The Room of the Cookie Table smelled of vanilla, candlewax, and smoke.

The walls—stacked from old wafer-bricks lacquered with sugar glaze—creaked softly now and again beneath the slow shifting weight of the Egg Tree overhead. Roots as thick as pillars curled through the ceiling and disappeared into shadow, humming faintly with old mana. Sugarglass windows, set in caramel frames, let in a thin wash of starlight through cloudy marshmallow panes. At the centre of the room sat the table itself: broad, round, and edged in dark toffee, its surface scarred by maps, mugs, knives, inkpots, and too many desperate plans.

The largest chair sat at its head.

Celeste sat in it alone.

Her blue knight armour caught the low gold light of a jelly-lantern burning near her elbow, softening the dents and scratches but not hiding them. Her scarf—pale blue and frayed from too much wear—shifted faintly whenever the wind found its way through the old roots and cracks in the walls. Dust and crumbs clung to her boots. There was dried sugar on one gauntlet she had either not noticed or no longer cared enough to clean.

She had not taken the armour off in days.

And perched carefully atop her head, as though placed there with ritual care, sat her old faded blue newsboy hat.

It was worn now. The brim was a little bent. One side had torn and been stitched back together badly. But the two little gold stars sewn at the side were still there, and the soft wing-shaped patches still sat at either temple like tiny blessings. It had been with her since the beginning.

Through fire.
Through blood.
Through the screaming dark.

Celeste lifted one hand and touched the brim gently, just for a moment, like she needed to make sure it was still real.

In front of her lay the Nommipedia, open wide.

Its gold-trimmed cover had dulled with use, but the pages inside were still full of careful sketches, field notes, messy annotations, and the names of the dead. Of the hunted. Of the things that had once been people.

Gumdrop Revenants.
Taffy Sirens.
Marrow Mice.
The Candy Dragon.

Her fingers drifted over the ink like a prayer, light and slow.

Beside the book sat a half-packed cookie tin. It rattled softly when she shifted. Inside were the sorts of things no one sensible would pack for war and no one kind would throw away: a stitched plush of CHIP with one eye hanging loose, a cracked card from Skye’s deck, the splintered end of one of Lumina’s practice wands, a guitar pick carved with lightning bolts, a frosting-smudged group photo with the edges bent from being looked at too often.

And at the very bottom—

an old, crumpled comic convention ticket, marked by a smeared green paw print.

Celeste stared at that one longest.

Her face softened.

Then tightened again.

Outside the room, hurried footsteps thudded over the root-carved hallways.

Someone shouted, breathless and afraid.

“They’re gathering in the city centre!”

Another voice, further back, sharper with panic:

“There’s thousands of them now—thousands!”

Then, low and frightened—

“The dragon’s calling them. I swear he’s calling them.”

Celeste went very still.

Her eyes lifted toward the door.

For one terrible second, all the brave little things holding her together seemed to loosen at once. Her mouth parted. Her hand trembled over the edge of the table. She looked as though she might stand. Or run. Or cry.

Instead, she shut her eyes.

Breathed in.

Held it.

Breathed out.

Again.

Slowly this time, careful and measured, just as Silver had taught her when her thoughts began to race faster than her heart could carry them. In for four. Hold. Out for four. Shoulders down. Jaw unclench. Keep breathing. Keep moving.

When she opened her eyes again, they were still glassy with fear—

but steadier.

“Right,” she whispered to herself, voice trembling only a little. “Still here. That’s… that’s something.”

A small voice recorder sat beside her tea mug.

Celeste reached for it with both hands, as though it were something delicate enough to break. She swallowed, exhaled softly, and pressed the button.

Click.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Only the faint whirr of the machine filled the room.

Then—

“...Hello.”

Her voice came out too quiet. Too raw.

She glanced down, wiped quickly at one eye with the heel of her hand, then gave a tiny, embarrassed sniff.

“Oh, that was a terrible start. Sorry. Let me do it properly.”

She stopped the recording. Took another breath. Started again.

Click.

“...Hello. This is Celeste Astallan.” A pause. “Flame Ragdoll. Hybrid. Knight Commander of the Knights of Clawdiff.” Her mouth twitched faintly, like she still wasn’t quite used to saying it aloud. “And, um... if this sounds a little odd, it’s because I’m trying to be brave and official, and I’m not terribly good at either when I’m shaking.”

Her laugh was small and damp with nerves.

Somewhere outside, the shouting in the halls rose again, then faded into hurried commands.

Celeste looked toward the door one more time.

Then back to the recorder.

“We’re about to go into the final battle,” she said, softer now. “And I think... I think this may be the last quiet moment we get. The last one where I can still sit here and talk before everything starts moving too fast.” Her fingers curled tighter around the recorder. “Clawdiff is counting on us. There isn’t a second plan anymore. There’s just us.”

She reached for her journal and opened it carefully, as if the pages might bruise.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” she admitted. “I mean—I’m going. Obviously. I’m not staying here while everyone else risks themselves, that would be awful. But I am frightened. Very frightened, actually.” Her nose wrinkled a little as she glanced down. “I thought perhaps saying it out loud might make it smaller, but no. Still dreadful.”

She turned one page with trembling fingers.

“But they’re ready,” she went on. “Or as ready as anyone can be, I think. They’ve come so far. Further than anyone expected. Ray. Mezzo. Topsy. Pitch. Hughes. Crystal. Arcade. Skye. Lumina...”

Her voice gentled at that.

“Silver.”

Her hand lingered over the name.

For a moment, she could almost hear him correcting her stance, hear the dry amusement in his voice when she panicked too early, feel the steadying weight of his hand between her shoulder blades.

Breathe, Sparkles. Again.

Celeste breathed in once more.

Then out.

“And Bonbon too,” she added, with a watery little smile.

She looked at the cookie tin, at the photo, at the bits and pieces of a life built in crumbs and chaos and love.

“I wanted to remember what we were,” she said. “Not just what we’re fighting. Because if... if we don’t come back, I don’t want the story to begin with the battle. That seems unfair.” Her eyes shimmered. “It should begin with us being foolish and hopeful and not knowing what was waiting.”

She reached into the tin and picked up the convention ticket.

The green paw print was still there, smudged into the corner like a stain that refused to be forgotten.

A tear slipped loose. She laughed softly through it.

“It started with a comic convention,” she murmured.

She turned the ticket over in her fingers.

“And an invitation.”

The Egg Tree groaned above her as the wind moved through its great branches. The lantern flame flickered. Somewhere out in the city, beyond walls of candy and root and sugarglass, thousands of dead things were gathering to the call of a dragon.

And in the warm little heart of the Cookie Room, with her armour on, her lucky hat crooked on her head, and fear trembling quietly behind her ribs, Celeste Astallan sat very still and began telling the story of how the world ended.