Bastion's mismatched eyes—one steel grey, the other ember gold—traced the faded numerals on the curled edge of the calendar page pinned to the wall. The paper was yellowing, corners worn and frayed, with angry red crosses scrawled over each passing day. April was slipping through their fingers, day by day, and with May's arrival came the slow but certain death of spring.
It was hard now, harder than ever, to remember a time when Caerleon knew peace. Harder still to believe those days had only been months ago. Before the world shifted, before Nemesis rose like judgment from the ashes, descending upon the Tower with fury sharpened into purpose. He leaned back in the old wooden chair, its frame groaning beneath him. A low, tired creak echoed through the quiet apartment like the sigh of a ghost too weary to linger.
His gaze drifted back to the window he had spent countless hours watching, waiting.
The apartment was modest, tucked into the upper floor of an abandoned complex overlooking City Hall. Family photos still hung askew on the walls—snapshots of a life that once belonged to a couple and their two children, both on the cusp of adolescence. Frozen smiles captured under golden light, long since replaced by silence and dust.
He and Frank had found the place ransacked, the chaos within telling a story louder than words. Blood on the floorboards. Furniture overturned. A family torn from their home, likely black-bagged in the middle of the night by Norsefire's finest. There was no time to mourn. No time to clean. If not for the apartment's direct line of sight to the City Hall compound, they would've left the ghosts to haunt in peace.
Instead, they watched. They waited.
And Bastion kept count of the days.
He narrowed his eyes, peering through the grimy glass at the rows of trucks now pulling into the compound. Dozens of them. Soldiers jumped from the flatbeds, barking orders as they hauled crates—heavy, sealed, and lined with reinforced sigils. He didn't need a second glance to know what was inside.
Lacrima crystals.
He could almost hear them hum.
Norsefire guards were posted at every corner, swords sheathed and wands at the ready. No one smiled. Not a word was wasted. Whatever was coming, it was methodical. Controlled. Quiet.
And deeply wrong.
A chill twisted in Bastion's gut, tightening like a knot. The kind of instinct honed not from paranoia, but from experience. Whatever Lamar Burgess was planning—it stank of a plot so vile, so profane in its ambition, that even Bastion couldn't bring himself to imagine its full shape.
And yet... it was coming.
He could feel it in his bones.
The sound of bootsteps echoed softly through the quiet room, measured and unhurried. The rich scent of freshly brewed coffee preceded their arrival, curling through the air and weaving into the lingering haze of dust and tension that had settled like a second skin.
Frank emerged from the kitchen doorway, two steaming paper cups in hand. He crossed the creaking floorboards and stopped beside Bastion, who remained at his post by the window, gaze fixed like stone.
"Anything new, kid?" Frank asked, offering him one of the cups. The dark liquid inside trembled slightly with the movement. "Three days now. Same time. Same rhythm. Stonejaw's a slime-coated rat, but the bastard's nothing if not punctual."
Bastion took the cup with a grateful nod, lifting it to his lips. He sipped, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue before exhaling.
"Same damned time. Same damned delivery," he muttered. "Fourteen crates. Every night. That's a whole bloody lot of Lacrima." His brow furrowed. "I don't know about you, but this reeks to hell and high water."
Frank took a long drag from his own cup, the heat seeping into his fingers. He sighed.
"I know it stinks. You think I haven't got the same bad feeling sitting in my gut like a lead stone?" He paused. "But we can't exactly kick the doors in and start barking questions. Either we storm in and Norsefire puts a Killing Curse between our eyes—or worse, we find out this whole thing isn't what we think, and we've just tossed a bomb into our own credibility."
Bastion turned from the window, folding his arms, the tension in his shoulders taut as drawn steel.
"Langston's team is ready," he said. "So's yours. From what I've seen, they've only got thirty inside. Half of them look like they've barely gotten their first shine off academy boots. I say we take our chances."
Frank shook his head.
