The market square buzzed with life, a patchwork of survivors mingling under hastily strung lanterns and weathered tents. The Rustrows may have looked like a dead factory from the outside, but inside, it breathed like a hidden village. Smoke curled from cooking pots. Charms clinked from ropes. Children darted between stalls, some with horns, some with wings, some with tails that sparked faintly when they laughed.
As Celeste took it all in, a small figure padded up—a petite dragon girl no taller than a child, her scales gleaming faintly in the lantern light. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she approached, her voice soft but confident.
“In Welsh,” she asked shyly, “sut wyt ti’n gwneud dy hud?”
“How do you do your magic?”
Celeste smiled back at her.
Suddenly, with a soft shimmer of light and a faint crackle of power, two glowing katanas materialised in her hands—blades of pure, shimmering magic and stars, humming softly with energy. The crowd nearby gave an appreciative murmur, eyes drawn to the elegant weapons that pulsed with azure light.
Celeste’s grip tightened briefly on the katanas. For a moment, her eyes flashed blue as the blades responded, their edges glowing brighter in silent readiness. Then she relaxed, offering a small, gentle smile, and slowly sheathed the weapons with a quiet snap.
The girl squealed in delight.
Celeste crouched down to meet her eyes. “These are my magic,” she said softly. “They come from me.”
The dragon girl beamed and, with a playful puff of smoke, exhaled a small plume of fire. The flames swirled and twisted until they transformed into a delicate butterfly, glowing and fluttering gently above her palm.
Celeste clapped her hands softly. “That’s… beautiful.”
Her voice held an unexpected warmth, a flicker of longing deep inside. For a brief moment, she imagined what it might have been like—growing up wielding such magic naturally, instead of learning to summon it piece by piece.
Nearby, the other children gathered, eyes wide with wonder as they edged closer to Celeste’s glowing katanas. One reached out hesitantly to touch a blade, their fingers tingling at the faint pulse of magic.
Lumina stepped forward at once, smiling shyly. “You shouldn’t touch the sharp bit. Even if it’s pretty.”
The children stared at her.
Then one little goat boy pointed at her shield. “Can you do magic too?”
Lumina brightened. “A little.”
Her Roselight Blade shimmered into her hand, softer and smaller than Celeste’s katanas, glowing pink-red like a flower catching sunrise. The children gasped. Lumina’s cheeks went pink, but she held it proudly.
Skye lingered behind her at first, unsure, his fingers curled around his Aurex Arcana. One of the smaller children—a Kludde with fluffy tail—peeked at him.
“What’s that?”
Skye glanced down. “My weapon.”
“Does it do tricks?”
Skye hesitated, then tapped it carefully.
A tiny projection flickered above his wrist: a spinning little constellation shaped like a cat.
The children erupted into delighted chatter.
Skye blinked, startled by the attention, but Lumina grinned and nudged him gently. Soon the two of them were drawn into the children’s games, showing harmless little sparks, glowing shields, tiny projections, and careful bits of magic that made the younger mythics squeal with joy.
Mezzo, refusing to be ignored by anyone under the age of twelve, swung his guitar around with a flourish.
“Alright then, wee legends. Who wants to see a real instrument?”
A cluster of children immediately swarmed him.
Mezzo struck a chord.
The sound rolled through the square like thunder wrapped in glitter.
Several children cheered. One tiny faun clapped so hard he nearly fell over. Mezzo grinned, playing a quick, flashy riff that made sparks dance harmlessly along the strings.
“See that?” he said proudly. “Talent. Style. Volume. The holy trinity.”
Ray, from across the square, called, “Noise pollution.”
Mezzo pointed dramatically at her. “Jealousy is ugly on you, Ray!”
Ray smirked despite herself.
Hughes wandered over, trading seeds and supplies with a merchant wrapped in colourful scarves, his gruff voice haggling good-naturedly as the barter took shape.
Arcade crouched nearby, utterly absorbed. His fingers tapped furiously against a worn notebook as he scribbled notes on the magic he observed, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Fascinating,” he muttered, “energy signature, plasma resonance… potential for adaptive shielding…”
C.H.I.P. hovered beside him, cheerfully scanning everything that moved.
That, unfortunately, made him popular.
Three mythics drifted closer. Then five. Then seven.
One elderly crow woman leaned in, peering at C.H.I.P. through a brass monocle. A young ram boy poked one of C.H.I.P.’s side panels. A lizard with glowing tattoos circled him with open fascination.
