The days bled into nights without mercy. Vikki lay curled on the cold concrete floor, every bruise screaming, every inch of her body aching beneath torn flesh and fading defiance. Her new masters hadn't been gentle. She was fresh stock—and fresh stock needed breaking. The more she resisted, the harsher they struck. The tighter they bound her. They took what they wanted, and no amount of pleading or sobbing ever stopped them.
She wasn't a person anymore. She was property.
The moment that iron collar clicked shut around her throat the elven girl knew her life as she'd known it was over. Her long blonde hair hung in greasy tangles, streaked with filth and blood. Her thin brown tunic, barely held together by knotted string, was designed to be torn away in moments. Her cheeks were crusted with dried tears.
Her father—may the Gods damn him—had always been a stain on her life. Once a merchant of modest means, he gambled away his fortune through poor choices and unchecked greed. The bottle had replaced his ambition, and dice replaced duty. When the debts closed in, he was given a choice: his head or his daughter's.
And he chose his daughter's.
The Slave Laws made it legal. Children under eighteen were still considered dependents—property in all but name. Their freedoms existed only at the mercy of their guardians. Vikki had never stood a chance. And no one—no one—had come to save her.
Her old friends had come to the slave market. Not to help, not to offer comfort, but to confirm the rumors. Some looked on with pity. Others smirked. Most of them laughed. She saw the boy she once called hers with his arm around another girl, one of her so-called friends. Not even a day had passed.
They had all abandoned her. Not that she blamed them.
Vikki had never been kind. At Excalibur, she ruled with venom and vanity, the self-proclaimed queen of the hive. She was the mean girl—sharp-tongued, manipulative, feared more than admired. She built her worth by stepping on others, keeping the ones beneath her under heel. Those who stayed close had done so out of self-preservation, not loyalty.
She gritted her teeth.
Maybe this was justice. Karma wrapped in chains and blood. Punishment for every cruel word, every smile she stole from someone weaker just to make herself feel strong. Maybe this was what she deserved.
The screech of her cell door tore through the silence, and her whole body flinched. Hinges groaned. Boots approached. Rough hands grabbed her, hauling her upright like dead weight. Their touch was cold, coarse, impersonal. She didn't resist. There was no point.
Word had spread that a buyer had been found—wealthy, powerful, eager to inspect his prize before sealing the deal. Today, he'd get his sample. By nightfall, she'd be sold.
This was her life now. Her future. No magic, no mercy, no escape.
Just chains.
But fate, as she would later discover, wasn't as cruel as she had imagine.
****
Vikki could barely remember how it began.
She was in a room, stripped bare atop velvet sheets that clung to her like a cruel mockery of luxury. Her wrists were bound above her head, lashed tight to the headboard. The man—piggish, bloated, hair matted across his chest—smelled of sweat and brandy. His breath was hot, sour. His face, leering and flushed, belonged more to a hog than a man.
She didn't scream. Didn't flinch. They'd only beat her harder if she did.
She kept her face blank, though revulsion twisted in her gut. She remembered the way his tongue slithered across his lips, the hunger in his gaze. This—this sight, this feeling—was her future. Until he grew bored. Until she broke.
Vikki screwed her eyes shut and turned her face away.
Then came the crash.
The heavy door exploded inward, shards of splintered wood raining across the floor. The man froze, halfway over her, eyes wide. A figure lunged through the frame. Gloved fingers clamped around the man's thick neck, lifting him clean off the bed. He choked out a gurgle, feet kicking, as he was dragged from the room like garbage.
And then, silence.
Vikki trembled. Her eyes fluttered open—and her breath hitched.
A scarred face leaned over her. Familiar. Impossible.
"T-Tala?" she whispered.
"Vikki!" Tala's voice was raw with emotion. "Hold on, I've got you." She scrambled to untie the bindings, her fingers shaking. "We're here, you're safe now."
The ropes fell away. Vikki sat up, dazed, her arms limp at her sides. Tala reached out, cupped her cheek.
"It's over," she whispered. "I've got you."
And just like that, the wall broke.
Vikki collapsed into her arms, sobbing, the sound ragged and hoarse from days of silence. Her tears soaked into Tala's shoulder as her body shook with grief, shame and release.
