"That son of a bitch!" Bastion snarled, kicking a nearby crate. His boot splintered the wood, sending a cascade of shimmering Lacrima crystals clattering across the floor. "I knew he wouldn't go down without a fight!"
Langston dropped to one knee before the device, eyes scanning every wire, cog, and exposed glyph etched into the crystal casing. "Looks like they've jury-rigged a core to go critical. I've seen setups like this before—Libertalia used them against The Authority."
"Those anti-slavery freedom fighters?" Frank asked, brow furrowing. "Can you disarm it?"
Langston didn't answer at first. His eyes flicked to the ticking clock. "I'm good, Frank... but I'm not a miracle worker. I can't pull this apart fast enough." His gaze shifted to the endless crates of Lacrima. "And with this much crystal lying around…"
"It'd turn Caerleon into a damned crater," Frank muttered, jaw tight. "Just like Dah'Tan. This isn't just a failsafe. This is vengeance. He's been planning this for months."
The clock ticked down—four minutes.
"Even if we got the word out now," Langston said, "we couldn't evacuate the city in time." He shut his eyes, breath shaking. "There's nothing we can do. This is the end of the line."
A silence fell—brief, brittle.
Then, Orgrim stepped forward.
His amber eyes scanned each of them before turning back to the device. The clock ticked louder now, a cruel reminder of time slipping through their fingers. The orc looked down at the blood leaking through his makeshift bandage, then up at the pulsating core.
Without a word, he placed a hand on the device.
"Orgrim?" Langston's voice caught in his throat.
The air shifted. A low rumble echoed through the chamber as soot and ash began to swirl. Bastion instinctively stepped back. The vortex formed slowly at first. Embers flickering like fireflies. Then faster, harsher, until the very air screamed.
Frank staggered back, shielding his eyes. "What in the fresh hell is—?"
"This is it, Langston," Orgrim said, a low growl over the roaring storm. "The last of my power. I'll take this thing—far enough that it won't take Caerleon with it."
Langston stood at the heart of the rising storm, the vortex howling around him with a fury that rattled stone and bone alike. His coat snapped violently in the wind, hair lashing across his face as the swirling embers cast flickering shadows over his features. Yet amid the chaos, his gaze remained fixed on Orgrim—the warrior he had once called enemy, the brother he had come to trust, the friend he now faced in what could only be their final moment. Then, Langston turned his head through the churning gale. His eyes found Frank and Bastion beyond the whirlwind—faces taut with dread, hands clenched, helpless to reach him.
And there, with ash and fire dancing in the space between them, Langston gave them a smile.
It was faint. Raw. Carved from sorrow and quiet resolve.
Bastion narrowed his eyes. "What the hell is he—?"
Langston stepped closer. "Then, I'm coming with you."
Orgrim looked over.
Langston nodded, eyes stinging from more than just the wind. "We've come a long way, haven't we?" His gaze dropped. "I know I've said it before, but... I failed you. I failed Tia. Deka. Teru." He drew a trembling breath. "And I'm sorry."
He looked up, eyes meeting Orgrim's. There was no anger in them now—only sorrow, and something like peace.
"If this is where it ends... if this is what I have to give to make things right... then I accept it." His voice cracked. "And for what it's worth—I'm glad it's you."
A pause. Then, Orgrim reached out—his massive hand resting on Langston's shoulder. And then, without warning, Orgrim grabbed Langston by the front of his coat and hurled him out of the storm, straight into Frank's arms.
"Orgrim!" Langston roared, fighting against the violent gale, his boots scraping against the ground as he thrashed toward the vortex. "No! Don't do this! Don't you dare!"
Frank held Langston back. "Shane, no!" he cried out.
The captain raised an arm to shield his eyes from the wind and ash. "This is my punishment—don't take it from me!"
Orgrim's gaze found his through the storm, steady and resolute. "Don't mistake this for mercy, Langston," he said. "You still owe me a debt—a debt you will repay."
Langston froze, the words cutting sharper than any blade.
"Make good on your promise," Orgrim continued. "Go back to Vol'Dunin. Open your school. Give my people what we never had."
Langston's expression crumpled, his entire body trembling.
"That is your penance," Orgrim said. "Every orc child you send into the world with a book instead of a blade... that will be your atonement. To me. To my family. To the Warsong Tribe—my tribe." He paused, then shook his head. "Our tribe."
He looked away for a breath, then let out a soft chuckle. "I've always called you my brother, Langston. Even now… I still mean it."
Tears traced silent lines down Langston's cheeks.
"We can't change the past," Orgrim said gently. "We can't unmake what we've done. But we can shape what comes next. That dream we shared… I know you'll see it through."
He gave one final look—quiet, steady, unflinching.
"If I regret anything," he added, "it's only that I won't be there to share it."
"Orgrim, please—" Langston stepped forward, arm outstretched.