C.H.I.P. beeped.
“Observation: I am being perceived as either sacred, cursed, or collectible.”
Arcade snapped his notebook shut and stood in front of him. “No. Absolutely not. Nobody touches the robot.”
The ram boy withdrew his finger. “But it talks.”
“Yes, he does that,” Arcade said. “Usually when I don’t want him to.”
The crow woman clicked her beak. “Is it bound?”
Arcade’s quills bristled. “He is bound. He is annoying. Properly. Mostly. And he is not for sale, study, blessing, exorcism, or whatever that spoon thing is.”
The lizard slowly lowered a spoon-shaped charm.
Arcade pointed. “Thank you.”
C.H.I.P. rotated once in the air. “Statement: I am enjoying the attention.”
“You are enjoying nothing,” Arcade snapped, shooing the mythics back with both paws. “You don’t have glands.”
“Counterpoint: I have charisma.”
“You have a warranty I voided in three places.”
Before Celeste could reply, a flash of blue caught her eye. A young dragon with pale blue scales and a shock of white hair jogged toward her, grinning ear to ear.
“Hey—it’s you!” he said breathlessly. “Thanks for savin’ us down in the sewers the other day.”
Celeste’s ears dipped, her cheeks colouring. “I-it’s fine, really… I just did what anyone would’ve.”
Cosmo shook his head, adamant. “Nah, I already put in a good word for you. Everyone knows what you and your lot did—and about your special mana.”
Celeste’s eyes widened, her arms tightening around herself. “Th-that’s not… a problem, is it?”
“Problem? Not here.” Cosmo puffed out his chest, pride shining in his eyes. “We’ve all got mana. You’re safe as safe can be, an’ the Council can’t touch you. Not down here.”
He hesitated, then added, “Name’s Cosmo. I was Elder Arlos’s apprentice. Well… was. He’s been missin’ a while now.”
Celeste leaned forward, ears twitching. “Could I… maybe… keep an eye out for him?”
“That’d mean a lot.” Cosmo’s grin softened into something warmer. “But I’ll catch up with you later. Good luck, by the way.”
Celeste blinked. “Good luck? With what?”
Cosmo only gave her a knowing smile. “You’ll find out.”
Then, with a wave, he bounded off into the crowd.
Celeste stood back, watching the scene unfold—the fragile threads of hope woven between blades, magic, and friendship. Despite her own uncertainties, she couldn’t help but feel a spark of something new: a fragile, glowing ember of possibility.
The evening sky deepened into a bruised purple as the market’s laughter and chatter slowly softened. Suddenly, a ripple of stillness passed through the crowd—an unspoken signal that something was coming.
From the shadows beyond the clearing, Brassmane emerged once more, this time not alone.
Behind him, a circle of figures followed, cloaked in dark robes etched with glowing runes and adorned with curious brass and copper gears that hissed softly with each measured step. The elders had arrived.
Their eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the gathering as they took their places around Brassmane, who stood tall like a living monument, antlers casting long shadows across the ground.
One elder broke from the circle.
She was a tall deer woman dressed in traditional Caerfaenic clothing: a dark wool gown layered beneath a red shawl, embroidered with old knotwork and tiny copper charms. A tall black hat sat between her antlers, its brim decorated with dried mountain flowers. Her hooves clicked softly over the stone as she approached Ray.
Ray stiffened.
The elder’s eyes lowered to Ray’s chest.
The glow beneath Ray’s clothes pulsed once.
The elder staggered back.
Her paw flew to her mouth, and her voice came out in a shaken whisper.
“Mae’r Twanviaid fel y Manaliaid nawr…” she breathed. “Mae ganddyn nhw greiddiau fel ni.”
The Twanvians are like the Manalings now. They have cores like us.
A murmur rushed through the elders.
One of them stepped closer, eyes bright with scholarly hunger. “This must be studied further.”
Another nodded quickly. “If hybrids now carry cores like mythics, then the change may be deeper than we assumed.”
A third elder turned toward Celeste. “The girl may not be the only anomaly.”
Ray’s jaw tightened. “We’re standing right here.”
Arcade moved closer to Lumina and Skye, ears flattening. “Nobody is studying anyone without consent, a clean room, and at least three signed forms. Preferably mine.”
Plum’s pencil hovered.
Hughes looked at her.