Tala held her close, stroking her hair. "Hush," she murmured. "It's alright. We've got you. You're not alone anymore." She removed her coat and wrapped it around Vikki. "Come on, let's go home," she said.
As both girls stepped into the hallway, the chaos unfolded before them like a warzone. Steel clashed. Shouts echoed off the stone walls. The trader's guards, seasoned and brutal, were locked in combat with a dozen cloaked figures clad in black, their movements swift. The crest on their shoulders marked them unmistakably: the Midnighters.
Despite their numbers, the guards fell one by one. Blades turned aside by spell-warded cloaks, their formation dismantled with ruthless precision.
Vikki's eyes scanned the carnage, then landed on the portly man—the buyer—naked, cowering on the floor like a rat cornered by a predator. Above him stood Asriel, a shadow drawn tall and sharp against the lanternlight, gaze cold as steel. The patrons lining the corridor shrank back, none daring to interfere, not even to breathe too loudly.
Then the doors slammed open again.
A man stormed in—early forties, bald, dark-skinned, his frame wrapped in rich wizarding robes trimmed with copper. Power clung to him like scent to blood. His voice rang out.
"What is the meaning of this?!"
The fighting ceased.
The naked man scrambled forward on all fours, clutching at the hem of the robed man's cloak. "Abbas! They—they stormed in! Tried to kill me!"
Abbas's eyes flicked from the pathetic merchant to the young man who stood unwavering, blade still sheathed but presence unmistakable. His gaze met Asriel's. They locked eyes.
"I know who you are, boy," Abbas said slowly, his accent foreign and exotic. "They speak your name across Avalon—in reverence and in fear." He stepped closer, until he stood mere inches from him. "But this is a sanctioned market. You've broken the Slavery Laws. Regardless of your… affiliation with the girl, the Authority will hear of this."
Asriel's expression didn't waver. "I'm well aware."
He gestured with a tilt of his head.
Two Midnighters stepped forward from the shadows, each bearing one end of a large wooden chest. They dropped it with a heavy thud. The sound of shifting metal echoed in the stunned silence. One knelt and lifted the lid.
Gold.
Rows upon rows of gleaming coins, more than most would see in a lifetime. The room seemed to lean forward.
"I came to make a transaction," Asriel said, eyes still on Abbas. "Not to beg for scraps. You're a businessman. Consider the contents of that chest… compensation."
Abbas's eyes lingered on the treasure. The portly man whimpered behind him.
"No negotiations. No barters. And most of all—no questions," Asriel said. "We walk out of here, and she comes with us."
"Preposterous!" the portly man shrieked suddenly, shoving past Abbas. He stumbled forward, jowls quivering, pointing a stubby finger at Vikki. "The peck belongs to me! She's my property—mine!"
Vikki shrank back, but Tala stepped in front of her, eyes narrow, unmoving.
Abbas exhaled. "On the contrary," he said calmly, "the transaction was never finalized. And this young man…" He motioned to Asriel with a tilt of his head, "has just outbid you. By Guild law, I am obliged to accept the better offer." He gave a light shrug. "Nothing personal. Merely business."
The man's face twisted into a snarl. "We had a deal, Abbas! You gave me your word!" Spit flew from his lips as he raged. "If you break it now, I'll make sure everyone in Avalon knows you're a goddamned cheat!"
His glare shifted to Asriel. "And you, boy—when I'm done with you, you'll rot in Revel's End. Your whore will make a fine—"
A flash.
The wet sound of steel against flesh.
The man never finished.
Asriel's blade moved faster than breath. One clean, silent arc, and the man's head left his shoulders. For a heartbeat it hung suspended in the air, his face still twisted in rage and disbelief. Then it dropped, hit the floor with a sickening thump, and rolled across the stone, leaving a red smear in its wake.
It stopped at the foot of a stunned woman, who screamed.
The body crumpled next, collapsing like a sack of meat, blood pooling beneath it.
Asriel twirled the claymore once, flicked the blood from its edge, and lowered it to his side. His eyes returned to Abbas, who stood frozen in place.
Slowly, Asriel reached into his coat and pulled out a smaller leather pouch. He let it drop in front of Abbas with a soft thud. The broker instinctively reached out, catching it before it hit the floor. The drawstring slipped just enough to reveal the unmistakable gleam of platinum coins inside.