"Langston might be a devil with a sword, but even he can't shield us from politics." He gave Bastion a sidelong glance. "Like it or not, Burgess is still Director. He's wrapped the Tower around his finger. Unless we've got something solid—tangible—we move too soon, and the fallout buries us."
He took another sip, then added grimly, "You know how good he is at spinning a story. He twists this the right way, and we'll be the ones labeled traitors. Meanwhile, the bastard walks away with another medal pinned to his chest and a self-important speech ready for the Council."
Silence settled for a moment between them. Outside the window, the last of the trucks disappeared into the compound gates. Shadows swallowed them whole.
"You know…" Frank's words broke the quiet, low and slow, as if the thought had been simmering for days. He stood still, arms folded across his chest, the steam from his coffee curling up around his weathered face. "Since everything went to hell, I've been thinking."
Bastion turned toward him, his eyes narrowing slightly, catching the shift in his tone.
"The more I thought about it," Frank continued, gaze distant, "the more I started to feel like all of this… every step, every corpse, every decision. It's connected."
He didn't look at Bastion. His eyes were fixed on something far beyond the cracked window in front of him. Beyond the city. Beyond the now.
"It's like I could see it," he murmured. "A thread. No—a chain. One long, unbroken chain of events that didn't start with Nemesis, or the Tower, or even this damned shitstorm." He took a breath, jaw tightening. "It started years ago. Maybe longer. The Dah'Tan incident… that was the match. The spark that lit the Tower's descent. Everything since then it's been a straight line toward collapse."
His hand tightened around the paper cup, the steam brushing his chin like a whisper.
"It's like I could see everything that has happened, and everything that will happen. Like the whole damned thing was laid out before us. A perfect pattern. And we? We're just pieces. All of us. Moved and sacrificed and set in place."
Bastion leaned forward slightly. "So… do you know what's coming?"
Frank shook his head.
"No. Just a feeling. But I've learned to trust those."
He sipped his coffee, eyes now shadowed and sharp. "I've always figured Asriel Valerian wasn't just in it for revenge. Not really. If it were just about the ones who wronged him, he'd have carved their names into stone by now."
He met Bastion's gaze.
"No. Every move Nemesis has made, it's been precise. Surgical. Every target, every act, carefully chosen. And then came Stelios… the turning point." His voice dropped. "And Burgess gave him exactly what he wanted."
Bastion's brow furrowed. "And what was that?"
Frank's jaw twitched.
"Chaos. Anarchy. The Tower's little tyrant pounding his iron fist onto the chessboard and flipping the table. They knew killing him outright would make him a martyr. Another golden name etched beside your grandfather's."
He turned slightly. His face half-lit in the soft, grey light bleeding in through the dusty window.
"But this way… the world gets to watch him fall. They get to see the monster in real time. No masks. No speeches. Just raw, unchecked power exposed for what it is. The dagger's already in his chest, kid. And if I know Valerian—he's planning to twist it slow."
A long silence followed. The only sound was the faint hum of distant engines, and the quiet ticking of a crooked clock above the sink.
Frank finally exhaled. "But I know one thing for certain."
Bastion looked at him.
"With this much chaos swirling around," Frank said, "someone's bound to do something incredibly stupid. And when that happens, things are going to turn. Hard. Ugly. Final."
There was something glassy in his eyes now. A flicker of a memory—bitter, buried, and unspoken. "Something so damned unforgivable… it'll turn even the kindest soul black."
He downed the last of his coffee, the bitter dregs slipping down his throat.
"Let's just pray it doesn't come to that."
****
"Hurry, amore!" Pablo cried out, breaking through the crack of thunder.
He and Edda rushed down the staircase, the old steps groaning beneath their frantic footsteps. Pablo was still in his pajamas, the shirt soaked in sweat, hair plastered to his forehead. Edda clutched Elio tight to her chest, the boy's arms wrapped around her neck, his small body trembling with every step.
