The vendor halls were chaos incarnate.

Booths burst in every direction with plushies, holographic posters, enamel pins, replica weapons, sequinned capes, glowing drinks, and enough body glitter to blind a small city. Overhead, ribbons of pastel banners spiralled between hanging lanterns and projector stars, while the polished floor reflected a blur of colour and moving feet. Music from the main stage thudded faintly through the walls, just enough to make the whole hall feel like it had a heartbeat.

Normally, Celeste would have adored it.

Now she was only half-looking.

The other half of her was busy darting glances over her shoulder like a guilty woodland animal.

“Do you still see him?” Lumina whispered as they slipped behind a stall selling resin wand charms and embroidered fandom patches.

Celeste peeked carefully through a curtain of dangling keyrings. Her ears flicked, then flattened, then flicked again.

“No,” she whispered back. “But that doesn’t mean anything. He’s got training. He could be moving tactically.”

Lumina blinked. “In a comic convention?”

“Yes! That’s what makes it worse,” Celeste hissed. “Normal people wander. Fathers with military posture position themselves.”

She took Lumina gently by the wrist and steered her around a tower of plush dragons, then past a booth selling glittering masks, then down another row thick with cosplayers and collectors. Only when they had looped around three separate stalls and narrowly avoided a photographer dressed as a moon priestess did Celeste finally slow.

She risked one more glance behind them.

Nothing.

No dragon horns spray-painted black. No familiar broad-shouldered silhouette. No impending parental doom.

Celeste exhaled so hard her whole body seemed to deflate.

“Right,” she murmured. “Either he’s gone, or I’m imagining things, or I’m developing stress visions, which frankly feels rude after all the effort I’ve put into today.”

Lumina looked up at her. “So we’re safe?”

“I wouldn’t go as far as safe,” Celeste said. “But perhaps slightly less catastrophically observed.”

Then the floor gave a sudden, low tremor.

It was not enough to knock anyone over, but it rolled beneath their paws and boots like something large had shifted far below the building. A few displays rattled. Hanging charms jingled. Somewhere nearby, someone let out a startled squeak.

The whole hall seemed to pause.

Celeste stiffened.

Lumina’s humming cut off at once.

For one odd, breathless second, people looked around in confusion—

and then a deafening burst of confetti cannons went off somewhere ahead near the main stage.

A shower of silver paper exploded into the air beyond the stalls, followed by bright lights and a booming cheer from the crowd.

The tension broke all at once.

People laughed.

Someone shouted, “Stage show!”

Another voice whooped, “Best entrance ever!”

Celeste let out a shaky little breath. “Oh. Right. Of course. Confetti. Naturally.”

Lumina nodded, though not very convincingly.

Then more figures moved between the aisles ahead of them—pureblood soldiers in dark uniform coats, too many of them for convention staff and far too serious-looking to be part of any show. Their expressions were hard, focused. Their boots struck the floor with clipped purpose as they passed the opening of the row.

Celeste instinctively grabbed a random plush from the nearest shelf and held it up like she had been deeply invested in it all along.

“Ooh,” she said, far too brightly. “A rabbit. Very rabbit-shaped.”

Lumina caught on a second later and leaned toward a display of collector pins.

“Yes,” she said solemnly. “Very pin.”

The soldiers passed without stopping.

Only once they were gone did Celeste lower the plush and frown toward the aisle.

“Do you think they’re cosplaying,” she whispered, “or is something actually happening outside?”

Lumina gave a small, nervous hum and twisted the strap of her heart-shaped purse around her paw.

“Should we leave?”

Celeste looked at her, then toward the crowded hall, then toward the direction Melody had pointed earlier.

“Well...” She tucked a curl behind one ear and tried for something reassuring. “I’ll say hello to my penpal, and then we can head out, yeah? If you like. We don’t have to stay long. I’ve got some money saved up from my weekend job, so we could maybe get a snack first, or a little trinket, or—I don’t know—something nice and normal before the world becomes dreadfully strange again.”

Lumina stopped walking.

“You have a job?”

Celeste blinked at her. “Yes?”

Lumina stared. “You have a job?”

Celeste’s ears pinked beneath her fur.

“Yes, in the library.” A pause. “Currently.”

“Currently?”

