Carys handed out the scarves one by one before they disembarked—bright, simple splashes of colour meant to be seen through smoke, rubble, and panic.

“So you can find each other,” she said, tying the last knot neatly. “And so you come back.”

She stayed behind with Bonbon in the van, waving until the doors closed.

Celeste’s scarf was light blue.

It was soft. Warm.

She looped it once around her neck, then caught her reflection in the polished glass of the Council Hall doors.

For a second, she didn’t recognise herself.

Armour fitted and whole.

Blue steel, deep as twilight, curved neatly to her frame with silver trim catching the morning light. The chest piece bore the Knights’ insignia proudly: a sword set through a crown, a dragon wing sweeping out on one side and an alicorn wing on the other.

Celeste stared down at it.

For a moment, she forgot the van. Forgot the panic. Forgot the bruises still aching faintly under Lumina’s healing.

Her breath caught.

“I…” She touched the crest with careful fingers. “I look like a real proper knight.”

The words came out small.

The feeling made her chest tighten.

Proud—but unworthy of it. Grateful—but terrified she’d disappoint everyone who had given her this chance.

For one impossible second, she wondered what her father would think if he saw her like this.

Would Kenaz smile?

Would he finally look at her the way everyone said he looked at soldiers who had done something brave?

Would he say she had done well?

Would he call her brave?

Then Ray’s voice rose in memory.

No wonder your dad isn’t around.

Celeste’s paw froze against the crest.

The thought folded in on itself.

She buried it quickly, pushing it down somewhere deep where it couldn’t slow her feet or shake her hands.

Not now.

Not today.

She pulled her lucky hat off, hesitated, then tucked it under her belt instead.

No hiding today.

She smoothed her hair, took one steadying breath, and stepped forward with the others.

Inside, the hall buzzed with movement—mixed forces assembling, murmured orders, the clink of armour and the hum of mana tech. Knights. Wardens. Council auxiliaries. All converging into something dangerously close to unity.

Then—

Lady Umbranox spotted them.

Her shoulders visibly loosened.

“There you are,” she said, relief breaking through her stern composure. “You’re just on time. One more minute and I would have scolded you thoroughly.”

Mezzo mouthed worth it.

Silver stood beside her.

Council robes immaculate. Hair slicked back. Every inch the polished noble.

When his eyes found Celeste, he gave her a quick, cheeky wink.

She returned it with a small, startled smile before she could stop herself.

Umbranox stepped forward, inspecting the team with a practiced eye. Fingers brushed seams, plates, fastenings.

“Good quality,” she approved. “Reinforced. Lady Ivory knew what she was doing.”

Lysander’s voice cut in smoothly, like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“They look expensive,” he said. “Perhaps we should investigate how such… resources were acquired.”

The room cooled a fraction.

Umbranox didn’t even look at him.

“No,” she said firmly. “We will not question generosity during an outbreak.”

Lysander’s jaw tightened. He said nothing more.

But his eyes slid to Celeste.

The look wasn’t subtle.

Disgust. Suspicion. Something sharper beneath it.

Celeste held his gaze—heart pounding—but didn’t look away.

Umbranox raised one claw, the room settling into uneasy silence.

“Before we begin,” she said, “allow me to introduce Admiral Leo Voss, Head of the Caerfaen Navy.”

The doors at the far end of the chamber opened.

In strode an older tiger—tall, broad-shouldered, his orange-and-black stripes faded with age but no less imposing for it. His mane was streaked with silver, his uniform heavy with medals that looked less decorative and more like warnings. One golden eye gleamed with predatory confidence.

Beside the main command table, Air Chief Marshal Naver Suirbit was already organising her air-force unit with clipped, efficient gestures. She was a pureblood bat, barely half Celeste’s height, with one natural wing folded neatly behind her and one prosthetic wing of brass struts and mana-silk ticking softly with every movement.

Somehow, despite being tiny, she managed to look down at everyone.

Umbranox glanced from Voss to Suirbit, then placed one hand lightly against the war table.

“Knight Commander Celeste Astallan,” she said. “Daughter of Commander Kenaz Astallan of the Silver Arrows.”

The effect was immediate.

Several officers looked up.

Voss stopped mid-stride.

Suirbit’s sharp little eyes flicked toward Celeste with sudden interest.

Umbranox continued, voice smooth. “It would seem she is following in his footsteps.”