"A little extra," Asriel said. "For your discretion."
He gestured with a lazy flick of two fingers, indicating the chaos around them. "None of this happened. We were never here."
Abbas examined the weight in his hand, then let out a short, dry chuckle. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
Asriel gave a satisfied nod, then whistled. His Midnighters gathered, grinning like wolves as they fell into formation. He moved to the front, sheathing his blade across his back in one smooth motion. Behind him, Vikki clung to Tala, the warmth of her arms the only thing anchoring her in the storm.
As they passed through the front doors, Abbas watched them go. His fingers tightened around the pouch, that same amused smirk tugging at his lips.
"Talking to myself," he muttered. "Always a pleasure doing business with the Terror of Death."
Asriel paused briefly at the threshold. His eyes met Abbas' one last time, then he turned and vanished into the crowd with his clan.
****
The door to the broadcast room slammed open. Vikki stormed in, heels striking the floor with purpose, startling the group of men inside. The room was tight, its walls papered with humming monitors, each screen flickering with footage mid-edit or mid-broadcast, casting greenish light across the smoke-stained walls.
The air reeked of clove cigarettes, cheap cologne, and watered-down whiskey. Trails of smoke hung suspended, disturbed only by the sudden intrusion.
All eyes turned to her. Some familiar, some indifferent, some clearly irritated. She didn't care.
Vikki scanned the room, jaw clenched, arms crossed. "Everyone. Out."
A stout, balding elf with a thick moustache and round glasses looked up from his console, blinking behind the haze. "Excuse me? The hell you just say, missy?"
"You heard me." Her tone left no room for doubt. "Get out. Now."
He snorted, gesturing with his half-smoked cigar. "You've finally lost it. This is my floor, sweetheart. I don't care how many bloody awards you've got—"
A gust of air, a hiss of smoke, and the scent of burning ember filled the room. In a swirl of blackened vapour, Asriel materialized behind her.
The cigar slipped from the producer's fingers and crumbled into ash on the floor. His face drained of all color.
"Leave," Asriel said. "On your own accord or in pieces, your choice."
The room emptied in seconds. Chairs scraped. Loafers tapping frantically across the floor. Not a single protest.
As the door shut behind them, Asriel stepped aside. Vikki moved to the console without hesitation. She plugged in the device, fingers dancing across keys, flipping switches, calibrating feeds.
"You realize once this airs, the Tower will send everything they've got," Asriel said. "Norsefire, clean-up teams—hell, maybe even Burgess himself."
Vikki glanced back at him with a crooked smile. "And miss the chance to ruin him on live broadcast?" She shook her head. "That bastard murdered Tala. Framed you. Turned my city into a graveyard." Her words sharpened. "If it costs me everything to bring him down, so be it. I'll die happy knowing I helped drag him into the light."
Her smirk deepened. "Burgess is going to regret ever giving us full access after the blackout. Funny, really—his obsession with feeding the public lies just handed us the perfect stage to burn him alive."
Asriel watched her for a moment, then nodded once.
"Alright," she muttered, eyes fixed on the screen, jaw set with quiet fury. "Let's take this bastard down."
With one final keystroke, the screen flickered.
And the truth began to play.
****
The dining room was no less majestic than the rest of the manor—tall windows dressed in deep velvet, chandeliers of steel and crystal suspended above a grand table that could easily seat twenty. The space echoed the manor's colonial opulence: alabaster walls adorned with sprawling paintings, polished furniture gleaming beneath the lights.
Laxus couldn't help but admire the grandeur. His gaze wandered from ceiling to floor, drinking in the finery with boyish awe. Despite his own privileged upbringing, this level of elegance still managed to impress. Bran, on the other hand, barely noticed. His mind remained sharp and fixed, laser-focused on the reason they were here.
Hours passed in quiet procession, the steel hands of the clock circling more than once since their arrival. Bran's plate, once filled with trout and roasted greens, now sat scraped clean—but his appetite had never fully arrived. The knot in his stomach had seen to that. He had watched Macon closely throughout the meal, waiting for some signal, some shift in demeanor that might allow the real discussion to begin.
Laxus had kept an eye on the older elf too, though he was far more taken with the mashed potatoes and buttered rice.