Their breathing came in ragged gasps, hearts thundering in their ribs as panic clawed at their chests. The restaurant was swallowed in shadow, save for the dim, flickering amber sconces lining the alabaster walls. Light danced wildly, casting their terrified silhouettes across the empty tables and polished floors.
They were halfway through the dining room when the sound hit them.
A shrill, metallic whirr—unnatural and wicked—growing louder.
Then, with a violent hiss and a shower of sparks, massive slashes carved through the front entrance like paper. The glass façade shattered. Wood splintered. The entire wall exploded inward in a hail of debris, a thunderous blast echoing into the night as jagged shards rained across the floor.
Lightning tore across the sky. Rain poured in sheets from the heavens, and through that veiled curtain of storm, a figure stepped inside.
Glass cracked beneath her boot.
Astrea.
Her soaked coat clung to her like skin, the monstrous chainsword dangling from her hand, its teeth still spinning with glowing embers. At her side, Shadow slinked in, eyes burning red, fangs exposed in a silent snarl. Behind them, a cluster of Norsefire agents stood out on the street, half-silhouetted by the storm, rifles raised but unnecessary. They were there only to witness.
Pablo and Edda froze.
The air turned cold, blood draining from their faces as their feet refused to move.
Astrea tilted her head, a grotesque smile tugging at the edges of her lips. Her eyes gleamed wide, manic, starved for cruelty.
"Santa Maria…" Edda breathed, clutching Elio tighter.
Astrea's voice rang out, mockingly warm.
"Leaving so soon, Pablo?" she cooed, stepping over the wreckage, dragging the blade across the floor with a screech. "And without even a goodbye to your favorite customer?"
She pouted, feigning disappointment as she surveyed the shattered room. "Honestly… I'm hurt."
"Astrea, bambina…" Pablo's words wavered as he raised his hands slowly, positioning himself between her and his family. "Please, you don't have to do this. Just let us go, sì? We leave Caerleon tonight. You'll never see our faces again."
Astrea responded with a hissed hush. A finger pressed theatrically to her lips.
"Shh…" she whispered. "You always struck me as soft, Pablo—but I never thought you stupid."
She lowered her hand and shook her head with an air of theatrical disappointment.
"That dwarf was a terrorist, a murderer, responsible for more Tower deaths than you could count on both hands. And what did you do?" Her eyes gleamed. "You gave him food. Shelter. Mercy."
She clicked her tongue. "A terrible mistake. And without a doubt—your last."
Edda's eyes burned with fury. Elio trembled in her arms, his small fingers clutching her blouse.
"We helped a man in need," she snapped. "If that is our crime, if that is our sin—then we carry it with pride. No regrets."
Astrea tilted her head, amused, the chainsword in her grip still humming low. "When I took the oath of the Tower, I shed my name. My life. My past. I became something else. A tool. A blade," she said, eyes narrowing. "I learned early that the world is divided—good, and evil. And evil… must be punished."
Her grin widened. "But the world is so full of evil, and I only have so much time."
"You're mad," Edda snarled, shielding Elio as she stepped forward. "I always knew it. From the day you first stepped into our restaurant with that dead stare and painted smile—I saw it."
She spat at the ground. "You speak of justice while you murder the innocent and call it duty. There is no law in you. Only rot."
Astrea's smile didn't falter. She stopped in her tracks, shoulders rising with a slow breath.
"Perhaps. But law or rot, the punishment stands." Her words grew quiet, razor-sharp. "You are charged with treason. And the price of treason…" She lifted the blade just enough for the teeth to purr. "…is death."
Then, leaning forward with eyes glinting madly, she added: "But don't worry. I promise. You won't suffer…" Her grin stretched into something grotesque. "…much."
Astrea revved her chainsword—the weapon roared to life with a shriek of spinning teeth, the blade a blur of steel and fury.
Pablo gritted his teeth, heart pounding, and surged forward with a cry. "Amore, now!" Just as Astrea raised the weapon high, her grin carved in madness.