Celeste’s ears warmed beneath the weight of every gaze in the room.

Voss looked her up and down.

Not cruelly.

Not kindly either.

Like he was inspecting a blade fresh from the forge and deciding whether it would hold.

“Commander Astallan,” he said slowly. “Your father was awarded the Arcturus Star. One of the highest honours this country gives to soldiers who survive the impossible and make the impossible regret trying.”

Celeste’s breath caught.

Voss’s golden eye narrowed.

“I fought alongside him once.”

Her heart gave a strange little twist.

“You did?”

“Aye.” Voss clasped his hands behind his back. “I wonder if you will live up to the high standard he set.”

Celeste immediately forgot how military words worked.

“I—um—well—I hope I do. I mean, I’ll try. Obviously I’m trying already, not that trying is the same as succeeding, which I know, because everyone keeps explaining that to me very loudly, and I’m not sure if having his name helps or makes it worse, because I don’t actually know him very well, but I do want to be brave and useful and—”

Voss lifted one claw.

Celeste stopped so fast her teeth clicked.

“Simple answers,” he said.

Celeste blinked. “Sorry?”

“When a senior officer asks you something in a war room, reply simply. Yes, sir. No, sir. I understand. I don’t understand. Don’t empty your entire nervous system onto the table.”

Mezzo made a strangled noise behind her.

Arcade whispered, “I’m writing that down.”

Voss’s mouth twitched.

“Clearly, you are learning on the fly,” he said. “Fine. Many of us did. Not all soldiers came polished from military schools and nursery drills.” His gaze swept briefly across the room, catching several noble officers before returning to Celeste. “So pay attention. Watch how we answer. How we stand. How we waste no words when seconds matter. Mirror what works until it becomes yours.”

Celeste stared at him.

She was not entirely sure if she had just been insulted or helped.

Possibly both.

“Yes, sir,” she said quickly.

Voss nodded once. “Better.”

Suirbit clicked her prosthetic wing shut and stepped closer.

“Do you have wings, Commander?”

Celeste glanced back at herself automatically, as if they might have appeared without asking.

“Um. Yes. Sort of. When I take my rune out, they come back, but they’re mana-based.” Her hands twisted together. “So it’s like having them again. But I can’t fly yet.”

Suirbit went very still.

For one quick second, surprise flashed over her face.

Maybe even jealousy.

Then it vanished beneath command polish.

“Hm,” she said. “It would be handy to learn.”

Celeste’s ears perked. “Really?”

“When you can fly without dropping yourself into a chimney, apply for a permit.” Suirbit looked her over again. “Then you could fly missions like your father did.”

Celeste froze.

“My dad flew?”

Suirbit’s expression softened by a fraction.

“Stars, yes.”

Celeste stared at her, completely thrown. “No one told me that.”

Suirbit shook her head slowly. “There is a lot about your old man you don’t know.”

Celeste’s chest tightened.

Before the ache could show too much, Suirbit tilted her head, studying her.

“But you have his head tilt,” she said.

Celeste blinked.

Then realised she was, in fact, tilting her head.

She straightened so abruptly Arcade coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.

Voss gave a low, amused rumble.

“Enough nostalgia,” he said, turning sharply toward the centre of the hall. “We have a kraken to kill.”

He stopped dead centre of the hall.

Then he smiled.

It was not a friendly smile.

“So,” Voss purred, voice deep and theatrical, carrying effortlessly across the chamber. “These are the famous Knights of Clawdiff. How utterly dramatic.”

Mezzo muttered, “Why does he sound like he’s about to monologue before punching a god?”

Voss clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace slowly, boots echoing.

“Let us dispense with pleasantries,” he continued. “You face a Zombie Kraken—a creature of scale, regeneration, and frankly… poor manners. Conventional weapons are ineffective. Bombardment? Amusing. Artillery? A tickle. Fire? It enjoys it.”

He stopped, turning sharply.

“Hybrid strikes, however—those work.”

A holo-map flared to life behind him: a massive writhing shape beneath dark water, tentacles coiling around shattered docks.

“The operation is simple,” Voss said, spreading his claws. “The fleet engages first. Loud. Flashy. Explosions. We draw its attention and—more importantly—its rage.”

His grin widened.

“While it is distracted, the Knights of Clawdiff deploy as a strike team. You will be delivered directly onto the target. Inside its reach. Possibly inside its mouth. Do try not to die.”

