Helga stepped out into the rain as the heavens wept over the broken city, the storm a quiet witness to all that had been lost. The golden gauntlets on her arms began to fold back, the whir of gears and metallic grinding faint beneath the rain. Bit by bit, the heavy armor receded into the simple bracelets that circled her wrists—now too heavy for what little strength she had left.
With the adrenaline fading, so too did the fire that had burned so violently within her. It sputtered, flickered, then died, replaced by a creeping stillness that clawed up from her chest—a cold, hollow ache that filled her ribcage like iced water.
The glow in her amber eyes dimmed.
The realization came slowly, then all at once. Like a landslide crashing down upon her shoulders. Her breath caught. Her knees trembled. The weight of it all pressed into her bones. The rain soaked her completely, drenching her robes, her auburn hair clinging to her face. Yet she didn't shiver from the cold.
She trembled from within. The blood had long since washed from her skin, diluted in the streams running down the gutter, but she could still feel it—thick and warm on her fingertips, splattered across her cheeks, clinging to her like a second skin. No amount of rain would cleanse what she had done.
She had killed them.
With her own hands.
Not in defense. Not in desperation.
In rage.
And in the quiet aftermath, there was no guilt. No regret. Only the echo of her own breathing and a terrible, hollow satisfaction that left her sick.
Pablo and Edda were gone.
And no amount of fury had changed that.
Then, a voice broke through the storm.
"Helga!"
She turned, slowly, as if waking from a dream. At the end of the ruined street stood Rowena, soaked to the bone, her sapphire eyes wide with horror.
"R-Row…" Helga's voice cracked. Her breath hitched, and something inside her shattered.
Her face twisted as the tears came. A sob tore through her, raw and broken, and her knees gave way beneath her. She collapsed onto the wet pavement, her shoulders heaving, fingers clawing at the stone. Rowena was already running. She dropped to her knees and pulled Helga into her arms, holding her tight as the girl wept into her shoulder.
"It's okay," Rowena whispered, clutching her close. "It's okay, Helga. I'm here."
And Helga wept—loud, aching sobs muffled only by the steady rhythm of rain around them. Her hands clutched at Rowena's robes with the desperation of a drowning soul, as if the weight of the world could only be borne if someone held part of it with her. The rain kept falling, washing the blood into the cracks of the city, but never far enough to wash it from her heart.
****
Rowena held her tightly and refused to let go. Her arms wrapped around Helga as if shielding her from the cold, from the storm, from the world that had just torn her heart in two. And deep down, she felt it—the fracture in her own chest, the ache of watching someone she loved reduced to ruin.
This wasn't the Helga Hufflepuff she knew. Not the girl who greeted the day with laughter and a half-eaten donut in one hand. Not the girl who danced barefoot through the gardens, who made every place feel like home with the warmth of her smile. Not the girl who once challenged Salazar to a cake-eating contest, then ran five miles across Caerleon in a sugar-induced daze.
The Helga in her arms was different now. She was quiet. Shaking. Drenched not just in rain but in grief and blood and something else—something that terrified Rowena more than all of it. She had seen the carnage. The wreckage of the restaurant still burned in the back of her mind. Pablo and Edda's bodies, broken and still. The street soaked in blood. The mangled corpses of Norsefire agents. And there, lying in a twisted heap, the unrecognizable remains of a creature far too massive, too unnatural to be a dog.
Her gaze turned to the shattered stained-glass window of the church, then to the collapsed mirror shop nearby. It didn't take much to imagine where it ended—or how.
But it didn't matter. Not right now.
Rowena whispered gently, brushing Helga's soaked auburn hair from her eyes. "Come on, Helga. Let's get you home. Norsefire will be here any—"
The sound of screeching tires tore through the silence, loud and sudden as a thunderclap. Rowena's words caught in her throat. Armored vehicles roared onto the ruined street, brakes shrieking as they skidded to a halt. Doors burst open and boots thundered to the pavement. Dozens of Norsefire agents poured out, weapons drawn, faces obscured by masks and malice.
"Surround them!" one barked.
Rowena's expression changed instantly. Her arms released Helga with the gentlest care as she rose to her feet, the storm catching the ends of her robes as she stepped forward, placing herself between the guards and her friend. She drew her wand in a single motion, the tip glowing with a dangerous green hue—a spell no honored student of Excalibur should ever cast, but she didn't care. Not tonight.
