As the final flickers of the projection faded into the still air, a heavy, contemplative silence settled over the dining hall. The long table, once warmed by candlelight and the quiet clinking of silverware, now felt cold—tense.
Laxus sat motionless, his blue eyes wide and his jaw slack, as though his brain had temporarily short-circuited. Next to him, Bran's expression tightened. Not with anger, but a focused curiosity, the kind that emerged when history was unfolding and he was already trying to see the next page.
He turned toward Macon, only to find the elven lord wearing a small, unsettling smile. It wasn't one of amusement, but of quiet, chilling satisfaction. The look of a man who had waited patiently for validation and now, at last, had it. The sight sent a faint shiver down Bran's spine.
"Clarence," Macon said smoothly, not taking his eyes off the empty space where the screen had been. "Be a good man and get the Council on the line."
The butler bowed silently and made his way toward the door.
"I believe that concludes our discussion for the evening, Mister Ravenclaw," Macon added, reaching for his wine and finishing it with one practiced tilt. "Although, I must admit, I find it rather amusing that the proverbial smoking wand should appear at such an exquisitely opportune moment. The Gods, it seems, have a flair for timing."
His gaze shifted to Laxus, and his brow arched.
"Mister Dryfus, kindly retrieve your tongue from the floor and rejoin us here on this plane of existence."
Laxus blinked, jolted from his trance.
"So that's it?" he said, gesturing toward the space where the broadcast had been. "You just got the damn exposé of a lifetime beamed across every channel in Avalon, and that's all you've got to say?"
Bran, ever composed, folded his hands beneath his chin, his lime-green eyes fixed on Macon. "Forgive my friend's tone," he said evenly. "But I must admit I share his curiosity. What happens next?"
"Now?" Macon replied, lifting a brow. "Now, I have a word with the Wizarding Council, followed by a rather pressing conversation with King Uther himself."
He rose, his chair sliding back with an elegant scrape.
"As for you, Mister Ravenclaw," he continued, smoothing down his shirt, "I suppose you'll be on the first airship to Caerleon. You and Mister Dryfus."
Both Bran and Laxus stared at him, blinking in tandem.
"Come again?" Laxus asked.
"I will, of course, extend Burgess the courtesy of explaining himself," Macon said, almost lazily, as he paced toward the window. "Though knowing the man, I fully expect him to double down on his monstrous methods. When he does, I will move the full might of the Clock Tower against him. That, however, will take time."
He turned, his expression sharpening into something far more serious.
"In the meantime, bedlam will descend on Caerleon. People will panic. Those loyal to Burgess will act to silence resistance. And in that chaos, the students of Excalibur and the citizens will need someone to stand with them."
His gaze settled squarely on Bran, then Laxus.
"Can I count on you both?"
Laxus' lips curled into a wide, electric grin. Sparks of blue lightning crackled faintly across his shoulders, tracing lines of raw energy over his jacket. His blue eyes lit up like twin stormfronts, alive with anticipation.
"Oh, hell yeah," he said.
Bran rose from his chair with practiced grace and gave a respectful bow. "Thank you for your time, Mister Duchannes," he said warmly. He glanced down at the plates on the table and offered a faint, appreciative smile. "And for dinner. Quite exceptional."
Macon inclined his head, his smile cool and measured. "Do come by again sometime soon, won't you? I rarely entertain guests, and I must say—this evening has been most enjoyable."
Bran nodded, then shot a glance at Laxus. The taller man took the cue, standing up and giving Macon a short nod before turning to follow Bran toward the exit.
As they reached the doorway, Macon called out once more.
"Oh, Mister Ravenclaw—do give my regards to your family, won't you?" He paused just a heartbeat. "Especially your sister."
Bran stopped briefly, glancing over his shoulder. "Of course," he said coolly.
He turned back without another word, leading Laxus out with long, quiet strides.
They moved through the estate's winding corridors with purpose, crystal light flickering off the lacquered wood and gilded edges of ancient portraits.
