The iron bars of the cell cast long shadows across the rough stone floor, cold and unforgiving. Beyond the narrow corridor, past heavy reinforced doors and layers of ancient wards, the faint glow of the containment vault pulsed like a heartbeat—dim, but alive.
Celeste sat with her back pressed against the chill wall, eyes flicking toward the far end where the vault lay hidden behind thick glass and shimmering magical barriers. Through the translucent shield, she could make out the shape—twisted, distorted, almost unreal. Limbs fused with cracked shards of candy glass, antlers curling like red licorice spirals, and countless glowing eyes swirling in maddening patterns.
Suddenly, a deep, guttural rumble echoed through the corridors—a sound that vibrated in her chest. The creature inside the vault stirred. The glowing runes that reinforced its prison flared bright, then sputtered as if struggling against an invisible weight.
The monster’s massive form convulsed violently, jagged metal claws scraping the enchanted glass with grinding screeches. Cracks spiderwebbed across the surface, wisps of molten smoke curling from the fractures. With a thunderous roar, the vault shuddered, and a wave of raw, chaotic energy pulsed outward—making the very air shimmer with unstable power.
Celeste’s breath hitched. The bars of her cell vibrated as if the entire foundry itself was groaning beneath the force.
It had once been a mythic. Tall and noble. But now its body was warped—limbs stretching like taffy, fused with elements of broken candy and scorched caramel glass. Its antlers had become curling red licorice strands, its eyes too many and glowing like molten peppermint. It twitched, a digital glitch echoing through its form as if corrupted code bled from its veins.
Celeste stepped back instinctively. Something about it called to her—not with words, but with recognition.
The monster convulsed again, its limbs twitching like marionette strings pulled too tight. Celeste’s breath caught as her gaze locked on its too-many eyes.
And for the briefest of moments, something slipped through. Not words—not even a clear thought—but a pulse of feeling.
Confusion.
Like being awake inside a dream you couldn’t leave. Like knowing your body wasn’t yours anymore.
Celeste’s chest tightened, her fingers reaching half an inch toward the glass before she realized what she was doing.
She shook her head quickly, ears flicking, and pulled her hand back.
Brassmane’s voice came low and measured.
“This one was not of the dragon’s brood. He was one of ours. A seer. He believed the candy would grant him vision. Instead, it rewrote him.”
The moment shattered, leaving Celeste with only the echo of her own heartbeat and the cold reminder of what she might have imagined.
Celeste’s ears flicked back. “Oh. So—so he wasn’t… cursed or tricked? He just…?”
“Chose,” Brassmane finished, quiet and grim. “And changed within hours.”
The monster convulsed, claws scraping the enchanted glass. Celeste shrank back, her fingers curling near the hem of her hoodie. Her magic hummed faintly, unbidden.
“I don’t… I don’t understand,” she whispered.
Brassmane sealed the containment ward again, the runes locking with a resonant hum.
“You survive because you are hybrid. The mutation adapts within you. Mythics are not so fortunate. To them, it is poison disguised as sweetness.”
Celeste frowned, eyes wide. “But… that means it could happen to anyone. To someone who—who didn’t mean harm at all.”
His gaze lingered on her, calm but cutting.
“Indeed. Which is why you cannot afford to be naïve. Power such as yours will not be patient with you. Either you master it, or it will master you.”
They moved down the corridor, stone shifting into polished black, the air thick with old magic. The stairway ahead coiled downward like a throat.
Beneath her, she could sense it. Not just the weight of the relics, or even the arcane power shielding them—but him. The nightmare. The twisted mythic. The malformed echo of what too much candy could do to someone not meant to carry its power.
Brassmane folded his arms, his tone scholarly, almost detached.
“Below us lies the old control chamber. It once powered this district. Now it is a vault—a tomb for relics. They anchor that creature, feed it just enough to keep it bound. But containment falters.”
Celeste glanced up quickly, biting her lip. “So… you want us to go down there. To—to kill him.”
“To end what remains,” Brassmane corrected softly. His amber eyes glimmered like coals. “If you succeed, you will have our alliance. Our engineers, our resources, our blades beside yours when the generals come. If you fail…” He let the silence complete the thought.
Celeste’s tail twitched. “That’s… that’s asking us to destroy someone who was—who was real. Who lived.”
“He is not someone anymore,” Brassmane replied, calm as stone. “What stands there is a storm wearing his skin. Mercy is not leaving it alive. Mercy is stopping it.”
Celeste swallowed hard, ears low, but nodded faintly. “I… I see. I’ll—I’ll tell the others. We’ll… we’ll try.”
Brassmane inclined his head, grave and final. “You have one hour. Then the vault opens. Decide if you walk into it—or walk away.”
Celeste glanced down, her fingers twitching near the hem of her blue hoodie-dress. The stars stitched into the fabric shimmered under the flickering lights.
Brassmane led Celeste down one final corridor. The floor beneath them transitioned from concrete to polished black stone, glowing faintly with old energy. They stopped before a narrow iron staircase that twisted downward into the depths—toward the containment vault, and something far more dangerous than the golem had been.
