Mezzo ran.
He did not think about direction.
He did not think about the ache tearing through his legs, or the burn in his lungs, or the blood drying sticky against Celeste’s hair where it brushed his arm.
He ran because Celeste was too light in his arms.
Because her breathing kept hitching wrong.
Because Hughes had shouted run in a voice that did not leave room for interpretation.
So Mezzo ran as fast as his legs could carry him.
Through the lower corridor.
Past a shattered alcove.
Up a service stair so narrow his shoulder clipped the wall hard enough to bruise.
Celeste gave a tiny, pained sound against his chest.
“I know,” he gasped. “I know, sunshine. Nearly there.”
She did not answer.
That scared him more than anything.
By the time he burst through the side entrance and into the cathedral courtyard, his vision was swimming.
The Gwennan was still parked where they had left it.
Thank the stars.
Then Mezzo saw the paladins.
A line of white-and-gold armour stood between the cathedral steps and the street, weapons lowered but ready. Staff from the Church clustered near the main doors, voices raised in frantic argument.
For one horrible second, Mezzo thought they had lost.
Then he saw Umbranox.
Lady Umbranox Arcturus stood at the foot of the cathedral steps in full Council dress armour, her silver-black mane bound high, her coat sweeping behind her like a banner of bad decisions being corrected by force. Council knights stood at her back in a clean formation, their weapons sheathed, their expressions very carefully blank.
Bartleby stood beside her.
He looked furious enough to start chewing through stone.
A priest at the door was saying, “Lady Arcturus, with respect, this is a Church matter—”
“With respect,” Umbranox replied, in a tone that contained no respect whatsoever, “you detained a sitting Knight-Commander under emergency wartime authority, disabled her arcbracer, refused Council oversight, and then somehow misplaced half her team inside your own building. Do not test the elasticity of the word matter.”
The priest spluttered.
“We are acting within sacred jurisdiction—”
“You are acting within the rapidly narrowing window before I decide sacred jurisdiction looks very flammable.”
Mezzo did not hesitate.
He ran straight for her.
One of the paladins turned at the sound of his boots.
“Stop!”
Mezzo ignored him.
Another paladin stepped forward, hand lifting toward his weapon.
Umbranox turned.
Her eyes found Celeste.
Everything about her changed.
Not visibly enough for anyone else, maybe.
But Mezzo saw it.
The instant coldness.
The calculation.
The fury tucked so tightly behind noble discipline that it became worse than shouting.
“Escort them to the Gwennan,” Umbranox ordered.
Two Council knights moved at once.
The paladins shifted to block them.
“Commander Astallan remains under theological inquiry,” one of them said. “Under Church law, Lady Arcturus cannot legally remove her until questioning has concluded.”
Umbranox looked at him.
Then, very slowly, turned her head toward Bartleby.
Bartleby smiled.
It was not a friendly expression.
“Oh, good,” he said. “My turn.”
The paladin faltered.
Bartleby stepped forward, one hand already pulling a slate from inside his coat.
“By Council Emergency Defence Statute Seventeen, subsection four, any Knight currently operating under Caerfaen crisis deployment falls beneath joint civic-military protection unless formally charged through a recognised tribunal with Council witness present.” He flicked the slate open. “You had no witness. You filed no civic notice. You disabled a field commander’s communication device during active zombie operations, which is either obstruction, unlawful detainment, or treason with incense.”
The priest went red.
“That is not—”
“I wasn’t finished.”
Bartleby stepped closer.
“Furthermore, under Article Nine of the Caerfaen Emergency Defence Charter, subsection three, interference with deployed Knights during an active ward breach may be treated as hostile obstruction. And before you get excited, yes, the cathedral district remains under emergency designation because there are zombies eating people less than four streets away.”
A younger inquisitor pushed through the doors then, robes snapping around his legs.
“The subject is not cleared for release.”
Umbranox’s ears angled back.
“Subject?”
The inquisitor hesitated.
Bartleby made a soft sound.
“Oh, fatal word choice.”
More inquisitors emerged behind him, faces drawn, hands hovering close to concealed weapons. The paladins tightened formation.
The courtyard held its breath.
Mezzo clutched Celeste closer.
“She needs help,” he snapped. “You can argue over whose paperwork has the fanciest hat after she’s not dying.”
The younger inquisitor pointed at Celeste.
“She is evidence.”
Umbranox moved.
Not far.
Not fast enough for a shout.
Just enough.
One heartbeat the inquisitor’s hand was drifting toward his weapon.
The next, Umbranox’s blade was already out, its edge resting against his throat with such perfect stillness that no one saw the draw.
The courtyard went silent.
Umbranox’s voice was soft.
“Finish that reach.”
The inquisitor froze.
“I strongly recommend you don’t,” Bartleby added.
A Council knight took Celeste’s weight just long enough for Mezzo to adjust his grip, then helped him toward the Gwennan.
Behind them, Umbranox did not move her blade.
“The Knight-Commander leaves in Council custody,” she said. “Alive. Breathing. Unharassed. Anyone who contests that may explain themselves to me in the traditional fashion.”
The paladin swallowed.
“What tradition is that?”
Umbranox’s smile was very small.
“The old one.”
No one blocked Mezzo after that.
He stumbled into the Gwennan with Celeste in his arms and laid her across the nearest bench as gently as his shaking hands allowed.