"We'll need passage on the first airship bound for Caerleon. I'll head to the strip and secure—"
"The strip?" Laxus stopped abruptly. Bran paused and turned. One brow raised in confusion.
"Whoa there, four-eyes," Laxus said, jabbing a thumb at his own chest. "You're with a Dryfus. And a Dryfus sure as hell doesn't travel like a peasant."
He flashed a smirk so wide it nearly split his face. "No, we travel in style."
Bran rolled his eyes and groaned under his breath. "May the Gods give me strength."
****
As the screen dissolved into glowing particles, the room fell still. Frank and Bastion locked eyes—and that was all it took. No words. No confirmation. Just a shared look, and understanding passed between them like current through a wire.
They nodded once.
Bastion drained the last of his coffee, the bitter burn a welcome anchor, then rose swiftly from his chair and headed for the door. In the corridor, they split, peeling off in opposite directions with purpose in their steps. There was no need for plans. They already knew what had to be done.
Rally the loyal.
Not to Burgess. Not to his corrupted dogs in Norsefire. But to the Tower—and the Tower alone.
Every team. Every Auror. Every Guardian and officer whose eyes had just been opened to the truth. They needed them all. Every willing soul with a badge and a spine, ready to put their lives on the line to storm City Hall and drag Burgess' lies into the light.
Bastion could feel the familiar weight of his greatsword pressing against his back with every step—a burden, yes, but one he had chosen. A reminder of the man he had become. The man he hoped his grandfather would still recognize.
The legendary Overdeath had given everything to the Tower—his life, his legacy, his blood. And now, that same Tower stood sullied, poisoned by the sins of the man who had once called him friend. All that sacrifice. His daughter, his family. Seemed on the edge of being rendered meaningless.
And Bastion would not allow it.
His boots pounded against the stone floor as he strode toward the main offices, each step louder, faster. His breath came sharp and steady. His mismatched eyes—one grey, one gold—narrowed with conviction.
It was time.
Time to bring the fight to Burgess and the rats who clung to his shadow.
Time to take back the Tower.
****
Vikki's fingers flew across the keyboard, each keystroke sharp. Her eyes scanned every line of code, every instruction, every encrypted pathway—until finally, with one last press, it was done.
She leaned back and drew a breath, steady and deep.
"There," she said, unplugging the black device with a soft click. "The packet's been sent—to every major media outlet, every personal contact of mine across the Three Bodies up to the damned Council. There's nowhere left for Burgess to hide. Let him twist, let him lie. He can dress it up with spin and speeches, but the truth's out now."
She turned to Asriel, her eyes gleaming with something fierce. "By sunrise, the name Lamar Burgess will be on every front page in Avalon and echoing across every newscaster's lips around the world."
Asriel's gaze dropped to the device in her hand, but his expression didn't carry the satisfaction she'd expected. In his amber eyes, there was sorrow still—unshaken, deep, old.
"Asriel?" Vikki's tone softened. She tried to smile. "We won. It's over. We got him. You finally got him."
He slowly shook his head, fingers curling into a trembling fist.
"No. This isn't over, Vikki," he said. "I've dragged the monster into the light. But this ends only one way—when he's no longer breathing."
His eyes burned with a cold fire.
"For twelve years, I've dreamed of just one thing: to see his head at my feet before I drag whatever's left of him into the depths of Tartarus."
Vikki nodded, her own expression hardening.
"And he will," she said. "Believe me, there's nothing I want more than to see him on his knees—begging for it to stop. Pleading for mercy he doesn't deserve. For Tala. For everyone he's buried under the weight of his ambition."
She exhaled slowly, reaching up, her fingertips brushing Asriel's cheek. The touch lingered—soft, bittersweet.
"I wish things had been different," she whispered. "Tala and I used to talk about life after Excalibur. All the dreams. All the promises. But the one thing she never stopped talking about… was you."
Asriel's expression shifted, pain flickering across his face.
"She wanted a wedding," Vikki went on, smiling faintly. "Something simple. A small garden. Then a cottage somewhere in the glades. A place to start over. A family. She said you'd teach the children to be strong, and she'd teach them to be kind. She wanted to show the world that the past doesn't have to define the future."