Brassmane crossed his arms, his golden mane shifting slightly as he studied her.
Celeste hesitated at the foot of the stairs, ears twitching. “Um… Brassmane? How do you—how do you know hybrids won’t change? I mean… what if it just hasn’t happened yet?”
Brassmane regarded her, expression unreadable. “Because some of ours are Twanvians. Runaways. They came here seeking refuge. None of them twisted as the manaling did. Some glowed—brief flashes of light across their skin—but they remained themselves.”
He folded his hands behind his back. “But when you arrived? Some of them felt… a pull.”
Celeste’s ears lifted slightly. “A pull?”
“Resonance,” Brassmane said. His voice lowered, thoughtful now. “As though something in you was calling to them. Not only your friends. Others felt it too.”
Celeste’s paws tightened in her sleeves. “I thought… I thought it was just my friends.”
“No,” Brassmane said. “It may be anyone who carries a core.”
That made her go still.
Brassmane’s amber eyes narrowed faintly, not with anger, but concern. “And that is disturbing.”
Celeste swallowed. “I don’t mean to.”
“I believe you,” he said. “But intent and effect are not always the same thing. Your little demonstration in the arena may indicate that your new core is more unstable than the others. We cannot know for certain yet, but the way your power seeped out when your rune shifted…” He paused. “That was not ordinary.”
Celeste touched the back of her neck without thinking.
The rune was still warm.
Brassmane noticed.
“This has never been seen before,” he said quietly. Then, after a moment, he added, “Not for a long time.”
Celeste looked up at him. “What does that mean?”
Brassmane’s expression closed slightly. “It means we must look into this carefully.”
He folded his hands behind his back. “That is why we are suspicious. The Nullborn have all manner of devices, implants, hidden controls. For all I know, you could be carrying one.”
Celeste flinched, ears low. “Oh—no, I… I don’t have a clue how any of that works. Really, I’m hopeless with tech.”
Brassmane’s gaze slid toward her, sharp and calm. “And yet your hedgehog companion wears an Arcbracer. Such tools are not given to Twanvians lightly. Most are forbidden from even touching them.”
Celeste’s paws twisted in the hem of her sleeve. “If it would make your people feel better, I—I’ll ask him about it. Arcade doesn’t keep secrets from us.”
“There is no need,” Brassmane said evenly, turning his head. “If such a device threatened us, our magic would unmake it before he could blink. I tell you only so you understand why the doubt remains.”
Celeste nodded quickly, though her chest tightened. “Right. Thank you. I… I appreciate the honesty.”
She glanced toward the heavy door again, voice softer. “And what’s really in the vault? I mean… apart from him.”
“Relics,” Brassmane replied, almost dismissive. “Simple things. Fragments of old craft and forgotten enchantments. Not worth your worry.”
Celeste tilted her head, unconvinced, but said nothing.
Brassmane was quiet for a long moment.
Then his expression shifted, becoming heavier. Older.
“I must confess something,” he said. “I have known Twanvians with cores before.”
Celeste’s ears lifted. “You have?”
“Once,” Brassmane said. “Long ago, a small group came here searching for an artifact. One of them was named Kenaz.”
Celeste went very still.
Brassmane watched her carefully. “He carried such a core. Not like yours. His was more primitive. A proof of concept, perhaps. But it was there.”
Celeste’s paws curled against her chest. “Are you saying… my dad had a core too?”
Brassmane’s brows lifted slightly.
“Ah,” he said. “You are related.”
Celeste swallowed. “He’s my father.”
“I thought as much.” Brassmane’s gaze softened with faint recognition. “That head tilt you do is just like him.”
Celeste blinked, suddenly self-conscious, and straightened her head at once.
Brassmane almost smiled. “Kenaz is a legend among Twanvians and Manalings alike. He paved the way for Twanvian units. Saved Clawdiff more than once. And the Manalings owe him greatly.”
Celeste stared at him, unsure what to do with the warmth spreading through her chest.
“You must be proud to be his kin,” Brassmane said.
Celeste gave a small, nervous laugh. “I… um… well. He doesn’t really talk about things like that.”
“No,” Brassmane said, with a dry fondness that suggested he remembered exactly what Kenaz was like. “I imagine he would not.”
For a moment, silence settled between them.
Then Brassmane studied her more closely.
“By any chance,” he asked, “are you related to Aurora?”
Celeste blinked, surprised. “Oh—no. Her name was Willow.”
Brassmane studied her with a look she couldn’t place. “Strange. You carry Aurora’s likeness.”
Celeste fidgeted, confusion prickling at her. “Do I?” She offered a nervous smile and shook her head quickly. “I—I don’t think so.”
Celeste turned, her boots echoing softly as she climbed the stairs, arms wrapped around herself like a shield. Her thoughts spun: fear, pity, determination tangled together.
And below, in the dark vault, the corrupted mythic stirred again.
Waiting.
