That was that.

The Egg Tree exploded into motion.

Supplies were bundled into crates. Tech was thrown into padded cases. Medical kits, spare crystals, mana batteries, folded stretchers, emergency blankets, maps, ropes, signal flares, cooking pots, snack tins, three suspicious devices Arcade insisted were “probably safe,” and at least one actual kitchen sink were carried toward the van.

Hughes stood in the middle of it all, barking orders like an old battlefield sergeant who had absolutely no time for feelings.

“Armour in first! Medical next! No, not under the explosives—who packed that? Topsy, put the jam down unless it’s tactical!”

“It could be tactical!” Topsy protested.

“It’s raspberry!”

“Exactly. Morale.”

Bartleby’s assistants opened the uniform cases.

For one moment, even the panic paused.

The new Knight uniforms were stunning.

Council-approved, yes, but not stiff or sterile. Lady Ivory had clearly listened. Each set was fitted to its wearer, reinforced with sleek armour panels worked into the fabric without ruining movement. The colours carried the Knights’ identity properly now—bold enough to stand before the Council, practical enough to survive a battlefield. The belts had built-in trackers, emergency signal tabs, crystal loops, quick-release clips, and, to Celeste’s eternal delight, extra pockets.

So many extra pockets.

Even unconscious, she would probably have approved.

Arcade stared at his own set, eyes narrowing in professional disbelief.

“They made these in a day?”

Bartleby straightened, recovering a little dignity. “Lady Ivory does not miss deadlines.”

Arcade turned one sleeve over, inspecting the stitching. “I hate being impressed by rich people.”

Mezzo had already put his on and struck a heroic pose with one boot on a crate.

“Behold. The handsome face of war.”

Pitch, who absolutely should have known better, leaned beside him with arms crossed and chin lifted.

“The brooding shadow of justice.”

Skye copied them immediately.

Lumina tried too, but her helmet slipped over one eye.

Hughes stared at them.

“Are you finished?”

Mezzo shifted poses. “Almost.”

“Get in the bloody van.”

The girls—except Ray—helped Celeste into her uniform.

Carefully.

Awkwardly.

With the reverence of people dressing a princess, a corpse, and a very inconvenient ragdoll all at once.

Lumina tried genuinely hard, but Celeste’s unconscious limbs did not cooperate. One arm went halfway into a sleeve. The other flopped out. Her head lolled against Carys’s shoulder. Topsy somehow got one glove on the wrong paw and then argued it was “avant-garde.”

Eventually, between Carys’s patience, Topsy’s weirdly nimble fingers, and Lumina’s determination not to cry again, they managed.

Celeste looked battered, pale, and deeply asleep.

But she looked like a commander.

Almost.

Lumina hesitated, then darted back inside.

She returned clutching Celeste’s lucky newsboy hat—the soft one with little stars and wings attached to the side.

“Just in case,” she said, voice small.

Carys softened.

“Good thinking.”

Together, Topsy and Carys carefully loaded Celeste into the van, propping her up with blankets, pillows, and one plush rabbit that had apparently come along for emotional support.

Mezzo and Hughes adjusted her carefully, like she was made of glass.

The others scrambled in after their gear.

Doors slammed.

The engine roared to life.

Then Mezzo’s comms went off.

Everyone froze.

The projection flared.

Lady Umbranox filled the screen.

Perfectly composed.

Deeply dangerous.

“Are you on your way?” she asked.

Mezzo opened his mouth.

Umbranox continued, eyes narrowing. “I have received a report that Commander Astallan is sleeping.”

Every eye in the van slid toward Celeste, who was currently slumped upright between pillows with her lucky hat slightly crooked.

Hughes stepped into view with the calm authority of a man willing to lie to aristocracy for strategic reasons.

“Commander had a difficult night, my lady. Conserving strength. Tactical rest.”

Umbranox stared at him.

“Tactical rest.”

“Aye.”

Mezzo nodded too hard. “Very tactical.”

Pitch stared out the window like he wanted no legal connection to the sentence.

Umbranox’s eyes flicked once, very briefly, toward Celeste’s unconscious shape.

Then back.

“You have five minutes.”

Pitch leaned forward. “What about parking?”

Umbranox did not blink.

“You have five minutes.”

The call ended.

For one second, no one breathed.

Then Mezzo punched the accelerator.

The van lurched forward so hard half the supplies shifted.

“Strap in!” Hughes snapped.

“I am strapped!” Topsy shouted from beneath a crate of medical gauze.

Carys clasped her hands tightly in her lap, staring out at the city sliding past.