Her eyes shimmered as she shook her head. "And Gods help me, I was jealous. I wanted that kind of life too."
She held his gaze. "I used to think Tala was lucky to have you. But no—she was blessed. I would've given anything to be in her place. To have had what she did… to have you."
Her hand slipped down from his cheek and settled over his chest, where his heart beat steadily beneath her fingers.
"For years, I've laid awake asking why the Gods let me live… and not her. Why her?" She bit her lip, the words catching in her throat. "I would've traded places without a second thought. For both of you."
"Vikki…" Asriel reached out, gently wrapping his hands around her arms, grounding her. "The past is a wound, I know. But regrets left to fester only become pain. Tala would never have wanted you to carry this guilt."
He met her gaze, firm and sincere. "And neither do I."
Vikki smiled, warm and aching, the kind of smile that said more than words ever could. But before she could speak, a sudden whirl of smoke and ember flared behind her—sharp, crackling, and fast. Both she and Asriel turned just as Isha stepped through the smoke, her silhouette framed by faint glowing ash.
"Hate to break up the moment," Isha said, bow clasped loosely in one hand, "but Hartshorne's here. And he brought the damned cavalry. Judging by the looks on their faces, they're after more than just blood."
Asriel's eyes met hers for a heartbeat, then he turned to Vikki.
She grinned and gave a small nod. "I can see myself out. I know this place like the back of my hand—they couldn't catch me even if they tried." Her expression faltered slightly, softening. "Will I see you again?"
Asriel hesitated. His gaze lowered, the silence heavier than any promise he could give. And yet, she understood.
She looked at him, fire behind her eyes now. "Kill that bastard for me. Make it hurt."
He nodded once. "I have only one request."
"Anything," Vikki replied without hesitation.
"Tulips," he said. "Would you take them to Tala for me?"
She inhaled, then nodded. "As many as you'd want."
"Thank you, Vikki," Asriel murmured, a faint smile touching his lips—tired, but sincere. "Perhaps, when this is all over, we'll find some sliver of peace. All of us."
"I've no doubt," she whispered, blinking fast as tears welled in her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. "Now go. Kill every last one of them. Drag them to this… Tartarus. Let them know only pain, only suffering. If that's the last thing they see, I'll sleep soundly for the rest of my life."
Asriel nodded again, his eyes flaring with purpose. Without another word, he stepped past her and into the hall with Isha behind him, leaving behind the smoke, the sorrow, and the past.
****
The hallways of the broadcast station ran slick with blood, streaked in long, jagged trails across the turquoise-painted walls. Overhead, lights flickered weakly, some shattered entirely, their crystal casings reduced to shards that crunched beneath each footstep. Bodies lay scattered across the tiled floor—some broken, others butchered, a grotesque patchwork of limbs and lifeless stares. Arrows jutted from skulls and chests, black-fletched shafts stained crimson. The air was thick with the stench of magic, blood, and burnt flesh.
Screams—raw and ragged—echoed down the corridors, rising from the dying and those soon to join them. Isha and Asriel moved like executioners through the slaughter.
Asriel's greatsword swept in wide, ruthless arcs, cleaving through flesh and bone with terrifying ease. The black blade, pulsing with veins of molten fire, shimmered in the flicker of broken lights as it carved a path through the Norsefire ranks. Their shields shattered like glass. Their spells faltered mid-cast. None of them could match his fury.
Beside him, Isha danced through the chaos—graceful and deadly. She vaulted off walls, spinning mid-air, loosing volley after volley of arrows with perfect precision. One tore through a throat. The next, an eye socket. Then a heart. Her bow never stilled, her movements fluid and merciless. Every arrow she loosed stole breath, silenced screams, snuffed lives.
The Norsefire masks ran red. Blood poured from the eyeholes and grinned teeth as they collapsed to the floor, never to rise again.
Asriel drove his blade through the chest of a guard, skewering him clean through. The man coughed, blood spilling down his chin in a wet gurgle before Asriel ripped the blade free, letting the corpse crumple at his feet.
