Celeste woke slowly—her vision blurry, head pounding, and body aching with every breath. Her skin felt tight beneath the bandages, the pain only dulled by fatigue. The soft scent of sugar and antiseptic hung in the air. She blinked until her surroundings came into focus.
She was in the base.
But Celeste… Celeste’s vision blurred.
Then something warm pressed against her.
Her eyes fluttered open—and for the briefest heartbeat, she saw it. Lumina’s small face glowing faintly, her irises lit like twin pink lanterns. Her tiny hands hovered over Celeste’s burns, and where the light touched, the agony dulled.
“L-Lumina…” Celeste croaked, a tear slipping down her cheek.
But Lumina didn’t answer.
Her face was calm—too calm—as if she were somewhere else entirely. She just kept holding her hands steady, the glow spilling out, the healing slow but steady.
Celeste, weak and trembling, lifted her hand to nudge her sister’s shoulder. “Sweetheart? …Please—”
Nothing. Lumina didn’t even blink.
Then the door banged open.
Skye stumbled in, his big ears twitching wildly. His eyes landed on Lumina. On the glow. On Celeste.
“No, no, no!” he blurted, voice cracking. “Stop—stop it! You’ll burn out!”
Lumina froze.
The glow flickered—then vanished.
Pain slammed back into Celeste’s body like molten chains. She gasped, the breath torn from her lungs as her vision shattered into blackness.
Celeste dreamed of the meadow again.
Only it was not the meadow.
She stood barefoot on a strip of green too bright to be real, the blades all identical beneath her feet, their softness wrong somehow—too even, too neat. When she looked down, she saw why.
The grass was fake.
Plastic blades, threaded into a mesh beneath her toes.
Around her rose white-painted frames and towering panes of glass, a vast greenhouse swallowing the sky. Pale light poured through the ceiling in sickly, watered-down beams. Rows of flowers lined the space beyond, but they did not sway. They did not breathe. Their petals were stiff, glossy, perfect.
Not flowers.
Plastic.
Every bloom in the place was dead before it had ever lived.
Celeste pulled in a breath and nearly choked on it. The air was thick, hot, strangely damp, carrying the sharp stink of syrup and scorched sugar beneath something chemical and clean. Her chest tightened.
At the far end of the greenhouse stood the alicorn.
White. Still. Back turned.
The same woman from before.
Celeste took a step toward her, relief rising so suddenly it hurt.
“Wait—”
The woman did not move.
At Celeste’s feet lay a hammer.
It was heavy-headed, old-looking, the metal dark and dull as if it had once been something sacred and had since been used for uglier things. It rested in the fake grass as though someone had placed it there for her. As though it had been waiting.
Use it.
The thought did not sound like a voice. It landed in her mind whole.
Celeste stared at it, her pulse thudding. “No.”
Outside the glass, shapes moved.
Shadows.
Tall, thin figures pacing slowly through the pale blur beyond the greenhouse walls. They stopped now and then to peer in, their forms warped by condensation and light. She could hear them whispering to one another in low, papery voices, but the words would not settle into sense. Every syllable slid away from her the moment she tried to catch it.
The alicorn still did not turn.
“Please,” Celeste called, louder now. “Please look at me.”
Nothing.
Her breathing grew sharper. The air felt thinner with every second, as though the whole room were sealed. Her burns ached even here, phantom-hot across her skin, and panic started to crawl up her ribs.
Use it.
The hammer gleamed faintly.
Celeste snatched it up at last and the instant her fingers closed around the handle, something cold drove through her skull.
Not pain.
Worse.
Absence.
She felt something being lifted out of her, thread by thread. Names. Faces. Warmth. The shape of herself. Thoughts scattering like birds before a storm. For one sick heartbeat she could not remember why she was here, or who the woman was, or why her own hands were shaking.
She dropped the hammer with a cry.
It hit the fake grass with a dull, final thud.
“No—no, no…”
The shadows outside whispered faster.
Celeste stumbled toward the glass and slammed both hands against it.
“Help me! Please!”
The alicorn began to walk away.
Not running. Not frightened. Simply leaving.
Celeste’s heart lurched so violently it hurt.
“No!” She hit the glass again, harder. “Don’t go! Please, don’t leave me here!”
The pane shuddered but did not crack.
She pounded on it again and again, each strike louder, more desperate, until the whole greenhouse rang with it. Still the woman never turned. Never looked back. Just kept walking, white and distant, farther into the haze beyond the rows of lifeless flowers.
Then water began to pour in.
At first it trickled through unseen seams overhead. Then it streamed. Then it came in with terrifying speed, flooding across the plastic grass and around Celeste’s ankles, her calves, her knees. Cold. Rising. Too fast.
She gasped and swallowed damp air that no longer felt like air at all.
The shadows remained beyond the glass, watching.
Talking.
Watching.
Celeste clawed at the pane, water surging to her waist, her chest. She slapped her palm against the glass so hard it stung, and on the other side the alicorn grew smaller and smaller, fading into brightness.
“Please,” Celeste sobbed, voice breaking. “Please don’t leave me—”
The water closed over her mouth.
Her nose.
She jerked upward, choking, pounding against the glass with one hand while the other stayed pressed flat against it, as if she could still reach through sheer need alone. Her lungs screamed. The whispers blurred into a dull roar.
And still the woman never turned.
Celeste woke with a gasp.
Celeste looked around. The sugary walls shimmered softly, casting pastel light across the room. Bandages wrapped much of her torso and limbs, and beside her—perched like a silent guardian—was Lumina.
Her eyes were closed in concentration, little paws glowing faintly with golden light.
“…You’re awake,” Lumina whispered, her voice small but proud. A rare smile tugged at her lips. “You’re lucky. I learned I can heal too.”
