sharply. “Give me that.”

Celeste panicked and tried to hand her the arcbracer while also closing the pancake syrup notification, accepting an armour receipt, rejecting a duplicate calendar invite, and accidentally opening a folder labelled MILITARY ORDER FORMS — DO NOT DELETE.

Ray grabbed for the projection.

“Stop touching things.”

“I’m trying!”

“Stop trying!”

Celeste tapped the wrong command.

The folder vanished.

A tiny cheerful message appeared.

ORDER FORMS DELETED.

Everyone stared.

Celeste whispered, “Oh no.”

Ray’s face went utterly still.

Lord Merrow’s projection flickered as Hughes lunged across the table, snatched Celeste’s wrist, and began restoring the files with the air of a man defusing a bomb made of bureaucracy.

“Technical issue,” Hughes said calmly. “Resolved shortly.”

Lord Merrow inhaled through his nose. “Commander Astallan, if this is the standard of operational readiness—”

Ray leaned into the projection, voice clipped and deadly. “She’ll be ready.”

Then she ended the call.

The silence that followed was worse.

Celeste looked at Ray.

“I’m sorry.”

Ray did not answer.

For one long second, she looked like she might explode right there in the kitchen.

Instead, she turned away.

“I’m getting air,” she said, voice dangerously flat. “Before I say something I’ll regret.”

She stalked out.

The door swung shut behind her.

No one moved.

Then everyone exhaled at once.

Pitch rubbed both hands down his face. “Well. That went about as badly as physically possible.”

Hughes was still restoring the forms. “Not physically possible. Give it five minutes.”

Celeste sank slightly in her chair. “I made it worse.”

Mezzo opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then patted her shoulder carefully. “A wee bit.”

Arcade burst into the kitchen mid-sentence, already half distracted, sleeves rolled up and glowing circuitry hovering around his wrists.

“I just need five minutes—maybe ten—if I reroute the mana sink through—”

SMASH.

The mug hit the floor and shattered.

Silence.

Arcade stared down at the pieces in slow horror.

“Oh no. Oh no no no—shit shit shit.” He dropped to his knees. “That was Ray’s mug. That was the birthday mug. She is going to kill me.”

Carys winced and immediately went for a broom. “I’ll get a brush.”

Celeste was already there.

She had dropped to her knees in the glass before anyone could stop her, still overwhelmed, still trying to fix something, anything.

“It’s fine, Static. It was an accident. I’ll make her another one.”

Arcade looked at her like she’d just suggested walking into traffic.

“You don’t understand,” he hissed. “She’s already in a foul mood. Like—pre-apocalypse foul.”

Celeste reached for a shard.

It slipped.

The piece skidded across the floor and landed squarely on Arcade’s foot.

“Ow—!”

“Oh stars, I’m sorry,” Celeste blurted. “I’m so clumsy—”

The words hung in the air.

Wrong words.

Wrong time.

Because the kitchen door had opened again.

Ray stood there.

Still.

Silent.

She hadn’t seen Arcade drop the mug.

She hadn’t seen him panic.

She hadn’t seen Carys reach for the broom.

All she saw was Celeste kneeling in the middle of shattered ceramic, one shard in her hand, apologising for being clumsy.

Ray’s birthday mug lay in pieces around her.

No one moved.

Pitch’s fork hovered halfway to his mouth.

Hughes stopped typing.

Carys froze, broom halfway up.

Arcade went pale.

Celeste looked up slowly.

The horror dawned on her face far too late.

“Ray, I didn’t—”

Ray’s gaze lifted to Celeste.

Something in it closed.

“Out,” she said.

Celeste blinked. “Oh—okay.” She started to stand, relieved by the simplicity of the instruction. “Yeah, I can—”

Everyone else reacted instantly.

“Ray—” Pitch started.

“Outside,” Ray clarified, already moving forward.

Celeste smiled awkwardly, still completely unaware of how bad this looked. “Right. Outside. Sure.”

She stepped past Ray and pushed the door open.

The moment she crossed the threshold—

Pitch lunged. “Ray, don’t—!”

Ray shoved him aside with one sharp movement. Not hard.

Just final.

“Stay out of it.”

Pitch staggered back, swearing under his breath.

Hughes closed his eyes. “…Oh no.”

Carys whispered, “Celeste doesn’t even know, does she?”

Hughes moved next.

Faster than anyone expected.

He planted himself directly between Ray and the door, cane tapping once against the floorboards as his eyes locked onto hers.

“Ray,” he said, voice low, “if you hurt her before the battle, we’ll all be screwed. Calm your fire, phoenix.”

Ray stared at him.

Then laughed.

Not warmly.

Not kindly.

Just one sharp, humourless sound.

“Oh, I’m calm,” she said. “I just want a little chat, that’s all.”

Hughes didn’t move.

“Ray. I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Her tail lashed once.

Then she shouldered past him and stormed outside.

The door slammed behind her.

For one frozen second, no one spoke.

Pitch looked from the door to Hughes.

“Do we stop this?”

Hughes stared after Ray, jaw tight.

“If it escalates,” he said.

Carys gripped the broom so tightly her knuckles had gone pale.

Arcade swallowed, still kneeling beside the broken mug.

“She thinks Celeste did it.”

“I know,” Hughes said.

Pitch swore under his breath and headed for the door.

Hughes caught his sleeve before he could pass.

“Not yet, lad.”

Pitch’s eyes flashed. “She’s going to tear into her.”

“Aye,” Hughes said grimly. “And maybe Celeste needs to finally understand what she’s walking into.”

Carys looked horrified. “Hughes.”

His face softened, but only a little.

“I don’t like it either,” he said. “But if we all jump in too soon, Ray’ll think we’re protecting Celeste from consequences again. That’ll make it worse.”

Outside, Ray’s voice carried faintly through the door.

Sharp.

Cold.

Celeste answered, quieter.

Too quiet.

Hughes closed his eyes for half a breath.

“Stars help us,” he muttered. “Today of all bloody days.”