Several Council Knights bristled.

One stepped forward, metal wings flaring as his jetpack powered briefly. “With respect, Admiral, Council Knights are equipped with plasma weaponry and aerial units. We hardly need—”

“Our guns can punch through reinforced hulls,” another added sharply. “A kraken is not beyond us.”

Voss turned slowly toward them.

“Oh?” he said pleasantly. “How charming.”

He leaned forward just enough for menace to creep into his tone.

“And how many hybrid-class kills have your plasma guns confirmed?”

Silence.

Voss straightened. “Exactly.”

A low rumble of agreement moved through the hybrid ranks.

Brassmane stepped forward then, towering and calm, his mane braided with sigils. “My order has lent battle-mages and healers. Mana reinforcement, triage circles, emergency stabilization—”

“Unnecessary,” Voss cut in smoothly, waving a dismissive claw. “Our sparkshots provide adequate battlefield healing.”

That earned an actual growl from Brassmane.

Before the room could fracture completely—

“Enough.”

Umbranox’s voice cracked like a whip.

Every head turned.

“This is not a competition,” she said coldly. “It is an extinction-level threat. You will work together. Fleet, Knights, Council, Church, Mythic mages—all of you.”

Her gaze lingered on the Council Knights a moment longer than comfortable.

“You will survive together,” she continued, “or you will fail separately.”

Voss chuckled softly. “Ah… unity. How dreadfully noble.”

Brassmane inclined his head. “Then we proceed as one.”

Celeste felt the weight of it settle into her chest.

Strike team. Kraken. No margin for error.

Umbranox looked directly at her then—at the blue scarf, the armour, the quiet resolve she was still learning how to carry.

“Knights of Clawdiff,” Umbranox said. “You are the spear.”

Voss’s grin sharpened.

“And spears,” he added, “are only interesting when they’re thrown.”

The holo-map zoomed in.

The kraken shifted.

But just by the navy. The Luminarch Paladins stood in a radiant line—golden armour polished to a blinding sheen, longswords humming softly as laser filaments traced elegant paths along the blades. Light crawled over their weapons like caged lightning.

Their leader stepped forward: Supreme Commander Diana Lockhart, a tall, white Persian with an immaculate mane braided in ceremonial loops. Her eyes were sharp, appraising, and entirely unimpressed by nonsense.

“Lady Umbranox,” she said coolly. “Our scouts reported potential mind-control capabilities associated with the target. Is that… accurate?”

Umbranox nodded once. “From what we’ve been able to gather—yes. There was also an incident at the beach. The Knights of Clawdiff intercepted it before it reached the city.”

A city police officer at the back snorted.

“Intercepted it in beachwear, apparently.”

That was all it took.

A ripple of laughter rolled through the other squads—Council Knights, militia units, even a few Church Paladins chuckling behind gauntlets.

The Knights of Clawdiff collectively found the floor fascinating.

Mezzo leaned in toward Celeste, voice low.
“Do you ever feel like we’re the punchline?”

Celeste, mortified but honest, whispered back,
“All the time.”

Admiral Voss clapped his claws together once—crack—and the room snapped back to attention.

“Enough,” he said sharply. “This is not a comedy festival. Mana shields up at all times. Air regulators engaged. If you fall into the water, you will not have the luxury of panic.”

That’s when Celeste froze.

Not metaphorically.

Like a student who had just realized the homework was still on the kitchen table.

Her eyes widened. Her shoulders stiffened.

Slowly—so slowly—she raised her hand.

The silence that followed was immediate.

Unfortunately, so was the laughter.

A few knights actually bent over.

One muttered, “Oh this should be good.”

Voss turned, one striped brow lifting.
“Yes?” he drawled. “Does the Knight-Commander have a question?”

Celeste swallowed.

“…Do you have any spare air regulators?” she asked quietly. “I, um. I forgot to bring ours.”

The laughter came back harder this time.

Voss stared at her like she’d just asked if the kraken accepted apologies.

“Stars, no,” he said flatly. “You should have brought your own.”

Umbranox shot Celeste a sharp look.
“Preparedness is non-negotiable, Commander. Next time.”

Celeste nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Next time, she thought weakly.

She really hoped there was a next time—
because if she fell into the water on this mission, she wouldn’t swim.

She wouldn’t breathe.

And suddenly, the ocean on the holo-map looked a lot bigger than it had a moment ago.