Celeste’s tail gave an embarrassed flick. “Well. I did have other jobs first. Three others, actually. Briefly.”

Lumina’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

Celeste drew herself up with the air of someone about to explain a very unfair tragedy.

“The first one was the tea shop, but apparently I was ‘too chatty with customers’ and I kept forgetting which orders were oat milk and which ones were almond and once I dropped an entire tray because someone asked me a question halfway across the room and my brain just—well—left.” She made a vague flapping gesture beside her head. “The second was a stationery shop, but I reorganised the enchanted pens by colour instead of by price bracket because it was prettier and the manager said that was not ‘commercially appropriate,’ which I still think was quite rude. And the third one was a candle place, but I got distracted explaining moon symbolism to a woman buying birthday wax melts and apparently I was not meant to ‘monologue at the clientele.’”

Lumina was staring at her now with something dangerously close to amusement.

Celeste kept going, because of course she did.

“So now I work in the library, which is much better because books don’t mind if you talk to them a little, and if I knock over a stack, it’s tragic but scholarly, and sometimes old ladies ask me where the folklore section is and I take them there and then somehow we’re discussing ghost marriage customs for forty minutes and—”

Lumina gently pointed ahead.

Celeste stopped mid-blather.

A whole stretch of vendor rows opened out before them in dazzling clutter: replica wands hanging from velvet racks, limited-edition figurines turning beneath little spotlights, spellbook handbags, celestial scarves, glass charms, fantasy maps, bootleg plushies, and enough magical-girl merchandise to flatten her train of thought in one clean blow.

“Oh,” Celeste breathed.

Her panic eased a little despite herself.

“Oh, that’s terribly unfair. How is anyone meant to stay sensible in here?”

Lumina gave a tiny snort.

They walked on more slowly now, Celeste still casting the occasional wary glance over her shoulder, but less desperately than before.

“He’s got to be around here somewhere,” she murmured after a moment, tail flicking in focused little arcs again. “Leif said he’d be near the vendors if he found any magical resonance crystal merch, and that does sound exactly like him, doesn’t it? Very on-brand.”

“Watch out—!” Lumina said a second too late.

They collided chest-first into a broad, white-furred torso and stumbled back in unison.

“Ah-HA! Suspicious movement detected!”

Celeste blinked, then looked up into the beaming mismatched eyes of a dalmatian wearing a convention security vest that was at least one size too tight and had a comically enormous walkie-talkie clipped to each shoulder. His black-and-red curls had been tied back in a half-hearted ponytail, and his nametag read:

MEZZO

He leaned in dramatically, snout twitching.

“Two magically dressed felines—glancin’ around like yer plottin’ a heist? Classic behaviour.” He lowered his voice. “Are ye trying to steal the giant plush hydra from the raffle booth? Because if so, I’ll need in. Those things are collector’s edition.”

Celeste opened her mouth. Closed it again.

“No?” she managed. “Um—no. Stars, no, we just… bumped into you.”

“I—uh—yes,” Lumina added, nodding. “Just boop. That’s it.”

Mezzo squinted suspiciously at them.

“Hmm. That’s what they all say. ‘Oh, we’re just Magi Girls with tragic backstories, prancin’ about with tiaras and trauma beams, no crimes here.’” He leaned closer to Lumina. “But tell me this—what season? If it’s post-Revelation Arc, I knew there was somethin’ shady afoot.”

Celeste straightened a little, trying to recover some dignity.

“Excuse me, sir, but we are doing nothing wrong. We’re simply here to enjoy the convention, same as everyone else.”

“Ohhh, I know,” Mezzo said in mock horror. “That’s what makes it dangerous! Happiness. Contentment. Suspicious stuff.”

Without breaking eye contact, he reached into a pocket and produced a glitter-laminated flyer from nowhere.

“Since ye clearly appreciate artistry and emotional storytelling through impractical outfits—” He thrust it into Celeste’s paw. “Tonight. Eight sharp. Mezzo & The Minor Keys. It’s just me, a guitar, and twelve minutes of pure unholy shreddin’. Ye’ll either ascend to a higher plane or leave with mild tinnitus. Maybe both.”

Celeste took the flyer like it might later be used as evidence.

“Oh—well—we’ll… consider it?”

“Brilliant!” Mezzo saluted. “Don’t break me heart now. I will cry in public. I’ve got range.”

