The halls of the War Committee were chaos by breakfast.

The chamber itself was one of the largest rooms in the Council complex, built for the sort of disasters polite society preferred to pretend did not exist until they were already biting through the gates. Acts of war. Terrorist attacks. National emergencies. Assassinations. Mass panic. Every dreadful possibility had its own desk, its own seal, its own clerk, and its own stack of forms waiting to be ignored the moment reality became inconvenient.

Today, reality had become extremely inconvenient.

Messengers ran between brass consoles. Officers shouted over one another. Projection screens flickered with maps of Clawdiff, each district marked in red, amber, or black. The Royal Quarter glowed a fragile gold. The Warrens pulsed with movement. The docks were marked unstable. The Gumball Nexus still floated over the city like an obscene monument to failure.

At the centre of it all stood Lady Umbranox Arcturus.

She did not shout.

She did not need to.

Today, she wore army dress and armour instead of court silks: dark plate fitted over a high-collared uniform, polished black pauldrons edged in gold, one hand resting on the head of her cane as if it were a sceptre. Her hair was pinned back severely. Her eyes were cold enough to silence rooms. Around her, generals, scribes, nobles, and clerks moved like birds trying not to fly into a storm front.

She was not merely present with the army.

She was presence.

Umbranox flicked one claw across the main screen.

The list of Council noble houses unfolded before her.

Five hundred families in total.

Five hundred ancient names, each with old rights, old grudges, old estates, and old excuses.

Today, barely three hundred were available in Clawdiff.

The rest were dead, missing, trapped beyond the dome, or had been swallowed during the military parade on the first day of the outbreak.

Her mouth tightened.

The parade had been meant to display strength.

A grand martial spectacle through Clawdiff’s arteries. Banners. Brass. Sky cavalry. Infantry lines. House colours. Children waving little paper flags. The Council showing the city that it remained eternal.

Then the candy dead had come.

Of course it had been planned.

The timing. The positioning. The targeting of officers, heirs, logistical routes. Whoever had orchestrated this had not merely unleashed panic.

They had studied them.

They had turned ceremony into slaughter.

Umbranox tapped another command.

House names sorted by remaining strength, district access, militia status, and shamefully overdue readiness reports.

Her voice cut through the chamber.

“House Vaelor is to provide thirty armoured runners to the western ration lines. House Torwick will place all remaining engineers under Caedrix command. House Brackenmere shall release its private stockpiles to medical authority before noon, or I shall personally explain the concept of emergency seizure to them with examples.”

A clerk went pale and scribbled very quickly.

Umbranox did not look up from the screen.

“Every remaining house will know its duty, its place, and the cost of forgetting both. Your men are required to assist the Caedrix. This is not a request dressed in pretty manners.”

On the far side of the chamber, a minor lord opened his mouth.

Umbranox looked at him.

He closed it.

“Excellent,” she said.

The Council army itself was ready.

Or as ready as any army could be while the dead climbed walls and sang through sugar.

Umbranox opened the central command link.

Three large projections flared above the war table.

The first showed an old tiger in naval black, broad-shouldered despite his age, one eye scarred silver beneath his admiral’s cap.

“Admiral Voss,” Umbranox said.

The tiger gave a curt nod. “Navy standing by. Harbour guns loaded. River channels partially secured. If that sweetmeat monstrosity drifts lower, I’ll put a hole through it large enough to sail a destroyer through.”

“Noted.”

The second projection shimmered into view: a bat in air-force blue, one wing natural, the other a sleek prosthetic frame of brass struts and mana-silk panels. Her ears twitched as she listened to three voices off-screen at once.

“Air Chief Marshal Suirebit,” Umbranox said.

Suirebit saluted. “Air fleet prepared. Limited launch capacity due to storm pressure and flying candy hostiles. I can put bombers over the eastern arc within twenty minutes if the dome currents hold.”

“If they do not?”

“Then I put them up anyway and complain about physics after.”

Umbranox’s eyes softened by the smallest fraction. “Good.”

The third projection opened in white-gold light.

Diana Lockhart, Supreme Paladin of the Luminarch Cathedral, appeared beneath the glow of stained glass. Her armour was ceremonial and battle-scarred at once, a sunburst crest burning at her breast.

“Lady Arcturus,” Diana said.

“Supreme Paladin.”

“The cathedral forces are assembled. Our healers are exhausted, but standing. Our paladins are ready.”

Umbranox inclined her head. “Then we are nearly complete.”

She waited.

The fourth projection did not open.

The army channel remained dark.

Umbranox’s expression did not change, but several officers nearby found sudden reasons to examine their papers.

“Where,” she asked, “is the army?”

A young communications officer swallowed. “Still in the Warrens, my lady. Reports indicate General Brimstone’s command unit is attempting to clear a blocked mana-rail route. Signal interference is heavy below the old transit tunnels.”

Umbranox closed her eyes for one slow breath.

“I really need General Brimstone for this.”

No one answered.

Wisely.

She opened her eyes again.

“Very well. We proceed without him until he remembers that war has begun above ground too.”

Admiral Voss gave a low grunt that might have been amusement.

Umbranox expanded the battle map.

“Admiral Voss, Air Chief Marshal Suirebit, Supreme Paladin Lockhart — assemble your command detachments outside the Council Hall within the hour. Outer house militias will form behind the Caedrix banners. No independent charges. No private vendettas. No heroic manoeuvres inspired by family portraits.”