Behind him, Edda turned on instinct, her arms trembling as she dropped Elio gently to the floor. "Elio—corri!" she cried. "Run!"
The boy's eyes widened, his small hands reaching for her even as she pushed him toward the back of the restaurant. That was the last thing he heard—his mother's voice, shrill and panicked, shattering through the air like breaking glass—before the scream of metal drowned it out.
****
The door to Helga's room slammed open with such force it shook the shelves, sending a cascade of trinkets clattering and wobbling like startled pixies.
"The cake was gone when I got there, Chef Gusteau!" Helga shrieked, bolting upright and promptly tumbling off the side of her bed in a tangle of blankets and limbs. "I swear!"
"Hufflepuff—on your feet!" barked a familiar voice.
The magical sconces lining the walls flickered to life, casting the room in a warm amber glow. Helga blinked against the sudden light, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her golden nightgown shimmered faintly as she pushed herself upright, her gaze settling on the silhouette at the doorway.
"L-Lucian?" she squinted. "By Bacchus' Butterbeer… what time is it?" Her eyes flicked to the clock mounted on the cavern wall. "The heck? It's two in the morning! What's going on—"
"Get dressed. Now," Lucian snapped. His demeanor, usually firm and composed, now held an edge of panic. "And follow me. Quickly."
He was gone before she could ask another question, his footsteps already echoing down the corridor.
Helga blinked, momentarily stunned.
Lucian never panicked. She stared at the empty doorway for half a heartbeat longer—then scrambled to her feet, heart pounding.
"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" she muttered, snatching her robes from the hook and hastily throwing them over her nightgown. "If this is about that treacle tart from last week, I paid for that, thank you very much."
But something in her gut told her this wasn't about cake.
And for once, that terrified her
****
Helga followed close behind Lucian, her slippered feet struggling to keep pace with his frantic strides. The castle's corridors blurred past in streaks of torchlight and shadow, every sharp turn pulling her farther from sleep and deeper into a gnawing dread. It wasn't until they passed the East Wing archway that she realized where they were headed—the Hospital Wing.
A chill settled into her chest.
Rain battered the tall windows, rivulets trailing like tears over the glass. Thunder cracked the sky in violent bursts, lightning flashing through the darkened halls in jagged, blinding intervals. As Lucian pushed open the heavy wooden doors, they stumbled straight into chaos.
The Hospital Wing was bedlam.
Healers rushed from cot to cot, their robes soaked with sweat and blood. The floors—usually polished to a pristine gleam—were slick with crimson. Trails of it led in every direction. Students and townsfolk alike lay on stretchers, moaning, twitching, some motionless entirely. The thick stench of iron filled the air, clinging to the back of Helga's throat.
But Lucian kept moving.
So did she.
And then she saw her.
Doctor Adani, halfway turned, her bloodstained gloves trembling slightly as she stepped aside.
Helga's world came to a shattering halt.
There, on a narrow cot beneath flickering sconce light—was Elio.
He lay limp and soaked in blood, the pale linen sheets beneath him soaked through. Deep, savage gashes marred his torso, and his left arm was gone, severed at the elbow. His breaths came in faint, wet gasps, barely clinging to consciousness.
Helga couldn't breathe. She shoved past Lucian, stumbling to the boy's side. Her hands hovered above him, trembling violently. Her lips parted, but no sound came—only a soft wheeze that broke into a sob.
"Elio…" she choked. "Oh gods, Elio…"
The boy stirred faintly, his eyelids fluttering. When he saw her, tears immediately welled in his eyes.
"H-Helga…" he whimpered. "It… hurts…"
"I'm here," she said quickly, wiping his cheek with a shaking hand. "It's alright, I'm here. W-what… what happened to you?"
Doctor Adani approached slowly, her face pale beneath the bloodstains. "He wandered in through the front doors on his own," she said. "With that much blood loss… it's a miracle he even made it this far."