“Stars,” she whispered, “please let today go well for the Knights.”

Across from her, Ray sat hunched near the back, arms wrapped around herself, lips moving silently. She hadn’t spoken since they left the clearing. She looked hollowed out, still wearing the new armour like she didn’t deserve it.

Mezzo glanced at her.

Then, because apparently self-preservation had abandoned him, he said, “I think Ray’ll need anger management after this.”

Ray slowly turned her head.

The look she gave him could have cut glass.

Mezzo faced forward again.

“Noted. Too soon.”

As the van sped toward the Council building, everyone fell quiet.

No jokes now.

No bravado.

Just the low hum of the road, the rattle of gear, and a collective, silent plea that Celeste would wake up before the Council doors opened.

Because if she didn’t—

Well.

That was a problem for later.

Halfway there—

Topsy leaned forward, marker in hand.

“Okay, hear me out. A little moustache. For morale.”

“No,” three voices snapped at once.

Topsy lowered the marker slowly. “Cowards.”

As the van tore through the battered streets of Clawdiff, Hughes reached for the dashboard controls.

“We need the news,” he said. “Road closures, army movements, zombie sightings.”

Pitch slapped his hand away. “No, we need Warrens traffic.”

“We are not listening to illegal pirate radio on the way to a Council war assembly.”

“It’s not illegal if the government collapsed locally.”

“The government has not collapsed.”

Pitch gestured out the window as the van bounced over something that made a wet sugary crunch.

“Are you sure?”

Hughes turned the dial.

A crisp newsreader’s voice crackled through the speakers.

“—citizens are advised to remain indoors as authorised forces prepare for a coordinated strike against the entity currently identified as—”

Pitch immediately changed the channel.

A burst of heavy bass filled the van, followed by a rapid-fire voice shouting, “—shout-out to Lower Warren Tunnel Three, where someone’s nan has barricaded a sweet shop and declared herself queen—”

Hughes changed it back.

“—Royal Quarter access remains restricted. The Council urges calm—”

Pitch changed it again.

“—this next one goes out to every hybrid who told their boss they were sick and then got spotted fighting zombies with a chair leg—”

“Pitch,” Hughes growled.

“What? That’s useful information.”

“It is not.”

“It’s morale.”

“It’s noise.”

“News is noise with a posh accent.”

The van lurched.

Something small and yellow bounced off the bonnet.

No one noticed.

Hughes twisted the dial harder.

“—military officials are expected to release a statement shortly—”

Pitch leaned across him and twisted it back.

“—and remember, if you see a candy rusher, punt first, philosophise later—”

The van thudded again.

Then again.

Topsy looked up from trying to balance a marker on Celeste’s sleeping nose. “Are roads normally this bumpy?”

Mezzo, driving with the haunted focus of a man given five minutes by Umbranox Arcturus, squinted through the windscreen. “Roads are doing their best.”

Another wet crunch sounded beneath the wheels.

Carys slowly looked down. “Did we just run something over?”

“Nonsense,” Hughes said, still fighting Pitch’s hand away from the radio. “We would have noticed.”

The van hit a Gumripper.

It stretched over the bonnet like melted elastic, squealed, snapped under the front wheel, and squished behind them.

No one noticed.

Pitch shoved Hughes’s hand aside. “Warrens channel has real updates.”

“The news has verified reports.”

“The news once called a sewer dragon a ‘large infrastructure-adjacent reptile.’”

“That was technically accurate.”

A lollipop-headed zombie staggered into the road ahead.

Mezzo was too busy yelling, “I AM DRIVING UNDER EXTREME MATERNAL DEADLINE PRESSURE,” to swerve properly.

The van bumped over it.

A tiny chime sounded from Celeste’s core.

Everyone looked at unconscious Celeste.

She did not wake.

Arcade frowned. “Did she just get experience points while asleep?”

Mezzo’s eyes widened. “Wait, are we levelling her by accident?”

“Focus on the road!” Carys shouted.

“I am focused!”

A Sugar Rusher landed on the windscreen.

Everyone froze.

The tiny sugar-cube mouse zombie clung to the glass with jagged black claws, oversized bitten ears twitching wildly. Its huge razor grin pressed against the windscreen, lime-yellow eyes rolling with hyperactive malice.

It squeaked.

Then licked the glass.

Topsy screamed, “Windshield goblin!”

Pitch pointed. “See? Warrens radio warned us about those.”

Hughes grabbed the dashboard. “Wipers.”

Mezzo hit the switch.

The windscreen wipers squeaked across the glass.

The Sugar Rusher clung on.