Macon, for his part, had been polite but inscrutable. He'd allowed only the lightest of small talk—deflecting any attempt at deeper conversation with a toast, a comment about the wine, or a passing compliment about the seasoning. Bran suspected the man considered mealtime something of a ritual, not to be tainted by business.
But now, at last, the plates were cleared.
"Delicious as always, Clarence," Macon said, swirling the wine in his glass before lifting it in salute to the butler. "Do give my compliments to Justine."
"Most certainly, sir," Clarence replied with a nod. "May I offer you and your guests some dessert? A slice of pie, perhaps?"
Macon glanced at the boys. They both declined with a shake of the head.
"Thank you, but that will be all."
Clarence gave a final bow, then quietly ushered the rest of the staff from the room, leaving the three men alone at last.
"I do hope the trout was to your liking," Macon said as he took a final sip of wine. "Though not nearly as satisfying as the company."
He set the glass down with a quiet clink—and in that moment, his demeanor shifted. The warmth faded from his eyes, leaving behind something sharper, more calculating.
"Now then," he continued, fingers steepled before him. "Shall we return to our little discussion?"
"About damn time," Laxus muttered, slouching back in his seat.
Bran elbowed him sharply in the ribs. Laxus flinched, shooting him a glare but biting his tongue.
"As we've said," Bran began, measured and direct, "we have evidence. Proof that Lamar Burgess has committed a long list of crimes during his tenure as Director. Political corruption, unlawful detainments, extrajudicial killings. And now—he's declared martial law over Caerleon. He's treating Norsefire like a private army."
Macon leaned back in his chair, contemplative. "Yes, I see. And what, pray tell, would you have me do about it?"
Bran and Laxus exchanged a glance. The bluntness caught them both off guard.
"Do we need to spell it out for you?" Laxus snapped. "Strip the bastard of his badge. Remove him from power. Lift the lockdown."
Macon raised an eyebrow but didn't blink. "And under what legal authority should I do that, Mister Dryfus?"
Laxus opened his mouth—but Macon lifted a finger to silence him.
"Before you answer," he continued smoothly, "do bear in mind that the Director of the Clock Tower is, by law, permitted to impose martial law in the event of civil unrest. It may appear heavy-handed. It may even be morally repugnant. But it is not unlawful."
Laxus turned to Bran in disbelief. "You're not seriously letting that slide, are you?"
Bran inhaled sharply, fingers tightening on the armrest of his chair. "He's right."
"What?"
"In the eyes of the law," Bran said grimly, "Burgess has not broken protocol. The system was built to give the Director that kind of authority in times of perceived threat. So long as he can justify it on paper—his actions, however abhorrent, are protected."
"Quite right, Adjudicator," Macon added, with a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You see, it's not about truth. It's about structure. And right now, in the eyes of the public Burgess is the one holding the structure together. The question isn't whether he's guilty—it's whether you can collapse that structure without toppling the entire Tower alongside him."
"With all due respect, Mister Duchannes," Bran adjusted his glasses, "I fear that's quite impossible. Burgess's influence has seeped into every level of the Tower—its structure, its doctrine, its very bones. Like rot in a foundation. It's far too late to separate the man from the institution he's twisted to his design."
He hesitated before adding, "Much as I loathe to admit it… Lamar Burgess is the Tower."
"Once again, striking true, Mister Ravenclaw," Macon said, pointing a finger toward him. "It wasn't mere rhetoric when I claimed I'd been watching Burgess long before his ascension. His tenure as an Auror alone should have drawn inquiry—excessive force, unsanctioned actions, justice dispensed in shadows. But to most, they were the necessary acts of a patriot."
He gave a faint shrug. "The man cloaked himself in glory. Wove his crimes into medals and accolades. In the eyes of those in power, he's not just respected—he's untouchable. Near infallible." He leaned forward. "But even the finest armor has its flaws. Hairline fractures… and I've spent years seeking them out."
"That's a funny way of showing it," Laxus cut in, arms folded, blue eyes narrowing. "Dragging your feet doesn't exactly scream conviction."
Macon's gaze slid to him. "I've long known your tendency for bullheaded decisions, Mister Dryfus. Your time at Excalibur and your tenure with your family's firm has made that quite clear. Your strength is undeniable, as is your conviction. But politics, nuance… those are tools you've yet to master."