"Valerian!"
The voice cracked like a whip across the chaos. Asriel's head snapped up, turning toward the far end of the hallway.
Sheriff George Hartshorne stood there, wand clenched tight in one gloved hand. His frame was wrapped in black tactical armor, a brown overcoat draped over his shoulders, and a look of murderous fury twisted across his weathered face. His teeth were bared, eyes narrowed with age and rage.
Asriel smirked.
He twirled his sword in a lazy circle before resting the blade on his shoulder.
"Sheriff Hartshorne," he called. "Back for round two?"
Hartshorne stepped forward, slow and steady, his boots thudding against the blood-slicked tiles.
"All this time…" he growled. "We gutted that bloody house from cellar to rafters. Tore up every brick, every cursed floorboard. And yet—all this time—Keenah entrusted it to you."
He stopped, seething.
"I should've known."
"Yes," Asriel said, his smirk widening, for a moment, before fading into something colder. "Yes, you should have."
He stepped forward, his blade lifting from his shoulder as it spun once in his hand, glowing faintly with heat.
"Twelve years," he said, each word carrying the weight of every passing moment. "Twelve long years I've held onto the one thing that could bring the Tower crashing down. The single truth you and your master defiled every shred of decency to keep buried."
He took another step, eyes locked on Hartshorne.
"I could have exposed it then. Could've aired it to the world the moment I rose from the dark. But I didn't."
He shook his head slowly.
"Because you showed me what the law truly was—a lie. A tool of convenience, twisted and warped to suit your ends. A shield for the powerful, a blade for the voiceless."
His words hardened, sharpening like the edge of his sword.
"Had I released it then, your dogs would have turned on you in a heartbeat—snapped their collars in exchange for leniency. And where would all of you have gone, Hartshorne? Revel's End?" He sneered. "A few years in confinement? Cold walls and quiet meals? That would've been merciful. And mercy is something you don't deserve."
He stopped a few paces away now, sword in hand, breath steady, eyes burning.
"No… what you deserve lies far beyond the rules of man. Beyond any sentence a courtroom could deliver."
His gaze narrowed. "You and your master will spend eternity in a place where the Gods themselves will mourn that they ever gave you breath. Where you'll curse the very moment your soul was stitched to your flesh."
"Spare me your bloody fairy tales, Valerian!" Hartshorne barked. "You think some myth-drenched prophecy or poetic justice is going to put the fear of the Gods in me? I've seen too much for bedtime stories to keep me up at night."
His grip on the wand tightened, knuckles white beneath the worn leather of his gloves.
"We're both children of war," he growled. "We've waded through horrors that would shatter a sane man's mind. We've butchered, bled, and buried more than most could name—and when I look at you, I see no avenging angel. I see a mirror."
His expression hardened into a sneer.
"But that's where we differ," Hartshorne spat. "Because I know what I am. I've never pretended otherwise. Men like us—we don't get peace. We don't get love, or hope, or redemption. Those things are fairy dust for the weak. You think she would've stayed? That girl you mourn? She would've found out the truth in time. There's no future with a man like you. We're not saviors—we're ruined things. Tainted. Tarnished."
Asriel's jaw clenched, his gaze narrowing into twin coals of fury.
Hartshorne's voice dropped, colder now, stripped of pretense.
"Every move I've made, every choice, it's always been for me. My gain. My ambition. And unlike the rest of you simpering idealists, I never made excuses for it." He bared his teeth. "They say good things come to those who wait. I've found they come faster to those who take. And I've taken my fill—without hesitation, without remorse."
His wand rose, steady and pointed squarely at Asriel's chest.
"Keenah. His daughter. You? Just obstacles. Inconveniences in the path of progress. I don't fear the Gods, and I sure as hell don't fear their imaginary punishments. The afterlife is a story told to children and cowards to help them sleep at night. You want to believe justice is waiting beyond the veil? Be my guest. But it's nothing more than propaganda—peddled by the desperate, the weak, the betrayed."
He laughed then—bitter, mocking.