"You murderous bastards," Rowena growled. Her knuckles were white around her wand. "You took everything from her. From them. From this city."
Her sapphire eyes flared as her words dropped into something colder. "Salazar was right. You're vermin. And it's time I stopped pretending otherwise."
Before the guards could so much as lift their wands, the shadows answered. A sudden hiss tore through the rain-slicked night—a chorus of whistling shrieks. Then came the impact. Blackened arrows, veined with molten fire, tore through the darkness. One after another, they struck with deadly precision.
Bone snapped. Eyes burst. Armor shattered. Screams of agony filled the street as Norsefire soldiers dropped where they stood, twitching, gasping, dying. Some clawed at the shafts lodged in their throats. Others gurgled in puddles of their own blood. A few tried to crawl—only to collapse with broken sobs.
Rowena didn't move. Couldn't. She stared as the life drained from their bodies. Cold shock stole her breath. Even after everything, she had never seen death delivered so quickly. So cleanly. So ruthlessly.
Then, without warning—smoke and ember swirled beside her.
She flinched as a figure materialized from the mist. Rowena turned, her eyes locking with those of a girl—an elf. Tall and graceful, with pale blonde hair that shimmered like moonlight and eyes like molten amber. A long, blackened bow faded from her hand, as if it had never existed, only heat and ash left in its place.
Rowena blinked, realization dawning. She'd seen her before. Long ago. After the chaos with Jeanne and Bastion. A ghost of memory now fully formed in flesh.
The elven girl glanced between Rowena and the crumpled figure of Helga.
"We have to go. Now."
"W-what?" Rowena stammered. "But—who are you?"
"No time to explain." The girl's voice was calm but firm.
With a flick of her wrists, embers flared at her fingertips. She reached out, placing one hand on Rowena's shoulder and the other on Helga's back.
The world ignited. In an instant, they vanished in a gust of smoke and fire, leaving only scorched stone and the dead behind.
****
The townhouses on the city's outskirts lay silent beneath the veil of night, their windows dark, their walls hollow. The storm had passed, leaving behind only the soft patter of rain against swaying leaves and the creak of a rusted merry-go-round pushed gently by the wind. The streets had long since been abandoned, either by fear or by force—Norsefire's thugs had seen to that. Within one of the derelict apartments, a soft amber glow flickered against the cream-colored walls, casting shadows that danced like ghosts across the remnants of a life once lived.
Rowena sat softly upon the leather couch, her gaze drifting across the bohemian interior. Whoever had called this place home clearly had a taste for the exotic—hand-carved wooden furnishings, shelves brimming with peculiar trinkets gathered from across Avalon. Paintings hung upon the walls, each one stranger than the last, little more than bursts of color and jagged lines on stark white canvas. Too abstract to be called art by traditional standards, though Rowena didn't claim to understand such things. They served as distractions, meaningless thoughts to keep her from the reality she couldn't yet bring herself to face.
In the other room, Helga lay curled into herself, fast asleep or as close to sleep as her mind would allow. Rowena prayed she might find some semblance of peace in the realm of dreams. After all she had endured, after what she had done, perhaps rest was the only mercy left to offer. But the image wouldn't leave Rowena's mind: the broken bodies, the splattered blood, the smoldering aftermath of righteous fury turned visceral.
A part of her still struggled to believe it. That Helga. The very same kind, gentle, Helga—was capable of such carnage. But Rowena had seen what rage could do. She had seen it time and time again with Godric. And if she were honest, she couldn't find anger in her heart for Helga. No, what she felt was a deep, raw hatred for everything that had made this necessary. For the world that shaped them into weapons. For the corruption that kept forcing their hands.
The Clock Tower. The law. The sanctified ideals she'd been raised to revere. The doctrine her family had clung to for generations like scripture. All of it, now nothing more than a hollow lie. A putrid stain wearing the mask of justice. She could feel the rot in her bones, a filth beneath her skin she could never scrub clean, no matter how hard she tried.
And she hated it. Hated what it made her. Hated what it made Helga. What it made them all.