Plum lowered the pencil.
Brassmane raised one hand.
The elders quieted, though several continued staring at the glowing chests with barely contained fascination.
“The cores matter,” Brassmane said, his voice low and final. “But so does the test.”
The elder in the red shawl looked as though she wanted to argue, but Brassmane’s gaze stopped her.
“To offer aid to a hybrid,” he began, “one must first pass our trial. This is no mere formality. It is a test to prove loyalty, strength, and true intent.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
“Our lands are infiltrated by spies—those who wear false faces for the Purebloods,” one elder added, voice cold and unwavering.
Brassmane nodded grimly.
“Just a day ago,” he continued, “the Purebloods council came. They offered their service—submission in exchange for protection against the growing zombie threat.”
The crowd murmured, some faces tightening.
“But we will never bow,” Brassmane’s voice hardened. “Never be subjected to their will, as hybrids are. Our freedom is our strength.”
His gaze swept over the assembly, eyes glowing faintly in the twilight.
“We stand united. If you seek our help, be prepared to prove yourself worthy. The trial awaits.”
As Brassmane’s words faded into the cooling air, a gentle rustle stirred the shadows beyond the clearing. Two figures stepped forward from the edge of the gathering—one slender and graceful, the other earthy and rooted.
The unicorn emerged first, her coat shimmering like liquid moonlight, a spiralled horn glowing softly with ethereal runes. Her mane flowed like a river of silver silk, and her eyes held the quiet wisdom of centuries.
Beside her, the faun appeared—muscular yet lithe, with curling horns and sturdy legs that seemed part of the forest itself. His fingers tapped rhythmically against a wooden staff wrapped in ivy.
Together, they raised their voices in a low, haunting chant. The words were old, ancient as the stones beneath their feet, vibrating with raw magic and reverence:
“Ffordd y Graig, ffordd y graig,
Stone’s path calls through blood and might.
Champion’s challenge, steel and fire,
Prove your heart, ascend higher.”
Their voices intertwined, echoing through the trees and sending a shiver down the spines of all who listened.
The unicorn’s horn glowed brighter, casting a shimmering light over the crowd.
The faun’s staff struck the ground once more, and the earth beneath them seemed to pulse with life.
The unicorn spoke softly but firmly, her words ringing clear:
“To earn our trust, you must face the champion of Ffordd y Graig—the Stone Path. Only by defeating them will the trial be passed.”
The faun nodded, eyes steady.
“The path is unforgiving, the trial harsh. But through it, true strength and allegiance are revealed.”
A heavy silence fell. The weight of the challenge was undeniable.
Mezzo leaned slightly toward Ray and whispered, “So when he said trial, he meant the ‘possibly die’ sort of trial?”
Ray whispered back, “Usually.”
“Grand. Love that. Very welcoming community. Ten out of ten.”
Brassmane stepped forward once more, voice low but resolute.
“The trial begins soon. Prepare yourselves.”
From behind him came the sound of something heavy.
Massive.
Breathing.
The crowd parted.
The Golem emerged.
Twelve feet tall, assembled from molten scrap and reforged war-tech. Its skin was jagged steel, runes glowing with heat where flesh should be. Magic pulsed inside it like a heart too loud for silence. Its face was blank—two flickering runes for eyes, always watching.
It radiated judgment.
Arcade recoiled. “That’s illegal. That’s—”
C.H.I.P. interrupted with a warning chime.
“Soulbinding detected. This unit advises extreme caution.”
Arcade stared in disbelief. “That’s bio-bound steelwork! You forged consciousness into that thing! It’s wrong.”
Brassmane’s tone was final. “He is our truth. If you want our trust, you’ll face his judgment.”
Celeste tilted her head, her ears twitching. “Um… what sort of test would it be, then? N-not something with water, I hope, because I’m dreadful with water. Or… or puzzles, unless they’re the really simple sort.”
Saff stepped forward, tone careful. “You enter. It reads you. Not just your power—your intent. Lie? The gates seal. Cheat? It retaliates. It doesn’t care if you’re a hero or not.”
Kirrin tapped a talon against the stone, the clack echoing sharp and steady. Her smile crooked wider, mischief in her eye.
“Best it, an’ ye’ll have yer scraps an’ our steel at yer back. But fail?”
She tilted her head, feathers rippling with the motion.
“Well now… let’s just say it won’t only be yer tower tumblin’ doon.”