"Keenah was a fool. And you? You should have stayed gone."
There was a beat.
Then Asriel lifted his gaze, a slow, deadly smile spreading across his lips.
"That's where you're wrong, Hartshorne," he said calmly. "The Gods do avenge the fallen." His smirk deepened. "Because I'm here, aren't I?"
Hartshorne's eyes widened—just a flicker—but enough for Asriel to see the crack in the facade.
"And now," Asriel began, "all of Avalon knows."
He raised a hand slowly, gesturing around him as if conjuring the reach of their actions.
"They know the rot festering within the Tower. They know a false prophet sits at the peak of power, claiming a throne never meant for him—drenched in the blood of innocents, built on the bones of the forgotten. Hundreds… thousands."
His eyes flared with fire.
"With every passing minute, the bell tolls louder. Verdicts will be rendered. Judgments passed. And the fragile house of lies your master built, brick by treacherous brick, will collapse beneath its own weight."
He tilted his head back slightly, the corner of his mouth curling into a dark, knowing smile.
"You feel it, don't you?" he said. "In your bones. The shifting of power. The unraveling. The powers that be are already gathering—quietly, urgently. Words will turn to orders. And when they do, the full force of the true Tower will come crashing down upon you."
"And when that moment comes, the mighty Sheriff George Hartshorne—all his honor, all his titles, every golden letter etched beside his name, will rot like pus on decaying flesh. Just another lackey. Another stain tied to Burgess' legacy of blood."
A bead of sweat traced a slow path down Hartshorne's cheek. His face remained composed, jaw clenched tight, but the subtle tremor in his frame betrayed him. Beneath the armor and the practiced scowl, fear had taken root.
Asriel let the silence stretch, savoring it like a blade being drawn. "And when the fangs of true authority descend upon you," he said at last, "you'll find yourself exactly where I was, all those years ago."
His gaze hardened, burning now with something colder than rage—memory. "Helpless. Alone. Forced to watch as the monsters you trusted tore your world apart. Except this time, you'll be the one hunted. Dragged through the dirt in chains, brought before the executioner's blade, and buried in an unmarked grave."
Asriel scoffed softly, almost amused.
"Except this time," Asriel said quietly, "there won't be a mystic blade to drag you back from the edge—no divine promise of vengeance, no salvation wrapped in steel."
His gaze darkened.
"Because if there's one thing Nemesis despises, it's those who cry for retribution while drowning in the blood of their own sins." He shook his head slowly. "No… she reserves a very particular corner of ruin for men like you."
"But take heart," he added with mock sympathy. "I'm sure the Prosecutors will offer you the chance to barter for your life. They always do."
He raised an eyebrow. "After all, there's no honor among thieves."
A beat.
"And even less among murderers."
He then let out a low, amused chuckle.
"Let's just hope Burgess lets you live long enough to take the stand," he said. "Though between his paranoia and your worthlessness, I wouldn't be surprised if he has you shanked long before you ever see a courtroom."
Asriel tilted his head slightly, a cold smile curling at his lips.
"Still... the image of you bleeding out on the piss-soaked, mold-ridden floors of Revel's End?" He exhaled sharply. "Now that brings a smile to my face."
Hartshorne's breath grew ragged, short and sharp, rising with a manic edge. His eyes burned with fury—raw, uncontained. Then, with a guttural cry, he snapped his wand forward. A blast of emerald light exploded from the tip, tearing through the air like a lance of vengeance. But before it could reach its mark, Isha moved.
In a blink, she stepped into its path, her bow already drawn. She loosed an arrow with surgical precision—striking the spell mid-flight. The blast dispersed in a crackling shimmer as the arrow whistled past Hartshorne's cheek. He twisted aside, barely dodging it, and the shaft buried itself in the wall behind him with a solid thunk.
He turned back—ready to retaliate.
But the hallway was empty.
Only a swirling haze of black smoke and glowing embers remained, dancing through the air like dying stars. Then came Asriel's voice, echoing through the corridor, deep and distant, as though carried on the breath of something ancient and vengeful.