Several noble officers looked offended.

Umbranox continued before they could decide whether offence was worth dying over.

“The Inner War Council will remain here.”

A ripple passed through the room.

Umbranox turned slightly, eyes cutting toward the senior lords seated at the elevated crescent table.

“And they will prepare to welcome the Knights of Clawdiff into the circle.”

The silence that followed was very nearly physical.

Lord Merrow, thin as a walking letter opener, leaned forward with visible caution.

“With respect, Lady Arcturus, the Knights are a mercenary force sponsored largely by the Church.”

“Jointly supported by the Church, the Crefft, and government oversight,” Umbranox corrected smoothly.

Another lord cleared his throat. “Even so, they are not a formal Council body. Their presence in the Inner War Council is… unconventional.”

“How fortunate,” Umbranox said, “that nothing else about today is unconventional.”

A few eyes dropped.

Merrow persisted, because some men were born without survival instincts.

“It may not be necessary to elevate them formally. They can be deployed as an auxiliary unit.”

Umbranox turned to him fully.

“Auxiliary.”

The word came out soft.

Dangerously soft.

Merrow’s ears twitched. “In the administrative sense.”

“In the administrative sense,” Umbranox repeated, “the city is under siege by an enemy most of our forces cannot permanently kill. The Knights of Clawdiff can. Therefore they will be present when strategy is discussed, rather than summoned afterward like hounds to chase what their betters failed to contain.”

Diana Lockhart’s projection flickered as she shifted.

“With respect, Lady Arcturus,” Diana said, quieter than the lords but no less firm, “we need more time. The cathedral scholars are working with every sample recovered. I am certain we will find a way to kill the candy dead without relying solely on hybrid cores.”

Umbranox looked to her.

There was no contempt in her face now.

Only weary truth.

“Time is something we do not have.”

Diana’s jaw tightened.

She did not argue.

Umbranox’s gaze swept the chamber.

“Until another method exists, the Knights are not symbolic. They are essential. They will be added properly. They will have access, command recognition, and a seat within the war structure. Anyone uncomfortable with that may direct their discomfort toward the zombies, who shall, I am certain, be deeply moved.”

Admiral Voss barked one rough laugh before disguising it as a cough.

Suirebit’s mouth twitched.

Umbranox ignored them both.

“Now. Everyone assemble.”

She touched her arcbracer.

“Connecting to Commander Astallan.”

The room stilled again.

Not out of respect this time.

Out of curiosity.

Several lords leaned subtly forward.

The call rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

No answer.

Umbranox’s brow tightened.

She tried again.

Still no answer.

A small automatic projection popped up instead.

Celeste Astallan appeared in miniature above the war table, clearly recorded in bad lighting, ears slightly lopsided, glasses crooked, smiling with the strained brightness of someone who had been asked to make a professional greeting and had immediately forgotten how speech worked.

“Um, hello! You’ve reached Commander Celeste Astallan of the Knights of Clawdiff. Sorry I missed your call. If this is an emergency, please contact Hughes. Or Ray. Actually, maybe Hughes first if Ray is holding anything sharp. If this is about zombies, please don’t panic, unless panicking is tactically useful, which Arcade says it isn’t, but he panics all the time, so I’m not sure he’s a reliable source. Um. Leave a message after the beep.”

A pause.

Celeste’s recorded eyes widened.

“Oh! Wait. Does this thing beep by itself or do I have to—”

The message cut off with a cheerful little chime.

The War Committee did not laugh.

Technically.

Admiral Voss developed a sudden and violent interest in his sleeve.

Air Chief Marshal Suirebit turned her head away from the projection, her prosthetic wing trembling slightly.

Diana Lockhart pressed two fingers to her lips.

Several noble lords stared at the table with the desperate concentration of men trying not to die of suppressed amusement in front of Lady Umbranox Arcturus.

Umbranox stood very still.

The silence stretched.

Then she lowered her hand from the arcbracer.

“Commander Astallan,” she said to no one, voice perfectly even, “will be contacted again shortly.”

Voss made a sound suspiciously close to a wheeze.

Umbranox’s eyes flicked toward him.

The old tiger instantly became stone.

“Admiral,” she said.

“My lady.”

“Do enjoy breathing while it remains available.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Suirebit’s shoulders shook once.

Diana looked at the ceiling as though praying for discipline.

Umbranox turned back to the war table and continued as if nothing had happened.

“House militias will form in three ranks outside the western steps. Paladin forces will take the central line. Navy gunners will coordinate with air reconnaissance. I want all anti-air batteries checked twice. If another flying general appears, I want it regretting the concept of altitude.”

Orders resumed.

Maps shifted.

Clerks ran.

The War Committee breathed again.

But behind the perfect mask, behind the armour and authority and razor-edged composure, Umbranox allowed herself one private, silent plea to the stars.

Please.

Please do not embarrass hybrids today.

Not in front of the whole war council.

Not before I have secured their legitimacy.

Not before these pompous fossils decide the future of the city can be judged by one voicemail greeting.

Her expression remained flawless.

Her voice remained cold.

Her hands did not tremble.

But somewhere deep beneath the weight of duty, Lady Umbranox Arcturus felt the first faint, terrible suspicion that Commander Celeste Astallan was going to make history very difficult to organise.