Ray stood frozen.

The fires dimmed around her.

Not gone.

Just lower now, guttering at the edges of the clearing, clinging to broken roots and scorched grass like they didn’t know the fight was over.

Ray’s chest heaved.

Her claws were still out.

Her hands were shaking.

And now that the phoenix fury had passed, now that the roaring in her blood had quietened enough for the world to come back in pieces, she could see it.

The damage.

Trees broken clean in half.

Cratered dirt torn open by impacts.

Blackened grass.

Splintered roots.

Smoke curling from the Egg Tree’s bark.

Blood on her arms.

Blood across her knuckles.

Blood at the corner of her mouth.

And she knew it wasn’t all hers.

Ray stared down at herself, breath catching in short, sharp pulls.

This was what people meant when they said never cross a phoenix.

Not because phoenixes were brave.

Not because they were noble.

Because their fiery tempers knew no bounds once they slipped the leash.

Her father’s voice rose in memory, old and tired and stern.

Control your temper, Ray.

She had hated that phrase.

Hated how often he said it.

Hated the way he looked at her after she broke something, after she shouted too loudly, after she burned too hot.

Control your temper.

Control your temper.

Control your temper.

Ray looked up.

And saw why.

Ahead of her, something small lay crumpled in the dirt.

For one stupid second, her mind refused to understand it. It looked like a doll thrown carelessly through mud and ash. Limbs wrong. Clothes torn. Fur streaked with soot and blood.

Then Ray realised.

It was Celeste.

Her mouth moved.

No sound came out.

No.

The word shaped itself on her lips, useless and silent.

Hughes’s voice cut through the clearing.

“Ray. Stay put.”

The order landed hard.

Ray flinched.

The others ran past her.

Mezzo was first, boots skidding through ash as he dropped to his knees beside Celeste. Pitch came after him, pale with anger, fear, and something much worse than both. Carys burst from the doorway carrying Sparkshots, water, cloths, and a box of cleaning supplies clutched to her chest as if kitchen organisation might somehow save them from this. Arcade stumbled behind, already dragging up medical searches on his arcbracer with shaking fingers.

Ray heard Pitch shouting at her.

She saw his mouth moving.

Saw the fury in his face.

But the words were white noise.

Everything was white noise.

All she could hear was her own thought, repeating again and again.

I did it.

She had orchestrated the downfall of the Knights.

The very thing she had accused Celeste of causing was about to happen because of her.

There was no way Celeste could fight now.

Stars, there was no way Celeste could even stand.

Stars—

She might be dead.

That thought snapped something inside Ray.

She moved.

“Ray!” Hughes barked.

But she was already running.

She slammed her rune back into place as she crossed the clearing, fire collapsing into her chest so violently it stole her breath. The phoenix wings vanished. The heat folded inward. Her body lurched smaller, colder, weaker.

She didn’t care.

She dropped to her knees beside Celeste, skidding in the dirt, hands hovering uselessly over the bruised, unmoving body.

“Shit—Celeste—shit, I didn’t—”

Her voice broke.

“I didn’t mean—stars, I didn’t mean—”

“For crying out loud, Ray, why did you do that?” Pitch snapped, pacing like a caged animal. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Ray couldn’t answer.

Mezzo knelt hard on Celeste’s other side, eyes wide as he took in the livid mark blooming across her side. His hand hovered over her shoulder, afraid to touch, afraid not to.

“Feck me sideways,” he breathed. “Ray—did you have to slap her that hard? Hell—did you have to fight her at all?”

Ray swallowed.

Her throat felt full of ash.

“I—I lost it.”

Pitch dragged a hand through his hair. “You lost it? That’s what we’re calling this?”

“Pitch,” Hughes warned.

“No, don’t Pitch me!” Pitch snapped, voice rising. “If the Council sees this—if they hear about this—how are we supposed to show up without the Commander? She’s unconscious. We can’t use our powers properly without her.”

The words landed like a death sentence.

Ray went pale.

“We’re…” Her voice died, then came back smaller. “We’re so dead.”

Celeste’s arcbracer chimed.

Every head snapped toward it.

The call icon flared gold.

Lady Umbranox.

No one moved for a heartbeat.