But Orgrim smiled. "I've carried pain for so long, I forgot what it felt like to be free of it." He exhaled, as if laying down a weight he'd borne for a lifetime. "So let this be the end… of Orgrim Darqtide, as he steps into the great unknown."
He gave a final nod. "So long… brother."
And in a blinding rush of wind and shadow, he vanished—taking the device with him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Langston staggered forward as he cried out, "Orgrim!"
****
With a rush of blackened smoke and fading embers, Orgrim reappeared in the heart of a dense forest. The trees stood silent around him, unmoving, as though holding their breath.
He stumbled forward, coughing violently. A thick spatter of blackened blood struck the earth, trailing down his chin and onto the crystal face of the device. His great frame slumped against it, legs trembling, breath ragged. The last of his magic had been spent. Now, he could feel it slipping away, draining from his limbs with every passing heartbeat. His vision blurred. Each breath felt heavier than the last.
But then—he felt her.
A pair of soft, familiar hands touched his shoulders, wrapping around his torso. A warmth he hadn't known in years. A presence he thought lost forever. Tia. His wife. Her spectral form pressed against his back, her cheek resting between his shoulder blades.
"I knew you'd do the right thing," she whispered, as gentle as the wind through leaves. "I expected no less of the man I married. The man I loved."
Orgrim's breath hitched. "I'll never see you again," he said. "Not you. Not Teru. Not Deka. I gave that up. My soul's already spoken for… and she'll come to collect."
"I know," Tia replied quietly, sorrow clinging to each word. "But tell me, Orgrim… do you regret it?"
He let out a faint, raspy chuckle. "Maybe a little."
Tia's arms tightened around him. "Then stay here… just for a while. With me."
Orgrim's eyelids drooped, the weight of the world finally lifting from his shoulders. "I'd like that," he murmured. "I'd like that very much."
And as the darkness took him, he saw them—every memory, every smile, every firelit night.
Tia, radiant in the glow of their old hearth.
Teru, perched on his shoulders, laughter echoing through the village.
Deka, her tiny fingers curled around his, eyes filled with wonder.
He saw his tribe, proud and strong. He saw Langston, grinning beside him in battle, the two of them battered and bloodied, surviving the impossible. He saw stories shared around flames. Drinks raised to old victories and new beginnings.
Orgrim Darqtide had lived. And in his final moments, he was at peace.
His chest rose one last time, then fell still.
The needle on the clock ticked forward—twelve.
And then, a soft flash of white.
And silence.
****
A shockwave tore across the land, rippling through every stone and timber of Caerleon. Buildings groaned, shelves toppled, cupboards flew open. Crockery crashed to the floor, shattering into porcelain dust. Books thudded from their places. Windows rattled in their frames. People were thrown from their feet—some hit the ground hard, others stumbled, clutching walls or one another as the city lurched beneath them.
From the grand halls of Castle Excalibur to the taverns on the farthest edges of the outskirts, every soul felt it.
And then—stillness.
As sudden as it came, the tremor passed, leaving silence in its wake.
People slowly rose, eyes wide, breaths held. Questions whispered between them, confusion blooming like smoke. None of them knew what had happened—nor how close they'd come to utter annihilation.
Below the city, deep in the tunnels, crates had been knocked over, spilling shimmering Lacrima across the stone floor. The dust settled, the crystals glittering like glass stars. Amidst it all, three men stood in silence, frozen.
"He did it," Bastion breathed. "Son of a bitch actually did it."
Langston dropped to his knees. His hands trembled. Tears slipped down his face, teeth clenched hard as his shoulders shook. Frank stepped forward and crouched beside him, a hand on his shoulder.
"Shane, he chose this," Frank said softly. "Clawed his way back from death for vengeance… but gave up what was left of his life for this city. For you."
"Why?" Langston's fists hit the ground, stone scraping his knuckles. "Why would he do that—after everything I did? Everything I was?"
Frank didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted to the spot where the device had once been.
"Because," he said, "he saw something in you… something he thought he'd lost. Hope. Not just for the Tower. For his tribe. For his people." Frank's eyes met Langston's. "And now? Whether you like it or not… you're all that's left of the Warsong Tribe. And he's trusted that legacy to you."
Langston's breath hitched. He didn't speak—just stared at the empty space with something caught between grief and awe.
Frank stood. "I'm not your momma. I won't tell you what you should do next." He gave a small nod. "But if you're still the Shane Langston I know… you'll do what you've always done."
Langston looked up. "…What's that?"
Frank turned, walking toward Bastion. "Be a good man."
As Frank passed him, Bastion blinked, shaking his head. "So that's it? We stopped the bomb. Caerleon still stands. We won. He lost."
Frank's gaze met his, calm and unflinching. "Did he?" He raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, kid—when's the last time Lamar Burgess took a blow like this and didn't strike back harder?"
Bastion froze.