Rowena's sapphire gaze shifted toward the elven girl seated quietly by the window. Her silhouette was outlined in the pale lamplight, hair silver-blonde and still damp, clinging softly to her shoulders. She stared out into the darkened streets beyond the glass, as though half-expecting Norsefire to come storming out of the shadows, blades drawn and wands raised, eager to finish what had been started. She had brought them here without explanation—only a few quiet directions, a hot shower, and two steaming mugs of chocolate left on the table. Small gestures, meant to bring comfort. But the warmth was fleeting.
Rowena's eyes dropped to the untouched emerald mugs resting on the coffee table. The dark liquid still steamed faintly. Helga had refused hers. That, more than anything, unsettled her. Helga never turned down chocolate.
"Is she alright?"
The voice broke the silence—quiet, but direct. Rowena looked up to meet the girl's amber gaze, and for a moment, there was no mystery behind it. Only concern.
"Your friend," she clarified gently. "Is she alright?"
Rowena opened her mouth to say yes, to offer some well-meant assurance. But the word stuck in her throat. She glanced toward the closed bedroom door, the shadows behind it heavy and still.
"I… I don't know," she admitted. "I've never seen her like this before."
The elven girl drew in a soft breath, her fingers brushing the edge of the windowsill. "First time's always the hardest," she said simply, with the kind of certainty that could only come from experience. "No one walks into this life expecting to have blood on their hands. You think you'll be different. That there'll always be another way."
She shifted her gaze downward. "At first, there's the shock. Then the guilt. Then the bargaining—you tell yourself it was necessary. That you didn't have a choice." She paused, letting the words hang like mist in the quiet room.
"Then comes the part no one prepares you for. The truth. That you didn't just do it because you had to," her eyes flicked to Rowena's. "You did it because, in that moment, it felt right. Because they deserved it."
Silence stretched between them again, thick and uneasy.
"And after that…" she trailed off, not finishing the sentence. She didn't have to.
Rowena looked back at the door, her hands curling into her sleeves.
She didn't want to admit how much of it rang true.
"Um—" Rowena started.
"Isha," the elven girl said, not looking up. "Isha Sinclair."
Rowena blinked. "Sinclair? As in—"
"The very same." Isha's amber eyes flicked toward her, the edges sharp with implication. "And you must be Rowena Ravenclaw. Another jewel from the crown of the Clock Tower's blue-eyed aristocracy." She scoffed. "Don't worry, I'm not jealous. That name'll be a curse soon enough."
Rowena's expression twisted, fury rising like a storm. She stood abruptly, the edge of her knee knocking the coffee table. One of the mugs tipped, spilling hot chocolate across its surface.
"You don't know anything about my family," she snapped. "None of us had a hand in this—and as for Lamar Burgess, I've severed all ties. That man is a savage. A tyrant. And I rue the day I ever called him my uncle."
Her breath came fast, shoulders trembling.
But Isha only gave a small, dry laugh. "Relax, princess. I didn't accuse you of anything." Her words softened. "Truth is, my one good memory of the Clock Tower... came from a Ravenclaw."
Rowena froze, the breath catching in her chest.
"When my brother was..." Isha faltered. She swallowed. "I lost control. I screamed until my throat bled. I cursed the gods, the Tower, the heavens—none of it mattered. I rolled my wheelchair straight into the path of Captain Clegane."
Her amber gaze dropped to her palms as though recalling their trembling weight. "I remember the sting in my hands, the fire in my lungs. I hurled every curse I knew at him. Called him a coward. A bastard. He had a temper thinner than a razor's edge. Tried to strike me." Her lips curled bitterly. "A sick little girl who couldn't cough without tasting blood."
She looked back up.
"And then someone stepped in."
****
Isha sat frozen, her wide eyes locked on the lifeless body swaying above the gallows. Her cheeks were slick with tears, but she couldn't feel them. A high, piercing shrill rang in her ears—deafening, constant—drowning out the roaring crowd around her. They cheered, howled, fists raised high in triumph. But she heard none of it. Only the silence of her own disbelief.
Her brother hung limp, neck snapped by the rope's savage pull. For a moment, everything inside her went still. Numbness settled like frost in her veins, her mind refusing to accept what her eyes could not deny. And then—suddenly—her voice broke through. A scream, raw and endless, clawing its way from her throat. She'd been screaming the whole time.