He paused. "And make no mistake. My caution should not be mistaken for weakness."
"A man like Burgess cannot be brought down by half-measures," Macon continued. "You could present a ledger of his sins, catch him red-handed with blood still on the dagger—he'd still walk free with a wave of his hand. And he'd be within his right to do so. That is the extent of the power he's accrued."
His gaze swept between Bran and Laxus. "So, tell me, truthfully—do you possess evidence so damning, so morally reprehensible, that even his staunchest allies on the Council would abandon him out of sheer self-preservation?" A pause. "Or did you come here expecting me to have it ready for you?"
"But what about his involvement in the Dah'Tan incident?" Laxus pressed. "You can't just brush that off."
Macon exhaled softly, as though disappointed. "As the twins said, claims from a drunkard at the bottom of a bottle do little to sway a court of law, let alone the court of public opinion. You of all people should know that, Mister Ravenclaw."
His gaze sharpened as it turned to Bran. "Even as Regent, my influence has limits. Should I show even a hint of prejudice toward Burgess, I'd lose the impartiality that has earned me two centuries of credibility. And that, I cannot afford."
"So, I'll ask you both once more," Macon said. "Do you, or do you not possess, and pardon the crude metaphor—the smoking wand in this matter?"
Bran and Laxus sat rigid, jaws tight. The silence between them stretched—until the double doors to the dining room burst open with a sharp slam.
All eyes turned to the elven man striding in, his expression taut with urgency, steps brisk against the polished floor.
"My Lord," Clarence said, bowing slightly. "Forgive the intrusion, but… there is something you must see at once."
From within his coat, he withdrew a metallic orb. It hovered from his hand, drifting upward before flaring to life mid-air, casting a translucent screen above the table.
Seconds passed. Then minutes.
None of them spoke.
The footage unfolded, and with every passing frame, their expressions shifted. Eyes widening, mouths slightly parted in disbelief as the truth played out before them.
****
Unease had begun to seep into the walls of the Caerleon precinct, quiet but persistent, carried in hushed whispers between Guardians and Norsefire alike. Cracks were forming. Subtle at first, but widening by the hour—between those whose loyalty still clung to the Tower and those who had pledged themselves to Burgess' private army. Even among the elite ranks of AEGIS, an increasing number had begun to distance themselves from those who wore the blood-red insignia of Norsefire. The shift was undeniable.
What had once been blind confidence among Norsefire's ranks had curdled into something brittle—something frightened. Their casualties were piling higher with each engagement, their once-impervious image now marred by the sight of broken bodies and bloodstained armor. The arrogance they had worn like a second skin was gone, replaced by an anxiety that hung over them like a stormcloud.
They had once numbered in the hundreds, a crimson and obsidian tide feared across Avalon. But now? Their forces had been whittled down to a pitiful fragment of what they once were. The strength they believed absolute, the impunity they carried like a badge of honor—it had all proven hollow. Their so-called shield of authority had crumbled beneath the weight of an enemy they never expected.
None of them had anticipated the ferocity hidden within the walls of Excalibur.
They never imagined that the Professors, those quiet figures who wielded books and quills, would also wield power enough to tear through trained battalions. They had underestimated their students, their unity, their fire. And now, their detention centers lay in ruin. Their hold over the city had fractured. Their vaunted Captain had gone silent—missing, presumed dead.
Morale now dangled by a thread. Command structure was in disarray, if not outright collapsed.
And nothing brought a broader smile to Bastion's face than the knowledge that Norsefire, once so feared, so untouchable—had become a disgraceful shadow of its former self.
And the best part?
It hadn't even been a month.
Bastion leaned back in the pantry chair, one leg propped over the other, a steaming mug of coffee cradled in his hand. The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clink of ceramic against wood as he took a sip. Beside him, Frank stood with his back against the marble countertop, a thick binder in hand. His dark eyes flicked steadily across the pages, and his moustache twitched now and then as he read, jaw tightening at whatever details he unearthed.
It had been a week since either of them had set eyes on City Hall. The Lacrima shipments—the ones that had kept them circling the building in shifts—had finally ceased. Whether the Tower had stockpiled enough for whatever scheme they were orchestrating, or something deeper was unfolding beneath the surface, they couldn't yet say. But both men knew the clock was ticking. Regardless, they've finally decided to return to the precinct—or risk the Sheriff's loyal lapdogs asking the wrong sort of questions.