"Your days are numbered, Sheriff. So, breathe deep the stale air of freedom while you still can. Cling to the delusion that Burgess and his authority will shield you from the reckoning you've evaded your entire life."
The glowing embers continued to swirl, dimming as they drifted through the blood-slicked corridor.
"Run. Hide. Cower in the corners of your crumbling empire, and tremble at the beasts now coming for you.
There was a pause—brief, but heavy. Then came the final words, soft as death.
"But when the bell tolls… know this…"
A whisper, cold as steel.
"It tolls for thee."
A spectral laughter followed, hollow and haunting, echoing off the broken stone and twisted metal. It lingered for only a moment before vanishing into silence and shadow. Hartshorne bared his teeth, eyes wild with fury. Then, throwing his head back, he unleashed a roar of rage that shook the hallway.
"Valerian!"
****
Back in the Great Hall of Excalibur, the last flickers of the screen dissolved into nothingness, leaving behind a silence that rang louder than any thunder. Faces turned pale with disbelief—Godric and his friends among them, all staring ahead in stunned paralysis. The students erupted seconds later, voices rising into a roar that echoed off the stone walls, threatening to shake the very bones of the castle.
Godric remained still, crimson eyes wide as the weight of what he'd witnessed sank in like a blade through flesh. Slowly, his gaze narrowed, the shock giving way to something deeper—hotter. His throat had gone dry. Every word he tried to form crumbled in the furnace of rage building within him. His jaw tensed, teeth grinding together. He could see Burgess' face—smug, detached, inhuman. He could hear the indifference in his voice, the callous way he spoke of his intentions. All those lives. Tools. Sacrifice.
Innocents.
Slaughtered to pave a path to power.
And that thing, that monster, had sat at the head of the Clock Tower, penning laws and shaping futures with bloodstained hands for more than a decade.
The same laws that tore Raine from him.
That carved into his soul and left it hollow.
That ripped out his still-beating heart in the name of a justice built on lies.
Godric's head tilted forward, gaze heavy with fury and grief. His fingers curled into a trembling fist, knuckles bleaching white. Then, with a sudden crack, he slammed it against the long table. The sound rang through the Great Hall like a thunderclap. Plates jumped, goblets toppled, wine and water spilling across polished wood. Conversation halted. Eyes turned.
His friends stared in startled silence. All except Salazar, who didn't flinch. He watched with a still, sharp intensity, sensing the storm gathering behind Godric's eyes. Sensing the fire turning darker, heavier.
Godric pushed back his chair, the legs dragging a harsh scrape across the stone. He rounded it without a word, his steps hard and fast, boots pounding against the floor as he made for the exit, the chatter falling away behind him.
"Godric!" Jeanne called—but he didn't stop.
Rowena's eyes fell shut. The weight in her chest pressed harder. Despite everything. Despite severing ties with the man now revealed as a monster—guilt hollowed her from within. She had praised the Tower. Celebrated the legacy of her bloodline. Trusted in the Ravenclaws' pursuit of justice as absolute. Her brother had enforced the will of the very institution that had ripped the heart from Godric's chest.
The Clock Tower had become a monument to hypocrisy, and every truth she thought unshakable crumbled beneath her feet. Her achievements, once worn proudly, felt meaningless. Her praise, her marks, her words—hollow. For the first time in her life, she saw herself for what she feared she was.
A fool.
And she despised it.
Jeanne pushed half out of her seat, her eyes on the doors, ready to follow—until Helena reached out gently.
"Jeanne," she said softly, "let him go."
"But—" Jeanne turned, lavender eyes wide with protest.
Helena gave a quiet shake of her head.
Her tone left no room for argument. Jeanne hesitated, then slowly sat back down, the fire in her dimming to a low, uneasy burn.
Salazar, however, sat still, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, resting lightly on the valleys of his knuckles. His emerald eyes were narrowed, distant in thought, the quiet hum of voices in the Great Hall fading into background noise. Helena watched him carefully, noting the tension in his brow.
"What is it?" she asked, tilting her head. "What's on your mind?"