No one had heard her.
The sound had been buried under the bloodthirsty ovation of the mob.
And that's when she saw them—two figures at the front of the crowd. The prosecutor, the one who'd danced circles around the truth in court, weaving lies into verdicts. And beside him, the captain who had thrown her brother into a cell without hesitation, without trial, without cause. Both wore smiles, smug and satisfied, like men basking in the curtain call of a play well-performed.
Her grief twisted. Curled inward. Hardened.
Gripping the worn wheels of her chair, she pushed forward. Splinters from the cracked wood drove into her palms, scraping her skin raw, but she didn't care. The cobblestones scraped beneath her wheels as she shoved herself forward, ignoring the ache in her arms and the fire building in her chest.
She caught up with them just as they turned to leave.
"You!" she screamed. "You did this!"
They turned.
"You cowards set him up!" Isha screamed. "Arno didn't do anything—he was innocent! And you sent him to his death like he was some trophy to hang!"
Captain Clegane halted mid-step, a brow quirking at the outburst. He turned to Kaltz, who let out a weary sigh and adjusted his glasses with a bored flick of his fingers.
"Isha Sinclair," he said, tone clipped. "The peck's little sister."
At once, the hulking Captain grinned. It wasn't friendly. It was the kind of grin that belonged to something that bit. Rows of jagged, shark-like teeth flashed as he crouched low, bringing himself to eye level with her.
"Is she now?" he drawled. "Well, that's adorable." His grin widened. "Sorry to break your heart, love, but your brother was a stone-cold killer. And now he's a cold corpse. Justice served, as they say." He leaned closer, his breath hot and sour. "But I get it. Family's family. Always got a reason to look away when they're covered in blood."
"There is no blood!" Isha shot back. "You needed someone to blame—and you made sure he couldn't speak for himself. He didn't get a chance to defend himself. You silenced him!"
She wheeled forward an inch, trembling hands gripping the rims of her chair. "You won't get away with this."
Clegane blinked—then threw his head back and howled with laughter, the sound booming down the street like a war drum. He clutched his belly as if her words were the best joke he'd heard all week, then smacked Kaltz on the shoulder hard enough to make the man flinch.
"Well bend me over and take me sideways," Clegane cackled. "They always say that, don't they? 'You won't get away with it,'" he mocked in a high-pitched whine. "If I had a Plata for every time—by the Old Gods, I'd own this city by now." He wiped at the corner of his eye. "Oh, Callahan's gonna love this. I'll tell him over drinks tonight—poor bastard might piss himself laughing."
"Quite," Kaltz muttered as he rubbed his shoulder, his cold gaze fixed on Isha. "Listen, girl, what's done is done—but I'm not entirely without heart." He tilted his head, a thin, mirthless smile playing on his lips. "I'll see your brother's corpse wrapped and sent home. You can do whatever you like with what's left. Consider it an act of mercy. The alternative was leaving him to rot at the gates as a warning."
"Party pooper," Clegane scoffed, arms folding across his broad chest. "Me and the boys were gonna use the peck as target practice. But hell—plenty more where that came from."
Isha's voice cracked, thick with rage. "Forget your mercy!" Her bloodshot eyes burned into them. "You'll pay for this. Both of you. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But I swear to the Gods—you'll answer for what you did to my brother. For all of it. And I'll—"
A sudden fit overtook her. Her body shuddered violently as she doubled over in her chair, hacking into her hand. When she pulled it away, fresh blood stained her trembling palm.
"Oh, really?" Clegane sneered, stepping closer with a look of mock sympathy. "And just how exactly are you planning to do that?" He leaned in closer, towering over her. "Judging by that cough, you'll be dead come spring. Hell, maybe I oughta do you a favor and plant you next to your brother."
He laughed.
The slap came like thunder. Isha's hand cracked across his face, bloody palm and all. The captain staggered back a step, stunned. When he looked down, his fingers came away streaked with blood.
She'd marked him.
The smile vanished from Clegane's face, replaced by something vicious and primal. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword.
"Scratch that," he growled. "Maybe I'll just put you in the dirt right now."
"That sword leaves your scabbard, Clegane—and I'll kill you where you stand."