Bastion's gaze drifted toward the binder in Frank's hands. He raised a brow. "You've had your nose in that thing all day. What is it, old man?"
Frank didn't look up. He took a slow sip of his coffee, then answered. "Old case files. From the Dah'Tan Incident."
Bastion blinked, surprised. "Dah'Tan, huh. That was... what, more than twenty years ago?"
Frank nodded, finally glancing over the rim of the binder. "Yeah. I was just a rook when it happened. Still green, still stupid. I knew the basics back then—heard the names, read the briefings—but I never really bothered with the finer details. Didn't care to."
Bastion let out a quiet chuckle. "I wasn't even a thought in the world back then."
"Heh, lucky you."
"I heard it was carried out by a bunch of war vets turned terrorists," Bastion said, adjusting his chair slightly. "Real nasty business."
Frank grunted, tapping a page with two fingers. "Captain McGrath. That was the man in charge. War hero. Decorated. One of the faces of the Second Conflict War. Fought in North Azia against the Alhambran Regime. Had posters of him all over the damned city."
"The Second Conflict War?" Bastion sat up straighter, interest piqued. "We studied that in History of Magic back at Wallace. I remember the name—ugly war, right?"
Frank's expression darkened. "Ugly doesn't even cover it."
He exhaled and looked off toward the pantry window, as if watching ghosts drift through the glass.
"The Regime was brutal. Monsters in uniform. Their leader, mad as they come. And of course, the Clock Tower had to stick its nose in where it didn't belong, like it always does. And when they did, people paid the price."
"They sent hundreds of kids to the front lines," Frank said. "Barely a month of training under their belts—if that. Young men and women. Not warriors. Not soldiers."
He paused, his gaze distant.
"Potters. Shepherds. Bakers. Carpenters. Just tradesfolk who knew more about kneading dough or mending fences than holding a blade or casting a shield charm."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"And the worst part?" he murmured. "The ones who died out there… they were the lucky ones."
Bastion tilted his head, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
Frank's eyes dropped to the floor, the light in them dimming.
"The ones who made it back came home to nothing. No support. No care. No recognition." His voice turned sharper. "They came back missing limbs, sick from arcane exposure, haunted by things no one should ever see. And the Tower? It gave them a pat on the back and kicked them to the curb. 'Thank you for your service,' they said—then tossed them out like yesterday's trash."
He looked up at Bastion, the bitterness clear in his tone.
"And to make things worse, public opinion had turned. The war was never popular to begin with, and once it ended, folks didn't want reminders of it walking their streets. Veterans were shunned. Denied food, shelter, even the lowest-paying jobs. Treated like lepers."
Bastion's brow furrowed. "That's… horrible."
Frank gave a slow nod. "Even the so-called heroes weren't spared. McGrath? He lost everything. Family. Home. Purpose. He spent years trying to get the Tower to acknowledge what had happened to his men—to take responsibility, offer help. But all he got was a medal and a door slammed in his face."
Bastion sat back, thoughtful. "So, what he did… it wasn't about revenge. It was desperation. He just wanted them to listen."
"Yeah," Frank said quietly, taking a long gulp from his coffee. "I won't sugar-coat it, kid. I'd like to tell you I'd have made a different choice, that I'm better than what he became. But after everything I've seen—everything I've done?"
He let out a slow breath.
"If I were in his shoes… I might've been standing right there beside him."
A long silence passed between them.
"And the reason you and I are even remotely compensated for our service?" Frank went on. "It's because your granddad took the fight to the brass. Tooth and nail."
He glanced back at Bastion. His eyes clouded with memory.
"After Dah'Tan, they begged him to do his usual song and dance, to help save face for the Tower. He agreed—but with a shit ton of conditions. One of which was reform. Support. Real protections for those who wore the uniform."
Frank took another sip, then set his mug down on the counter with a quiet clink.
"They had no choice but to give in," he muttered as he closed the binder with a soft thump. His eyes lingered on the tiled floor as though it might offer some answer he'd long since given up finding. "You know… something that still burns me up to this day? I wish Wilhelm had just stepped forward and claimed that bloody Director's chair."