“Right,” he breathed. “Right. Okay. Okay, we’re in. You’re in. That’s good.”
Celeste’s head lolled slightly to one side.
Her face was grey-pale beneath the dried blood and shimmer of strange light under her skin.
Mezzo reached for the emergency medkit—
then stopped.
Heat radiated from her chest.
Not fever heat.
Core heat.
Burning, unnatural, pulsing through the armour over her sternum as if something inside her was trying to melt its way out.
“Stars.”
He pressed his hand near the plating and hissed, snatching it back.
The armour was hot enough to burn.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, I do not like that.”
Celeste stirred weakly.
Her lips parted.
No sound came out.
Mezzo’s hands shook once.
Then he forced them steady.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, though she could barely hear him. “I’m sorry, sunshine, I have to—this is medical, all right? Medical. Very professional. Absolutely nothing weird. I am being normal. Deeply normal.”
He worked the damaged upper armour loose as fast as he could, unclipping scorched straps and tugging away the outer chest plate before the heat could burn through the layers beneath.
The second the armour came free, warmth rolled out in a visible shimmer.
Celeste was left in the fitted underlayer and bra beneath, her core-light burning beneath her skin in pulses of gold, blue, and pearly white.
Mezzo immediately looked at the ceiling.
“Stars above, this is the worst day of my life.”
He fumbled blindly for the spare cover tunic folded under the bench.
“I am not looking. I am a gentleman. A panicking gentleman, but a gentleman.”
He glanced only where he had to, checking the heat, checking that the fabric would not sit directly against the burning core. Then he draped the loose tunic carefully over her shoulders and stomach, giving her modesty without trapping the heat against her chest.
“There,” he muttered, face hot, ears burning. “Covered. Safe. Mostly. Hopefully. Please don’t explode.”
Celeste’s breathing steadied by the smallest fraction.
Outside, Umbranox’s voice cut across the courtyard, sharp as drawn steel.
Mezzo looked toward the doors of the Gwennan.
Then back at Celeste.
He did not want to leave her.
Every instinct in him screamed to stay.
But Hughes was still inside.
Ray was still inside.
The others were still inside.
And Maven was not the kind of problem one left unattended.
Mezzo clenched his jaw.
“Stay alive,” he whispered to Celeste. “That is an order, by the way. Very official.”
Then he turned and ran back into the cathedral.
For a while, there was only the Gwennan’s low engine hum.
Celeste lay beneath the loose tunic, eyes closed, lashes trembling faintly against her cheeks. Her core pulsed beneath her skin, hot enough to bend the air above it.
Then the mana inside the van shimmered.
Not bright.
Not dramatic.
A ripple in the corner of the world.
The Lynx appeared beside the bench as if he had always been there and reality had only just remembered to show him.
White fur.
Gold eyes.
A stillness too old for the small space.
He looked down at Celeste.
For once, his expression held no amusement.
“I am sorry,” he said softly.
Celeste’s eyes fluttered.
Blue showed beneath her lashes.
Not fully awake.
Not fully asleep.
She looked at him as though from the bottom of deep water.
“You…”
“Yes.”
His gaze moved to the faint mark of pain still ghosting across her cheek, though the blow had not been meant for her.
“I struck the one wearing your body,” he said. “That does not make your body hurt less.”
Celeste’s brow creased faintly.
The Lynx sat beside the bench, careful not to touch her.
“This is not an ideal situation,” he said. “But then, you do seem to collect those.”
A weak breath escaped her.
It might almost have been a laugh.
He looked toward the cathedral doors, where voices still rose and clashed beyond the walls.
“There is truth beneath you now. Old truth. Buried truth. The kind people build nations on top of and then pretend the floor is clean.”
Celeste’s eyes tried to focus.
“Tell me…”
“I can’t.”
Her face tightened with hurt.
The Lynx’s voice softened.
“No, little star. Not because I enjoy being cryptic, though I admit it is one of my few remaining hobbies.”
He leaned closer, gold eyes dimmer now.
“If I tell you, you will reach for the wrong shape of it. Others will see you reaching. And then they will know where to put the knife.”
Celeste swallowed.
Her voice came barely audible.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know.”
For once, he sounded sad about that.
“You have to find it yourself. Slowly. Painfully. With people beside you who can still tell you no.”
Her fingers twitched against the bench.
The Lynx looked at them.
Then back to her face.
“You walk a dangerous line. Every step you take from here will divide someone. The frightened from the faithful. The loyal from the obedient. The ones who love you from the ones who love what they think you are.”
Celeste’s breathing trembled.
“I don’t want that.”
“No,” he said. “That is why you might survive it.”
The Gwennan creaked softly around them.
Outside, someone shouted.
The Lynx’s ears flicked.
“When the time comes,” he said, “try to understand before you forgive. Try to listen before you command. And when they kneel…”
Celeste’s eyes slipped half-closed.
He watched her carefully.
“When they kneel,” he repeated, quieter, “ask yourself who taught them to.”
Celeste’s gaze drifted.
The shimmer of her core softened beneath the tunic, still hot, still dangerous, but less furious than before.
The Lynx stood.
“You will forget most of this.”
Celeste’s lips moved.
“Why?”
“Because some doors are kinder when they open from the inside.”
He stepped back.
The air folded around him.
Before he vanished, his voice lingered one last time.
“Wake carefully, Celeste.”
Then he was gone.
Celeste drifted back into sleep.