The wipers shoved it left.

It scrambled back right.

The wipers shoved it right.

It slid back left.

For five deeply stupid seconds, the entire van watched a battle between hostile candy vermin and basic vehicle maintenance.

Arcade leaned forward. “Put it on fast.”

Mezzo clicked the wipers up.

They whipped across the glass at full speed.

The Sugar Rusher’s grin vanished.

It squeaked once in betrayal, flew off the windscreen, bounced off a lamppost, and ran in the road behind them.

C.H.I.P. chimed. “VICTORY: WINDSCREEN WIPERS.”

Hughes stared ahead.

Pitch stared ahead.

Mezzo stared ahead.

Then Hughes calmly changed the radio back to the news.

Pitch immediately changed it to Warrens underground.

They both reached for the dial at the same time.

Carys shut her eyes. “Stars preserve us.”

Then Lumina, red-eyed and shaking, leaned close to Celeste’s ear.

“…Celeste,” she said quietly. “If you don’t wake up… I’m deleting your save data.”

Instantly—

“DON’T YOU DARE.”

Celeste bolted upright.

The van swerved.

Everyone screamed.

Mezzo almost hit the ceiling. Pitch grabbed the door handle. Topsy dropped the marker. Carys caught Lumina by the back of her armour. Hughes swore so hard Bartleby would have needed a glossary.

Then relief hit like a wave.

“Oh thank the stars,” Mezzo breathed, slumping back.

Pitch laughed once, sharp and hysterical. “She’s alive.”

Celeste blinked, groggy, hair a mess beneath her lucky hat.

“Why does my head feel like it lost a fight with a tree… and why is everyone dressed fancy?”

She looked down.

New armour.

Council insignia.

Extra pockets.

“…Did I miss something?”

“Nope!” Topsy chirped. “Perfect timing!”

Lumina was already on her, hands glowing as she pressed mana gently into the ugly bruise blooming across Celeste’s side.

“You scared me,” Lumina muttered, sniffing.

Celeste’s expression softened at once. “I’m sorry.”

Lumina’s lower lip trembled.

“Again.”

“I know,” Celeste whispered. “I’m really sorry.”

Then Celeste looked at Ray.

Ray was already turning away.

Celeste’s mouth parted. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words tangled somewhere between her chest and her throat and never made it out.

Ray stared hard out the window like the city skyline had personally offended her.

Mezzo noticed instantly.

He leaned into Celeste’s line of sight and held up his hand.

“Princess. How many fingers am I holding up?”

Celeste squinted very seriously.

“…Three?”

It was two.

Mezzo nodded gravely. “Close enough. You are absolutely not driving anytime soon.”

She giggled.

Mezzo froze.

“Good stars—look at that bruise.”

Celeste followed his gaze down to her side. A deep, ugly bloom of purple and blue spread beneath her clothes like spilled ink.

“Oh dear,” she murmured. “That is a rather big bruise.”

Mezzo whistled. “You took a punch from Ray and survived. That’s metal.”

Ray flinched.

Not much.

But enough.

Lumina’s hands glowed brighter as she worked, warm mana sinking into the bruise along Celeste’s side. The ugly purple faded, then vanished almost entirely beneath her touch, leaving only a faint ache behind.

Hughes watched for half a second too long.

“Easy,” he said gently but firmly. “Don’t burn yourself out. Save it for the fight.”

Lumina nodded, pulling back. “I know. Just enough.”

Carys hovered near the van door, arms folded tight around herself. She glanced between Lumina, Skye, and Celeste.

“…Do the kids really need to fight?”

Hughes didn’t hesitate. “They won’t. Support roles only. Back line. Out of danger.”

Lumina lifted her chin, repeating it like a mantra.

“Just like Bracer told us. I’m healing and shielding. That’s it.”

Skye nodded quickly. “And I’m summoning. Staying back. Safe.”

Carys exhaled, the tension in her shoulders loosening—just a little.

“I suppose that will do.”

Skye gave her a small, earnest smile. “I promise. We’ll be good. And we’ll be safe.”

Carys sighed, soft this time.

“Good. I don’t want anyone dying today.” She paused, then added dryly, “We’re meant to have a lovely sunset at the beach later, and I’d hate to miss it.”

The van screeched around the final corner.

The Council building rose ahead.

Tall.

Severe.

Waiting.

Mezzo slammed the brakes.

They pulled up to the Council building with seconds to spare.

Celeste stepped out—dazed, confused, sore, but standing.

Armoured.

Conscious.

Wearing her lucky hat.

Commander Astallan had arrived.

Just barely.