He shook his head, not in anger, but regret.
"The man understood justice. Not the polished kind that gets passed around in speeches at the Tower—but the real kind. The kind that comes with bruises and blood. He knew what life was like for those of us down in the mud, knee-deep in filth with a sword in one hand and the stench of death clinging to our clothes. He saw us."
Frank looked at Bastion, eyes softer now, but no less heavy. "I've got all the respect in the world for your grandfather, son. But damn him… damn him for his humility."
Bastion let out a quiet laugh, the sound more wistful than amused.
"Yeah," he said, nodding faintly. "How different would the world be, eh?"
It was then Bastion felt a low vibration in his coat pocket, a soft pulse that pulled him from the conversation. He furrowed his brow and reached in, fingers closing around the smooth surface of his communication orb.
Raising it to eye level, he tapped the center. The orb floated into the air, spinning gently before it flared to life with a projection of emerald-green light. Langston's face appeared on the screen—drawn tight, flushed with urgency. His usual calm had been replaced with something far more rattled. Almost panicked.
"Bastion. Frank," he said, breath sharp. "Turn on the tube. Right now. You need to see this!"
Before either man could respond, the feed blinked out.
Bastion and Frank exchanged a quick, silent glance—no words needed. Bastion flicked his fingers through the air, reactivating the orb's holo-screen with a sharp pulse of magic.
The image crackled to life.
And then everything changed.
Their eyes locked onto the broadcast. Bastion's mouth fell open, disbelief etched across his face. Frank's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing, jaw clenched tight beneath his bristling moustache. He crossed his arms, shoulders rigid.
Neither of them spoke. They didn't have to.
****
Night draped itself over Excalibur Academy like a shroud, casting the Great Hall in shadows broken only by the flickering glow of enchanted chandeliers. The long tables, usually buzzing with conversation and laughter, were nearly silent. A warm supper had been laid out—roasted meats, stewed vegetables, fresh loaves of bread—but the spread lay barely touched, steam curling into the still air like ghosts of an appetite long lost.
Still, they gathered as they always did, drawn not by hunger but habit—and the quiet reassurance that, for now, Excalibur remained untouched by the darkness clawing at the city beyond. The Professors, Prefects, and Clans had seen to that. Word had already spread: Norsefire had suffered grievous losses.
Their forces thinned, detention centers shattered, their so-called leadership scattered to the wind. Whispers churned through the corridors like fog. Of monsters in the night. Of a student who spoke in the tongue of serpents. Another who slew a Grimm and endured the Killing Curse as if it were a mere gust of wind. Names eluded them, but the fear lingered.
At one of the tables sat Godric, Jeanne, and Salazar, each lost in their own silence. Across from them, Rowena sat with Helena. No words passed between them. Forks hovered over plates, piercing egg yolks and watching them bleed across whites, untouched. Hunger was a stranger this evening.
Godric's crimson gaze drifted to the empty seat beside him—Helga's. No bright eyes, no warm voice, no teasing laughter. Just an absence that weighed heavier than any silence. She hadn't left her room. Refused to speak to anyone. Locked behind closed doors with grief curling tight around her.
He knew that feeling too well.
Godric tightened his grip on his fork, the metal biting into his palm. What had happened earlier that day already felt like a memory from another life. The great doors had swung open to a shaft of pale sunlight, and with it came Rowena—and Helga. At first, there had been a flicker of hope in the air, the kind that always followed someone's return. Relief, however, was short-lived. Shock washed over the foyer like ice water.
Jeanne and Helena gasped, hands flying to their mouths. Salazar stiffened, every muscle locked tight, his expression unreadable but pale. As for Godric, he felt the blood drain from his face.
Helga stood at the threshold, her form almost unrecognizable. Blood had dried across her skin and clothes, cracked and flaking in places, thick and clotted in others. Her curls matted, her robes ruined. Rowena, beside her, looked disheveled. Winded, even shaken, but it was Helga who turned every stomach cold.
It was her eyes.
Gone was the warmth, the spark, the irrepressible light that made her who she was. In its place, a vacant, haunted stare. Eyes that had looked into something terrible and hadn't fully returned.