Helga turned to her, her eyes wide, pleading. "But he'll be alright, right?" she asked. "Please tell me he'll be alright…"
Doctor Adani hesitated—just for a moment—but it was enough.
Her shoulders sagged. Her eyes turned away.
And Helga's heart broke.
A strangled sob clawed from her throat, and she gripped Elio's hand as tightly as she dared.
"M-Mama…" Elio whimpered. "Papa… they… she…"
Helga leaned in close. "What is it? Who, sweetheart? What happened?"
Elio's eyes brimmed with tears. "She… she hurt them…"
And then the words hit.
"Mama… Papa…"
Helga went still.
Her breath caught in her lungs as her eyes widened in horror.
"Pablo… Edda…"
Without a second thought, Helga spun on her heel and ran.
"Hufflepuff—Helga, wait!" Lucian's voice echoed after her, sharp with alarm, but it was too late.
She was already gone.
She burst through the doors of the Hospital Wing, her bare feet pounding against cold stone, each step echoing down the corridor like a war drum. She shoved past startled students and staff, the rush of wind trailing behind her as she tore through the hallways, her nightgown and robes billowing like banners in a storm.
Her lungs burned. Her vision blurred with tears. The ache in her chest grew heavier with every stride.
And yet—she didn't stop.
She couldn't.
Somewhere deep in her gut, she knew what she'd find when she reached the restaurant. She knew, even if she refused to say it aloud.
But beneath the pain—beneath the rising tide of grief and horror—something else stirred.
Heat.
A flicker. A spark. A fire, burning low but furious.
Grief may have shaken her. But rage had taken hold.
And Helga Hufflepuff was no longer running away.
She was running toward.
****
Helga tore through the desolate streets, the storm lashing around her like a living thing. Rain hammered against her as it soaked through the long coat of her robes, turning the white shirt beneath clingy and translucent, her black trousers heavy and sodden. A gray sash clung tightly to her waist, darkened by the downpour. The metal bracelets on her wrists pulsed faintly with magic, humming softly in rhythm with her ragged breaths.
She ran.
Boots striking the stone with force, sending puddles scattering in her wake.
Lightning forked across the sky, thunder cracking so hard it rattled her bones, but she didn't slow. She blinked against the rain, wiping her face with a trembling hand, her teeth clenched tight as the cold wind cut through her like a knife.
She had to reach them.
Please… let them be okay.
But then—she caught it.
The scent.
Acrid. Heavy. Unmistakable.
Smoke.
Then came the light. The orange flicker, too bright, too violent. Casting eerie shadows across the soaked redbrick walls. Her breath hitched. Her pace quickened. She rounded the final corner—and froze. The restaurant was ablaze. Flames roared through broken windows, dancing along the roof, licking up toward the heavens. Smoke billowed thick into the stormy sky, twisting like a funeral shroud. Helga's boots splashed into a puddle and she stumbled to a halt, chest heaving. Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Her eyes scanned the inferno as her legs trembled beneath her.
And then she saw them.
Two shapes.
Still. Crumpled.
Lying in a pool that shimmered red beneath the rain.
Blood.
Too much blood.
She staggered forward, her vision blurring. Each step heavier than the last. Then her knees gave out.
She collapsed beside them. Pablo and Edda—bodies broken and lifeless, blood pooling beneath their shattered forms. Their faces twisted not in pain but in fear.
Her hand hovered over them, shaking violently. Her entire body convulsed as the first sob escaped her lips, followed by another, and another, until her cries tore out of her in broken, guttural screams. The rain did not wash it away. The fire kept burning. And Helga Hufflepuff wept on the cobblestones beside the mangled remains of the people she loved.
"Well, isn't this a surprise." The voice slithered through the downpour and every hair on Helga's body stood on end.
"I've spent all night wondering who else might've been there that day," the speaker continued, boots crunching over broken glass and rain-slicked stone. "I thought it was just another Nemesis rat, or maybe some bleeding-heart sympathizer... but you?"