Celeste tried to push herself upright, but Lumina’s glowing hands pressed gently against her shoulder.
“Don’t,” Lumina said, suddenly serious. “You nearly burned alive.”
Celeste blinked, her throat tightening. “Pet… you’re the reason I’m still here.”
Before she could say more, Skye slipped quietly in from the corner of the room. His large ears twitched as he watched them, his tone blunt but not unkind.
“She… she figured it out,” he said, eyes flicking toward Lumina. “Healing. But it takes a lot out of her. She can’t control it yet.” His words stumbled, but his meaning was clear. “She… fixated on you. Wouldn’t stop.”
Lumina’s ears flushed pink. She ducked her head quickly, mumbling, “Didn’t… didn’t want you to die.”
Celeste’s chest ached in a way that wasn’t just the burns. “Oh, love…” she whispered, reaching weakly for her sister’s paw.
But before the moment could deepen, a sound echoed down the hallway—boots against sugar-stone, faint but sharp.
Skye’s head snapped toward the door. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Stay here.”
And without hesitation, he slipped out to check the sound, leaving Celeste with her sister and the quiet glow of golden light.
From outside the door, raised voices cut through the calm.
“You froze!” Ray’s voice, sharp as glass. “We could’ve all died because of you!”
Arcade snapped back, frustration bleeding through his normally controlled tone. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that—I didn’t calculate that many zombies!”
“If she had died,” Ray snapped, “we would’ve died. She’s the only one keeping our powers together!”
There was a heavy silence.
Even Mezzo—normally a storm of noise—was quiet. When he spoke, his voice shook. “I—I thought she was gone. Just—gone. I didn’t know what to do.”
Arcade’s reply came weaker, almost breaking. “I… I wasn’t ready. I don’t freeze. I don’t panic. That’s not me.”
Then another voice cut through the corridor—older, rougher, utterly unimpressed.
“That’s enough.”
Hughes.
The room beyond went still.
Celeste could hear him clearly now, boots planted, voice carrying the flat authority of someone used to being obeyed.
“This base is safe. For now, that’s more than the rest of this city can offer. The hospitals are abandoned, so this is the best place we’ve got. We heal up here, and you lot stop blaming each other before I start doing it for you.”
A pause.
Then the wolf’s voice, quieter, tighter. “He’s right.”
The goat gave a low grunt. “Bracer, patrol the perimeter.”
A beat later: “Mezzo, keep an eye out.”
Another: “Arcade, see if there are any Council notifications or broadcasts worth the trouble.”
Then, with particular force: “And you, fox—look around the base for anything suspicious.”
Ray scoffed instantly. “You can’t tell me what to do, goat.”
“It’s Captain Hughes,” he shot back. “I was military before this mess, and right now we need to work together if we want to survive long enough to keep arguing.”
No one answered that.
Celeste lay still, listening as their footsteps separated—one set heading outside, another down the hall, another up the stairs. One by one they went to their jobs, leaving the base quieter again.
Inside the room, Bonbon toddled in, oversized hoodie dragging on the floor. She climbed onto the cot without asking, curled into Celeste’s side, and shut her eyes as if that settled the matter.
Celeste’s chest ached—but this time with warmth.
At her side, Lumina peeled away another strip of bandage, her hands glowing faintly gold as she leaned closer. Celeste winced as the sting flared—but the pain was already softening, dulled by Lumina’s light.
“You’re getting better,” Celeste whispered softly, her voice thin but full of awe.
Lumina nodded quickly, brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s… easier now. Like… it wants to help you.”
Celeste watched her in silence for a moment, then reached to brush back a strand of her sister’s hair. “…How are you holding out, pet? Really.”
Lumina’s hands paused. Her ears drooped. “…I’m scared,” she admitted in a whisper. “I don’t want to be the healer. I just… want someone else to look after us.”
Celeste’s throat tightened. “…Me too,” she murmured, voice small. “Sometimes I wish Dad was here. He was in the military, remember? I bet he could kill… oh, dozens of zombies.”
Lumina sniffled, managing a tiny laugh. “Dozens? Pfft. More like hundreds. He’d be like—” She swung her arm clumsily, mimicking a sword. “Swipe! Slash! Zap!”
Celeste chuckled, covering her mouth. “A whole army wiped out in an hour. He’d be grumpy about it too.”
Lumina’s smile faded after a moment, her eyes lifting to her sister. “Why… why did you leave?”
Celeste’s ears dipped. “…I wasn’t going to. Not really. But Melody… she helped me. I—” She swallowed, guilt pricking her chest. “When Dad said I’d never leave the mansion, I panicked. I thought… what if I never get to know what life’s all about? So I made a stupid decision.”
Lumina blinked. “What?”
Celeste swallowed. “There’s a program. It helps people flee bad situations. They paid for everything for me there. Travel. Housing. Fees. All of it.” Her fingers twisted in the blanket. “They just asked me to make myself useful and head to Clawdiff University. Mel said she’d meet me there.”
From the doorway, Skye’s voice came softly. He’d slipped back in without her noticing.
“How?”
Celeste looked up, startled. “What do you mean?”
Skye stepped further inside, arms folded loosely. “Arcade said those programs only do gifted student placements for hybrids. Are you sure?”
Celeste frowned. “I’m positive.”
Skye tilted his head. “Maybe ask Arcade. He’s smart. He knows lots of things.”
Celeste looked down at Bonbon sleeping against her, then at Lumina’s small glowing hands, then toward the hall where Arcade had gone.
And for the first time since waking, the relief of being alive gave way to something colder.
Something in her story did not fit.
And she was starting to hear the shape of it.