It wasn't until later, when Rowena returned to the Great Hall and quietly joined them at the table, her composure fraying at the edges, her eyes hollow from the burden of what she had seen—that she finally spoke. After escorting Helga back to the Terra dorms with Lucian's help, she had remained silent, almost brittle. But now, with her friends gathered and the weight of truth pressing down on her, she began to recount what had happened.
She told them of Elio's parents. How they had been executed in cold blood at the hands of Astrea, the Norsefire Captain, and how their deaths were not swift acts of war, but brutal displays meant to send a message.
She spoke of the battle that followed, a clash of vengeance and fire, and of Helga—no longer the smiling girl they knew, but something forged in grief and fury.
And then, she told them of Asriel and Isha, the remnants of Nemesis, and what lay ahead.
Their reactions differed. Jeanne sat in stunned silence. Her trembling fingers wrapped around her untouched goblet. Helena looked as though she might shatter, her face drawn, lips parted as if caught mid-prayer. Salazar didn't speak. He simply stared ahead, jaw clenched tight, eyes darkened by the quiet rage he could not yet voice.
But there was no mistaking the truth laid bare before them. Norsefire had crossed a line that could never be undone. And Helga had made them bleed for it.
Yet in doing so, something within her had fractured. Whatever piece of light she had clung to, whatever innocence remained, had been taken that night and cast into the dark. And Godric feared with every beat of his heart that whatever part of her had been lost… might never find its way back.
The thought gnawed at him, relentless and cruel. That the same darkness he had endured all this time, the weight he had borne in silence, might now reach out and consume them too. It had stalked him like a shadow, crept through his bones and behind his every breath, and now, watching his friends across the table, he feared it had begun to spread.
His crimson gaze moved slowly from face to face. Each one had their own grief to carry, yet this... this was different. What festered in him was a burden he had never meant to share. It was his to bear, his alone. He had vowed as much.
But that promise now felt like a noose tightening around his neck, because no matter how fiercely he tried to keep it buried, the pain had found a way through. And the thought that it might touch them too. That it might pull them under as it had him, haunted him in ways words could never reach.
It was then, the Great Hall began to stir. What started as silent whispers grew into loud murmurs. Then came the shuffling of feet, the scape of chairs pushed against the stone floor as students jumped from their seats. They began congregating into groups, huddling around one another. Godric and his friends looked around, confusing etched on their faces.
"What in blazes could possibly be going on?" Salazar asked, eyebrow raised.
Helena reached back as one of the students raced past. "Hey, what's the ruckus?"
The boy stopped, turned to meet her gaze but his body fidgeted. "Turn on the tube. Do it now!" he said before racing off to the end of the table, toward another group of students.
Their eyes met, silent but urgent. Without a word, Helena reached into her robes, withdrawing her orb. With a flick of her wrist, it rose into the air and cast a shimmering emerald screen before them. The footage began to roll. And as the seconds stretched into minutes, the expressions on their faces shifted.
Helena's lips parted in disbelief. Jeanne covered her mouth, pale as parchment. Salazar leaned forward slightly, his smirk curling. Not out of amusement, but something darker, cold and furious beneath the surface.
Godric said nothing, but his jaw set like stone. His crimson eyes never wavered from the screen, and within them, the fire that had dulled for far too long roared back to life.
****
Hartshorne stood rooted to the pavement, eyes fixed on the billboards above, the shifting lights of the footage flickering across his pallid face. The color had drained from him entirely. His breath caught. His blood turned to ice. It wasn't just fear. It was dread, cold and precise, curling up his spine like a vice of iron fingers.
The broadcast played on, each word a blade peeling back the facade. Every secret, every buried truth now laid bare in front of the world, and worse, in front of his men. He could hear the murmurs behind him, soft but poisonous. Doubt. Confusion. Disbelief. Even the most loyal among them were shaken.
But none of that terrified him half as much as what would come next. Not from the press, not from the public—but from Burgess.
Because now it was out there, irreversible. The mask had been torn off. And if Burgess saw this as betrayal, Hartshorne knew exactly what happened to men who disappointed him.
"No…" he whispered. "No, no, no—dammit, no!"
He spun around, eyes wide and wild as he charged toward the vehicles. "All of you—snap out of it!" he barked. "Get in! Now! To the station—move! That's an order!"
But even as he shouted, even as boots scrambled and doors slammed, he could feel it. The unraveling had already begun.