Helga slowly turned her head, her eyes locking on the figure emerging from the shadows. Astrea, unbothered by the rain, her blood-soaked chainsword resting against her shoulder, the crimson already washing away in diluted streaks.
"I'll admit," Astrea went on, tilting her head with a grin that didn't quite reach her eyes, "I didn't expect it to be you, Helga."
For a heartbeat, perhaps longer—Helga couldn't move.
She couldn't breathe.
Grief had paralyzed her. And now fear did the same. Her throat tightened. Her limbs felt as though they were bound in iron. The words clawing at her chest never made it past her lips. She remained there, kneeling between the rain and the dead. Unable to rise, unable to speak, her fingers trembling above Pablo and Edda's still-warm bodies.
Only now, in that horrible silence, did she notice the rest—the armored vehicles stationed just beyond the flames, the silhouettes of Norsefire guards standing at attention, weapons ready, unmoved by the carnage they had overseen. And beside Astrea, her monstrous hound, its red eyes glowing faintly in the haze, fangs bared in something almost like a grin.
She hadn't heard them approach.
Hadn't even felt them until it was too late.
Because until now, she had been drowning in sorrow.
Now—she was suffocating in dread.
"Misery, misery, misery," Astrea murmured as she paced behind Helga. "That's what they chose."
"I offered them a chance," she continued, almost conversational, her boots splashing through puddles slick with ash and blood. "A path to redemption. And they spat in my face." Her voice grew colder with each syllable. "They only have themselves to blame."
Helga's breaths came ragged and shallow, her shoulders heaving beneath the downpour. Her fingers curled tightly into her knees, knuckles white. The fury she longed to summon still lay buried beneath shock and devastation.
"I assume the only reason you're here," Astrea went on, circling like a vulture, "is because that little brat managed to crawl his way to Excalibur."
Helga flinched—but still said nothing.
"No matter," Astrea murmured. "He'll be lucky to see the sunrise. And even if he does…" Astrea paused, then smiled. Not with joy, but with that cold, quiet satisfaction that could only come from deep conviction twisted into madness. "Well… I'd call that more of a tragedy, really."
She came to a halt directly behind Helga. The girl still knelt in the blood-washed street, and Astrea's shadow stretched over her like a blade waiting to fall.
"I imagine you see me as a monster," she said softly, almost amused. "Most do. But justice—real justice—it doesn't compromise. It doesn't plead. And it sure as Hell doesn't apologize."
She lifted her arm, the rain streaking down pale skin until it reached the bracelet on her wrist. Frayed, worn, its color long faded.
"Every morning," she whispered, "I look in the mirror and see the face of the girl who wore this once. A child who believed in fairness. In hope. In second chances. She thought evil could be reasoned with. That if you just spoke gently enough, even the most wretched soul could be saved."
She exhaled, eyes distant now, glassy and unfocused. Drifting somewhere far from the burning wreck behind them. "She and I were the same."
She inhaled. Her gaze distant now. "And then I remember." She turned her hand, watching the rain drip from her palm as though it carried the weight of memory itself. "She died that night… and so did I."
Astrea turned her hand over, letting the rain pool briefly in her palm before it spilled between her fingers like something sacred lost.
"What stands now," she said, "is justice made flesh." Then came the laugh. "I suppose in a way," she added with a trace of something near fondness, "I can even empathize with Nemesis."
Astrea's eyes dropped to Helga, the weight of her gaze cold and final, like a hammer poised above glass. The chainsword perched on her shoulder gave a low, mechanical growl, the serrated teeth beginning to churn. Slowly at first, an ominous purr, then escalating into a shrill metallic roar as she thumbed the ignition. The weapon vibrated in her grasp, glowing faintly as enchantments hissed to life, bathing her in flickering blue light.
"Well," she murmured, almost regretfully, "I suppose there's no need for pretense."
Her words cut through the rain like a knife.