Then Mezzo grabbed it.

“I—hello? Lady Umbranox—”

Her voice cut through, sharp and cold. “Where is Commander Astallan?”

Mezzo swallowed. “She’s—ill. Took a bad turn. We’re handling it.”

Silence.

Then: “That is unacceptable.”

Mezzo winced.

“You will present yourselves at the Council Hall in thirty minutes,” Umbranox said. “With or without your Commander.”

The call ended.

The clearing erupted.

“Thirty minutes?!” Topsy yelped. “She’s out cold!”

“We’re finished,” Pitch muttered. “Absolutely finished.”

Ray stared down at Celeste, guilt hollowing her out from the inside.

“I didn’t mean to…”

Hughes cut in, voice tight but steady. “Panicking won’t help. We need a plan. Now.”

Mezzo clenched his fists.

“Then someone better have a miracle in their pocket.”

Just as things couldn’t get any more chaotic, Bartleby arrived precisely on time.

Which made everything worse.

He strode into the clearing with dignified urgency, arcbracer projecting schematics as he spoke over his shoulder.

“Alright, everyone—new armour sets, updated uniforms, Council-approved colour palette—try not to spill anything acidic on them—”

He looked up.

He looked down.

He looked at Celeste.

Flat on the ground.

Unmoving.

His tablet slipped from his hands.

It hit the dirt with a sad little crack.

Silence.

Behind him, three assistants froze mid-step, each holding immaculate uniform cases. One of them mouthed, Is that the Commander?

Bartleby inhaled sharply.

“Why,” he said very calmly, “is Commander Astallan horizontal?”

Chaos answered him.

Mezzo was kneeling beside Celeste, waving a clipboard over her face like a desperate Victorian doctor.

“Celeste—hey—come on—wake up—please—this is a terrible time for a nap—”

Pitch crouched on the other side, scooping water from a flask and flicking it onto her face.

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.” Splash. “By the stars, wake up.”

Arcade sat cross-legged nearby, arcbracer projected inches from his face, scrolling furiously.

“Okay, internet says: option one, smelling salts. Option two, slap. Option three—oh no. Absolutely not. Why is this even a suggestion?”

Topsy knelt by Celeste’s head, holding out a handful of sweets like a forest sprite making offerings.

“Okay, okay—what if we bribe her? Celeste? I have gumdrops. And the good ones. The fizzy kind.”

Under a scorched tree, Ray sank down with her back against the trunk, hands buried in her hair, rocking slightly.

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t. I just—stars, I ruined everything.”

Bartleby turned in a slow, horrified circle.

“…This is operation day,” he whispered.

One assistant raised a tentative hand. “Sir. The uniforms?”

Bartleby waved weakly. “Put them… somewhere. Preferably not on fire.”

He rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside Celeste, fumbling for a pulse, for a sign, for anything.

His fingers found her wrist.

A beat.

Another.

His shoulders sagged.

“She’s breathing,” he announced, voice cracking with relief. “Thank the stars—she’s breathing.”

Mezzo leaned in. “Is she waking up?”

“No.”

Pitch squinted. “Should we yell louder?”

Arcade glanced up. “Statistically, yelling has a thirty-seven percent failure rate.”

Topsy gasped. “What if she’s pretending?”

They all stared at Celeste.

She did not respond.

Bartleby pressed his palms to his face.

“We have thirty minutes,” he said hoarsely, “before the Inner Council expects Commander Astallan in full command attire.”

Ray let out a broken laugh from under the tree.

“We’re dead.”

Bartleby looked at the unconscious girl, then at the absolute disaster masquerading as a team.

“…We need a miracle,” he said.

Carys stared at the shattered clearing, broom still clutched uselessly in one hand, cleaning supplies tucked under her arm.

Her eyes flicked from the broken trees, to the craters, to Celeste lying unconscious in the dirt.

Then to Ray.

“All this,” she said, voice trembling with disbelief, “over a damned mug?”

Hughes looked at her.

His face was grim.

“It wasn’t the mug, Carys.”

Carys turned sharply. “Then what was it?”

“This was building for a while.” Hughes’s jaw tightened. “And I should’ve said something sooner.”

Ray heard them.