All three turned at once toward the voice. A man in his mid-forties strode toward them, composed yet unmistakably lethal. His navy-blue hair was slicked back with precision, the stubble along his jaw neatly groomed. Piercing pale-blue eyes locked onto Clegane with the weight of authority. He wore a carbon black suit beneath a long coat that hung to his ankles, silver buttons gleaming like drawn steel. Silver chains lined the coat's shoulders like a cloak, and an Auror badge was pinned prominently to his chest.
Whatever bravado had puffed up Clegane's chest a moment before vanished in an instant. He took a step back, shoulders dropping as though the weight of the world had just returned. Kaltz pushed his glasses up with a twitch of the hand. He stood his ground, but the stiffness in his spine faltered.
"Roland," Clegane muttered.
"That's Chief Auror Ravenclaw to you, Captain," the man replied coolly as he stopped beside Isha's wheelchair. His eyes didn't leave Clegane. "And unless I'm mistaken, were you about to draw steel on a defenseless girl in a wheelchair?"
"With all due respect, Chief Ravenclaw," Kaltz interjected quickly, "she assaulted an AEGIS officer. Surely there must be grounds—"
"You are not in a courtroom, Kaltz," Ravenclaw snapped. Kaltz recoiled slightly. "And I don't recall asking for your opinion. You'll speak when spoken to."
A tense silence.
"Do I make myself clear?"
Kaltz swallowed hard. "Transparently, sir."
"Well, Chief," Clegane said, a forced smirk tugging at his lips. "Good thing I don't fall under your command. Typical, though. Always knew you Ravenclaws were too damn eager to stick your noses where they don't belong. Here's a little advice—stick to your lane."
Roland's eyes narrowed. "If it's rank you want to discuss, Captain, let's be clear—I outrank you by more steps than you're capable of counting. And do not mistake me for one of your brutish AEGIS comrades, nor for my father. They may have endured your insolence for the sake of peace, but I will not."
He took a step closer, his expression hardening into something glacial.
"You've been drifting in the harbor of my patience for quite some time. If you were one of mine, I'd have you stripped of your title, dragged into the square, and exposed for the savage you are. And not before having you flogged like the filthy, runaway dog you play at being."
Clegane's jaw clenched, his face twisting in fury as his thick fingers wrapped around the hilt of his blade, knuckles whitening with the strain. His shoulders tensed, lips curled back to reveal gritted teeth like a beast barely held at bay.
Roland's gaze dropped to the man's trembling hand, then rose slowly to meet his eyes with the cool finality of a blade at a neck.
"Well?" Roland asked. "What are you waiting for? Go on, then—draw your steel, Ogre of AEGIS. Defend your pride. Prove yourself the brute the rest of the world already believes you are."
He turned his head slightly, eyes flicking to the limp corpse swaying in the wind.
"But know this—by sundown, there'll be two bodies needing burial." He hissed in warning. "You choose which one swings from the gates."
Kaltz reached out and grabbed Clegane by the arm, his fingers tightening with subtle urgency. One hard look was all it took. Clegane's posture faltered, the fury in his eyes dimming as his hand slipped away from the hilt.
"Our sincerest apologies, Chief Ravenclaw," Kaltz said smoothly, offering a shallow bow. "It's been... a trying day for us all."
Roland's glare shifted to him. "Spare me your silvered words, Kaltz. Every syllable from your mouth wears down what little restraint I have left."
Isha looked between the three men. Clegane, massive and imposing, loomed like a brute carved from stone. Kaltz, ever composed and sharp-eyed, held himself with the cold assurance of a man used to control. And yet, both recoiled before the third. Chief Ravenclaw didn't raise his voice or draw a wand, but there was something in his presence. Something beneath the sharp lines of his coat and the frost in his pale blue eyes that unsettled her. Not just authority. Power. The kind honed in silence and shadow. It sent a chill creeping down her spine.
His words grew colder. "Now get out of my sight, before I decide to make good on my word. And believe me when I say this: your superiors wouldn't lose a wink of sleep if I shipped what's left of you home in a pine box. That's how little they think of you. Just as I do."
Clegane muttered something under his breath but said nothing more. The two turned and walked off, their boots heavy against the stone, silence trailing in their wake.
