The courtyard had warmed by late morning.

  Derpy sat cross-legged in the grass.

  He let himself breathe.

  The wolf ears faded.

  The braided tail dissolved.

  Bones shifted softly.

  Dragon wings unfolded behind him — deep ember red edged in frost-blue.

  His true hybrid form settled into place.

  He exhaled slowly.

  Mk.1 sat near his left shoulder, mimicking his posture.

  Mk.2 stood nearby, newly repaired arm flexing with improved precision.

  Mk.3 observed from the shade.

  Mk.4 stood guard — but closer than before.

  Derpy’s voice softened.

  “You guys don’t have to hover.”

  Mk.1 tilted her head.

  “Hovering ensures friend safety.”

  Mk.2 spoke quietly.

  “You expend less energy in dragon form.”

  Derpy nodded.

  “It feels… stable.”

  He stretched his wings.

  Sunlight caught along the membranes.

  For a brief moment —

  Peace.

  Then —

  Celica’s voice sharpened.

  Something is wrong.

  Blight followed.

  Entrances sealed.

  Derpy stood slowly.

  He turned.

  Stone archways that led back into the palace were now lined with guards.

  Not hostile.

  Not charging.

  Just… closed.

  Mk.4 stepped forward.

  “Perimeter shift detected.”

  Derpy’s eyes narrowed.

  Then he noticed.

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  The stands.

  Balconies that hadn’t been occupied earlier were now filled.

  Nobles.

  Military officers.

  Arcane scholars.

  Political envoys.

  Watching.

  The courtyard had become a stage.

  Two opposite balconies opened.

  On one side —

  Queen Vaeloria.

  Emerald robes flowing, staff in hand.

  On the other —

  King Thornevald.

  Cloak trimmed in flame-woven sigils.

  His staff radiated dormant heat.

  Derpy slowly understood.

  “Oh.”

  He was in the middle.

  Vaeloria’s voice rang first.

  “My champion.”

  The word rippled through the stands.

  Thornevald scoffed openly.

  “Your experiment.”

  Derpy’s jaw tightened.

  Mk.3’s eyes flicked upward.

  The king continued.

  “The Doll-Soldier Program has served its political purpose. The Stitchborne are obsolete as tools of influence.”

  Murmurs in the stands.

  Mk.1 stiffened.

  Mk.2’s fingers curled.

  Mk.3 didn’t move — but something in her posture sharpened.

  Vaeloria stepped forward.

  “They are not tools,” she said, voice cold.

  “They are evolving.”

  She gestured downward.

  “They are learning.”

  She pointed — not at the dolls.

  At Derpy.

  “They are growing because they are treated as more than disposable constructs.”

  The king’s voice hardened.

  “They are weapons.”

  Vaeloria’s eyes flashed.

  “They are not yours alone.”

  Silence.

  The crowd felt it.

  This wasn’t policy.

  This was fracture.

  Thornevald’s gaze dropped to Derpy.

  “You see?” he said loudly. “He is unstable. Transforming. Reactive. Not fit for integration.”

  Derpy’s wings twitched.

  Vaeloria snapped back.

  “He is adaptive. And my dolls adapt faster because of him.”

  The king’s voice grew sharp.

  “You would stake the empire’s stability on the emotional development of manufactured soldiers?”

  Vaeloria’s hand tightened on her staff.

  “I would rather stake it on growth than stagnation and human sacrifice.”

  That word again.

  Sacrifice.

  The stands shifted uncomfortably.

  Thornevald’s eyes flickered briefly.

  Then hardened.

  “You are weakening our position.”

  Vaeloria’s voice went colder.

  “And you are burning it from the inside.”

  The first pink ice shard formed at her feet.

  Gasps in the stands.

  Thornevald’s staff flared.

  Fire coiled upward around him.

  The air split in temperature instantly.

  Ice from one balcony.

  Flame from the other.

  Derpy stood between.

  Mk.1 moved closer.

  Mk.2 stepped slightly ahead of him instinctively.

  Mk.3 watched the political temperature, not the magical one.

  Mk.4 shifted to shield formation.

  Vaeloria’s voice sharpened.

  “You will not reduce them back into tools.”

  Thornevald answered with rising heat.

  “And you will not build loyalty to a foreign calamity bearer.”

  That hit harder.

  Derpy’s eyes lifted slowly.

  Foreign.

  Tool.

  Weapon.

  Champion.

  Symbol.

  The ice cracked outward from Vaeloria’s platform.

  Flames roared upward from Thornevald’s.

  The courtyard temperature split in half.

  Derpy finally spoke.

  “I’m not your argument.”

  The sound cut cleanly.

  Both monarchs paused.

  The crowd went still.

  Mk.3 looked at him sharply.

  Vaeloria’s ice stalled.

  Thornevald’s fire wavered.

  Derpy’s wings spread slightly.

  “You want to debate the dolls?” he said calmly.

  “Do it without turning me into a banner.”

  The tension held.

  Vaeloria’s expression shifted.

  Thornevald’s eyes narrowed.

  Then —

  The king lowered his staff first.

  Fire dimmed.

  Vaeloria held ice a moment longer —

  Then shattered it.

  Pink frost fell like petals across stone.

  The debate ended without resolution.

  But the fracture was public now.

  And everyone had seen it.

  The stands emptied slowly.

  Guards withdrew.

  Mk.1 looked up at Derpy.

  “Friend… argument intense.”

  Mk.2 studied him.

  “You did not escalate.”

  Mk.3’s voice was thoughtful.

  “You disrupted their narrative.”

  Mk.4 stepped closer than usual.

  “Perimeter restored.”

  Derpy exhaled slowly.

  “They were using us.”

  Mk.3 corrected gently.

  “They were using you.”

  He didn’t argue.

  Late morning light spilled across wooden floors.

  The retrieval team was gone.

  The war room quiet.

  Mina sat near the window, knees drawn up.

  Kara stood behind her.

  Steady.

  Protective.

  Mina whispered softly:

  “Do you think he’s scared?”

  Kara didn’t lie.

  “Yes.”

  Mina’s fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve.

  Across the room —

  Cinder stirred.

  Slow.

  Heavy.

  Like something inside her was waking too.

  Her eyes opened.

  Red.

  Tired.

  But aware.

  She inhaled slowly.

  Something had shifted.

  Far away.

  And whatever that shift was —

  It wasn’t small.