She wished she hadn’t.

She sat beneath the scorched tree, arms wrapped tightly around herself, trying to hold her body together by force. If she let go, she thought she might shake apart completely.

“She’s never going to talk to me again,” Ray whispered.

No one answered.

“She’s going to kick me off the team.” Her voice cracked. “I said the worst stuff to her. I—I said things I can’t take back.”

Hughes turned on her, not cruelly, but sharply enough to cut through the spiral.

“Get a grip.”

Ray flinched.

“We can argue about this later,” he said. “Right now, we’ve got thirty minutes and an unconscious commander. Start packing things into the van.”

Ray stared at him, eyes wet.

Then Arcade’s voice cut in from beside Celeste.

“Ray.”

She looked over.

Arcade was kneeling near Celeste, one hand hovering over his arcbracer, projections flickering around his face.

“Before you go,” he said carefully, “what did you say to her to get her to act like that?”

Ray swallowed.

“I don’t remember.”

Arcade’s eyes sharpened.

Ray rubbed at her face, furious tears gathering despite herself. “I told her— I don’t know. To act more responsible, I guess. To grow a backbone. To be useful. To be a better leader.” She shook her head, looking sick. “It’s all fire and blurry. I don’t know.”

Arcade stared down at Celeste.

The unconscious girl looked painfully small now. Nothing like the bright, wrong smile from the fight. Nothing like the stiff, obedient movements. Nothing like the way she had repeated Ray’s words back as if they were instructions.

“I don’t know,” Arcade said quietly. “I don’t think what happened was normal.”

Mezzo, pale and shaken, still managed to make the worst possible joke because apparently his mouth had survival instincts of its own.

“Imagine if we could get Celeste to act like a bugbunny,” he said weakly. “How adorbz would that be? Or give her a funny accent.”

Arcade looked at him.

Mezzo held up both hands. “Coping badly. I know.”

“Boys,” Hughes snapped. “Focus.”

Then he pointed at Ray.

“Ray. Supplies. Now.”

Ray nodded.

She pushed herself up slowly. Her posture said sorry even though her mouth couldn’t form it. Shoulders hunched. Head low. Arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to keep all the guilt from spilling out.

She walked toward the storage crates without looking at Celeste again.

Lumina came running the moment she saw her.

She skidded to a stop, took one look at her sister’s unmoving body—and lost it.

“No—no no no—CELESTE!”

Lumina dropped to her knees, sobbing, clutching Celeste’s sleeve.

“Wake up! Please wake up—this isn’t funny—”

Bonbon joined in immediately, wailing and hugging Celeste’s arm like it was a life raft.

Carys tried everything she could think of—her favourite food, held right under Celeste’s nose.

Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

Mezzo whispered prayers he hadn’t used since childhood.

Pitch paced holes into the ground.

Ray didn’t look at anyone.

Hughes clapped his hands once, sharp and decisive.

“Right. Plan is simple. We grab our gear, chuck it in the van. Somebody helps the Commander get changed”—his gaze slid, merciless, toward the girls—“yes, I mean you. Then we prop her up in the van and pray to every god that listens she wakes up before we get there.”

Mezzo had curled in on himself, rocking slightly, staring at Celeste like she might suddenly apologise for the inconvenience of being unconscious.

“This is going to look like we’re dragging a corpse.”

Pitch didn’t even look up while checking his kit.

“Got a better idea, buddy? Because the Council will absolutely kick our asses.”

Topsy, completely unbothered by the gravity of the situation, perched beside Celeste and began stacking sweets on her leg with intense concentration.

One slipped.

She gasped.

Adjusted.

“Or,” she offered cheerfully, “they laugh us into oblivion.”

Hughes pinched the bridge of his nose. “Any other ideas?”

Mezzo brightened weakly. “We give her a sick day letter.”

Pitch snorted. “I don’t think the Council accepts those.”

Bartleby looked from the unconscious commander to the team around her, then to the pristine uniform cases waiting beside his assistants.

His expression went very still.

“Someone,” he said faintly, “please tell me the Commander can sleep with her eyes open.”

No one answered.

Bartleby shut his eyes.

“Splendid,” he whispered. “We are going to war with a ragdoll mannequin.”