Roland's gaze remained fixed on the figures of Clegane and Kaltz until they vanished into the thinning crowd. The spectators, satisfied with their fill of blood and spectacle, dispersed with little more than a glance. The performance was over.
But Isha wasn't watching them. Her eyes had locked onto the lifeless body being lowered from the gallows.
"What are you doing?!" she cried out as two figures gently cradled her brother. "Where are you taking him? Arno!" Her hand reached out, trembling with desperation.
Roland stepped in swiftly, positioning himself between her and the body. "Steady, now," he said softly. "It's alright. They're preparing him for transport—to the morgue first, then the cemetery."
He knelt beside her, lowering himself to eye level. His tone remained measured, calm. "He'll be given a proper burial. That I promise you. On my orders, and at my own expense."
Isha blinked hard, her breathing unsteady, the tears threatening to spill again.
"I am sorry for your loss. Truly." He glanced around, ensuring no lingering ears remained before speaking lower. "Whatever the verdict claimed, I believe you. I believe your brother was innocent. That this… was foul play."
Isha trembled, both broken and furious. "Then why didn't you stop it? Why didn't you save him?"
Roland's jaw clenched ever so slightly. He took a slow breath before answering.
"Because not all battles can be fought with a sword or a wand," he said. "And justice, as it stands, isn't always swift—or fair. I despise what the system's become, what it allowed to happen today. But I'm still in it… because change must come from within."
He paused. "That doesn't excuse it. But I give you my word—this isn't over."
Reaching into his coat, Roland withdrew a sleek, carbon-black card and offered it to her. The lettering shimmered faintly in the dimming light. "My contact. If ever you're in need. Anything at all. Don't hesitate. You'll find me at the Clock Tower Headquarters. Ask for Chief Ravenclaw."
Isha accepted the card with hesitant fingers, her gaze lingering on the name before lifting to meet his.
Roland rose to his feet, straightening his coat. "I'll see to it that one of my men escorts you home."
She shook her head. "No, you've done more than enough, Chief Ravenclaw." She faltered for a moment, but she managed a faint smile. "After everything… I was certain that everyone from the Tower was corrupt to their core. That you were all monsters in polished uniforms. But you… you proved me wrong. Thank you—for treating my brother like a person, even in death. And for showing me that not all light's been snuffed out."
Roland inclined his head, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You honour me, Miss Sinclair. Truly." He stepped back, his coat catching the breeze. "Look after yourself. And may the Gods, in their wisdom, show you mercy where this world has not."
He turned on his heel and walked away, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow swallowed by the thinning crowd. Isha's gaze drifted back to the gallows. The noose swayed gently in the wind, now empty, yet its presence still choked the air. Her hands clenched around the armrests of her wheelchair, knuckles white. In her mind, the twisted smirks of Clegane and Kaltz played on repeat—callous, mocking, unrepentant. Her jaw tightened, her breath growing shallow with the weight of it.
Grief had hollowed her. But beneath it, something else stirred.
Roland had been right.
This wasn't over.
****
Rowena sat frozen, sapphire eyes wide with disbelief. "Roland Ravenclaw… father."
Isha nodded gently, the corners of her mouth tugging into a wistful smile. "I visited Arno's grave a few days after the hanging. I thought I'd find a shallow patch of earth with a crooked stone, something quick and forgotten. But no. His tombstone was carved from marble so white it gleamed. His name etched in gold leaf. It was beautiful. Honorable." She paused. "Someone had left tulips. White ones. He always loved those… said they reminded him of me."
Her amber gaze lifted to meet Rowena's. "Your father gave my brother dignity in death. And he gave me something else—hope. He showed me that even in the vilest corners of the world, light can still reach through the cracks." She offered a small shrug. "Not everyone sees it that way, mind you."
Rowena's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Before Isha could answer, the room darkened.
A sudden gust stirred the air as smoke coiled upward in the center of the room—thick and black, tinged with glowing embers. It twisted with unnatural grace, collapsing inward before blooming into a figure. Asriel emerged, statuesque and composed. His dull amber gaze locked onto Rowena's as her breath caught in her throat.
"Good evening, Miss Ravenclaw," he said calmly, yet there was something unmistakably heavy in the way he spoke her name.