"The truth is out, Helena," Salazar said at last, edged with warning. "All of Avalon has now seen the man behind Dah'Tan—the architect of one of the worst atrocities in recent history."
He exhaled slowly. "Which means Burgess no longer has any reason to pretend. No more need for diplomacy. Or sanity."
Helena's expression tightened. "You think he might do something drastic?"
Salazar's gaze shifted to meet hers.
"A cornered rat is dangerous enough. But a man with nothing left to lose?" He gave a slight shake of his head. "That's a recipe for disaster. A man like that won't go quietly. He'll take everything down with him if it means clinging to what little power remains."
His eyes darkened.
"He was willing to burn an entire city to the ground—men, women, children—all for the chance at power." He leaned forward slightly. "So, ask yourself this, Helena… what do you think he'd do to keep it?"
Helena's brown eyes widened at Salazar's grim words, the weight of his warning sinking in. But before she could respond, her attention snapped toward the teacher's table. Professor Workner and Serfence were whispering to each other in hushed tones, their expressions grave. Across from them, the scrape of chairs rang out as Professors Eridan and Rasputin rose and began striding toward the side doors with purpose.
Serfence stood next, pausing only a moment before glancing back.
Professor Ryan, mid-bite, was lifting a forkful of roast toward his mouth—only to be abruptly yanked backward as Serfence grabbed him by the back of his collar. The fork clattered to the plate as Ryan flailed, reaching for it with a comical, panicked motion.
Serfence's face remained stone-flat, entirely unamused as he dragged the bewildered professor toward the exit.
Salazar's eyes narrowed, watching the silent exodus. "And if I had to place a wager on Headmaster Blaise," he muttered, "I'd say he shares my caution. Whatever's coming… they can all feel it."
"Salazar's right," Rowena said. Everyone turned toward her. She sat straighter, her sapphire eyes glinting cold beneath the flickering hall light. "My former uncle wore the mask of a calm, calculating tactician—but in truth, he's a creature ruled by pride and desperation. He's always been."
Her gaze hardened. "And now, standing at the edge with everything slipping through his fingers, I've no doubt he'll do whatever it takes to keep that crown atop his head. Either he reigns as king… or none at all."
A chill swept the table.
Helena exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the edge of her seat. "It feels like the calm before the storm. Every part of me says we're about to fight for everything we've ever known."
Jeanne's hands came together, clasped tightly as if in prayer. She looked up at the enchanted ceiling above, where clouds churned behind pale moonlight.
"Lord help us all."
****
Godric's bootsteps echoed down the desolate stone corridors, cutting through the silence like a warning. His entire body was coiled tight, every muscle drawn taut as if braced for war. The fire inside him burned unchecked, seething in the pit of his chest, crawling up his throat. His fingers twitched, aching for the hilt of his blade. For something, anything, to carve into, to bleed out the fury threatening to consume him from the inside.
His thoughts spiraled, pulled back to that first meeting—the day he stood before Lamar Burgess. The Director of the Clock Tower. The self-proclaimed arbiter of justice. Draped in robes of authority, cloaked in measured civility, he had stood like a statue of order. But it had all been a lie.
Godric could see it clearly now: the man was never a judge, only a warden. Wielding the law not as a hammer of justice, but as a whip to keep the world beneath his heel. A tyrant hidden behind bureaucracy, behind polished words and sanctimonious decrees.
And for that, he took her. Raine. Torn from him not by fate, not by chaos or war, but by protocol. By soulless lines of ink on parchment, twisted to serve the will of a madman.
Godric's jaw clenched, Asriel's words ringing like a war drum in his mind. The truth was out, and whatever Burgess did next. Whatever desperate, vile grasp at control he reached for. It no longer mattered.
He would answer for it.
His hand reached back, fingers curling tightly around the hilt of his sword. Cold steel greeted him like an old friend.
For Raine.
For the innocent.
For every soul trampled under the weight of that man's ambition.
Godric's crimson eyes fixed ahead, alight with purpose, blazing with wrath.
If the Sword of Damocles would not strike him down...
Then he would.