Then he spun on his heel and disappeared into the crowd like some kind of musical cryptid.

There was a pause.

Lumina stared at the flyer. Then at Celeste.

“Was he real?”

Celeste let out a breathless laugh. “I honestly couldn’t tell you, sweetheart.”

For the first time since entering the convention, they both giggled.

It loosened something.

Just a little.

Celeste gave her pigtails a quick fluff, adjusting the gemstone clips keeping them neat above her shoulders. She was starting to feel almost like herself again—less frantic, more curious—despite the odd tremor in the floor and the soldiers and the lingering possibility of parental detection.

Then she saw it.

Just beyond a rainbow wall of plushies and keychains, perched on a velvet mannequin head, was a soft blue newsboy cap edged in gold embroidery with two little stars at the side and delicate angel wings fixed to either side.

Celeste gasped aloud.

“Oh my stars—it’s the Arc Initiation Cap!”

She made a beeline for the booth, barely noticing Lumina following in her wake. The seller, a sleepy-looking lemur in a Rarewears & Relics hoodie, perked up at once.

“Whoa, good eye,” he said, lifting the cap carefully. “Most people think it’s just a weird steampunk thing.”

“This is from Elira’s first major transformation scene,” Celeste said, nearly breathless. “Episode four—she trades her old headband for this before facing down the Grief Beast in the Library of Lights. It’s iconic.”

“You’ve got taste,” the lemur said, grinning. “Forty quid, and I’ll throw in a badge pin with her sigil.”

Celeste was already digging in her purse when a deep, booming voice cut in from behind.

“Forty quid for that?”

She jumped.

“You could buy a water filter and six weeks of rations for that!”

Celeste turned to find a tall grey-furred wolf looming there in a trench coat that seemed designed to swallow light, a battered tactical pack over one shoulder. His grin flashed beneath the hood.

He extended a paw dramatically.

“Pitch. E. Blak. Survivalist. Strategist. Builder of bunkers both practical and emotionally resonant.”

He winked.

“Didn’t expect the resistance to have this much style, blondie.”

Celeste blinked at him. “Oh—I, ah—hello?”

Pitch leaned in, dropping his voice into mock-conspiracy.

“Tell me. Ever think about what happens when the suppression chips fail? That little fizzy soda can of magic you’ve got bottled up? Psshhhht—” He mimed an explosion with both paws. “Straight in your face.”

Celeste stared. “I—I hadn’t exactly—”

“I have,” Pitch boomed proudly. “First it’s regulation, then restriction, then BAM—riot bots in the streets and ration lines for toothpaste!”

Lumina tilted her head. “Do you talk like this all the time?”

Pitch crouched to her level with a broad smile. “Oh, absolutely. Builds morale. Keeps the vibes up.”

“The toothpaste?” Celeste asked weakly.

“That part’s real,” Pitch said. “But don’t worry.” He leaned closer. “I’ve got a stash. Mint. Because survival doesn’t have to taste terrible.”

The lemur coughed. “So… are you buying the hat or…?”

Pitch threw an arm toward Celeste like he was presenting royalty.

“Buy it. Stylish headwear increases morale by twenty-seven percent. Scientific fact. Probably.”

Celeste handed over her coins at once, tucking the cap safely into her bag with both paws.

“Right. Lovely. Thank you. We really must—lots to see—goodbye!”

She grabbed Lumina’s paw and fled into the crowd, cape fluttering behind her.

Behind them, Pitch cupped his paws around his muzzle and bellowed:

“REMEMBER! WHEN THE VENDING MACHINES GO SILENT, THAT’S THE FIRST SIGN!”

They did not look back.

Ahead, the crowd thickened. Screens flickered with countdown graphics. Main stage lights swirled to life in bands of colour. Somewhere deeper in the hall, the audience cheered again, wild and bright and utterly unaware.

But beneath the excitement, the floor still seemed to hold that strange uneasy pulse.

And as Celeste walked on with the flyer in one paw, the replica cap tucked under her arm, and Lumina close beside her, she could not shake the feeling that they were standing at the very edge of something important.

Or terrible.

Possibly both.

And somewhere beyond the merchandise and music and glitter, the city of Clawdiff seemed to be holding its breath.