"As an accomplice to their crimes—harboring a known fugitive, interfering with a lawful execution—you, Helga Hufflepuff, stand guilty of treason." The chainsword lifted, the whirring teeth spinning fast enough to blur into a wheel of death above Helga's bowed form.
"And the penalty," Astrea said, "is death."
Lightning tore across the sky overhead, casting the street in stark, ghastly white. For a single moment, the world stood frozen in that flash—the shattered storefronts, the burning wreckage, the pool of blood soaking the stones. The Norsefire guards loomed just beyond the firelight, their faces shadowed, but that burst of lightning revealed the truth: they were grinning.
All of them.
Twisted, hungry things.
Astrea's grin curled as she met Helga's silence with a mocking lilt.
"Just so you know," she said, leaning slightly closer, "I really did enjoy company... and your donuts."
And with that, she brought the blade down.
****
Bastion's mismatched eyes remained fixed on Frank, the arch of his brow lifting with measured skepticism. "That's cryptic," he said, folding his arms across his chest, "even for you. Hell, I'm almost afraid to ask what you mean," he added, gaze narrowing faintly, "but unfortunately for both of us, my curiosity's gotten the better of me."
Frank offered a tired shrug, one shoulder rising slightly beneath the weathered fabric of his coat. He didn't look away. He didn't smile.
"Someone once told me," he said quietly, "that there are three things all wise men fear."
The air seemed to still with the weight of his words.
He met Bastion's gaze, steady and grim.
"The sea in storm… a night with no moon…"
****
Sparks erupted in the dark like shrapnel, a blinding burst of light and heat as the chainsword's teeth met something they weren't meant to. Something solid, unyielding.
Astrea's eyes widened.
For a single, surreal second, her mind refused to comprehend what she was seeing.
The blade had stopped. Not on bone. Not on steel.
On Helga's hand.
The whirring weapon sputtered and shrieked as it ground helplessly against her open palm, casting off smoke and embers. The sound was a scream of metal on stone was wrong, unnatural. The mechanism jammed, the hilt rattling violently in Astrea's grip, steam hissing from the vents as her weapon failed her.
And still—Helga stood, unmoved. Her hand, wrapped in scorched skin that shimmered faintly in the lightning, clenched with slow, terrible force. A snarl curled from her throat as her fingers crushed the blade. Metal twisting, teeth snapping, the chainsword cracking apart in her grip with a sickening crunch.
Then she turned. Amber eyes burned through the rain, wide with fury, wild with pain. Her teeth clenched as she stared into Astrea's frozen expression—a mixture of disbelief and sudden, dawning terror. With a mechanical grind, the bracelet on Helga's right wrist snapped open, plates and gears unfolding in quick succession as they coiled up her arm and locked into place. A gauntlet of polished steel and gleaming enchantments formed, humming with power from fingertip to elbow.
Then—she moved. With a cry torn from the depths of her soul, raw and savage, she drove her fist forward and slammed it into Astrea's chest.
The impact ruptured through the street, a shockwave so forceful it parted the rain in a wide, rippling arc—droplets flung outward in suspended trails, as if time itself had flinched.
Astrea's body arched backward midair, her mouth gaping as the air fled her lungs. She felt her ribs shatter beneath the force, pain exploding through her body in a flash of red. In an instant, she was flung backward, hurling through the rain like a ragdoll before crashing into the building across the street, stone and timber cracking beneath her weight. The wall fractured with a booming crack, and blood sprayed from her lips as she slumped into the debris.
Helga stood where she was, chest rising and falling like a bellows, her eyes still locked on the crater she'd made. The second bracelet clicked, then whirred to life. It unfolded. Sliding and locking into a second gauntlet. Until both arms bore the weight of steel and fury. She slammed her fists together with a sound like war drums, the metallic clang echoing across the street.
Then she dropped into a stance, low and braced, her expression twisted with grief and rage sharpened into vengeance. What stood now was no longer a grieving girl—but the storm, given form.
****
"… and the wrath of a gentle soul," Frank finished.