Frank's tone dropped low. "This was the opening salvo, kid. He'll be coming—and when he does, it won't just be spells and blades." He looked toward the dark tunnel ahead. "It'll be wrath. And it'll be biblical."
****
Headmaster Blaise Windsor sat in silence, his fingers steepled on his lap as he surveyed the chaos around him—toppled shelves, scattered books, ink spilled like blood across fresh parchment, shards of glass glinting in the fading light. Broken relics lay in ruin, some still humming faintly with residual magic.
Behind his half-moon glasses, his eyes were cold. Unmoving. For the first time in a very, very long time, something stirred beneath his composed exterior—a flame. Not of panic. Not even anger.
But purpose.
Blaise Windsor had always been a patient man. Too patient, some said. The kind of patience honed over decades of watching, weighing, and waiting. A patience that had allowed him to endure fools, politics, and power plays. A patience that had served him and his station well.
But now, that patience had been spent.
He knew the source of the explosion. The cause was no mystery. Lamar Burgess. The name alone was enough to sour the air. Blaise had feared this exact turn—the moment the man would let his ego outpace his reason, dragging the realm down with him. And now, that fear had taken form.
Carefully, Blaise removed his glasses and set them on the desk with a quiet click. He inhaled, slow and sharp, the weight of what was to come sinking into his chest like stone.
The Tower had been warned. The city had suffered. The end had nearly reached their doorstep.
And if Burgess dared to set his sights on Excalibur...
A flicker of steel entered Blaise's eyes.
Then may the Gods have mercy on him.
Because Blaise Windsor would not.
****
Asriel and Isha stood side by side atop a fractured rooftop, their hands pressed to their chests as they steadied their breath. The aftershocks still trembled beneath their feet, faint but unmistakable—a deep, echoing thrum that stirred memory and grief alike.
They had felt this once before.
The moment Gunnar was taken from the world.
"…Orgrim," Asriel murmured.
Isha glanced his way, her face pale, drawn. "We're all that's left."
Asriel straightened. His amber eyes swept over the wounded cityscape—Caerleon, defiant and broken beneath the clouds. "This is it. The final chapter," he said, more to himself than anyone. He stared at his open hand, then closed it into a fist. "And now, we wait. Let the devil come."
Isha stepped beside him, her eyes scanning the horizon. "Do you think he'll actually do it? If I were him, I'd vanish. Disappear to the farthest corner of Avalon and pray never to be found."
"A rational man might." Asriel's words held no warmth. "But Lamar Burgess has never been a man governed by reason. Whatever that blast was—he's behind it. I'd wager my soul on it." His arms folded tightly across his chest. "And a man who has only ever tasted power doesn't know how to stomach humiliation. Not quietly. Not like this."
He paused. "His pride will drag him back, even if the rest of the realm would rather forget he ever existed. He won't run. He'll march straight into Caerleon, because he needs the world to watch him fall on his own terms."
Isha said nothing.
"He'll bring whatever's left of his army," Asriel continued. "To raze the city that spat in his face. To scorch the last place that dared to defy him."
"But what's the point?" Isha asked. "Even if he wins—he won't. Both the Wizarding Council and the Council of Kings would surely condemn him to die. There's no escaping what he did to Dah'Tan. No future where he doesn't rot."
"I don't think he cares anymore," Asriel said. "He knows he's finished. All that's left is the ruin. And if he has to die, he'll make sure the world burns with him."
He turned, jaw set. "But I'll be there when he does. With my blade through his blackened heart. And when he's gasping his final breath, I'll drag his wretched soul to Tartarus myself."
****
The castle groaned in the wake of the tremor, its ancient stones echoing the force that had shaken it to its bones. Students staggered to their feet, dazed and unsteady, helping one another up amidst the chaos. Suits of armor lay scattered in shattered heaps, their pieces strewn across the corridors like discarded limbs. Books littered the ground, torn from their shelves. Glass crunched underfoot, the remnants of broken displays and picture frames sparkling faintly in the dust-choked air.
Confused murmurs filled the hall. No one seemed injured, but the silence that followed was heavy with unspoken fear—more questions than answers, and a terrible knowing just beneath the surface.
Godric, Salazar, Rowena, Jeanne, and Helena had been returning to their dormitories from lunch in the Great Hall when the quake struck. Now they stood amid the disarray, eyes scanning the damage. Godric's crimson gaze flicked across the corridor, watching as students steadied one another. Rowena and Helena moved to assist a younger boy tangled beneath a fallen tapestry. Jeanne whispered quiet reassurances.
Salazar, meanwhile, dusted off his coat with a sharp flick of his wrists, his expression hardening.
"What in Scáthach just happened?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," Godric said, eyes narrowing. "But whatever it was... it was no natural quake. You don't think—?"
"That the madman Burgess is behind it?" Salazar cut in with a scoff. "If I were a betting man, and I assure you, I am—I'd stake every last Plata on it."
Godric drew a slow breath. "There's a pressure in my chest. Like the air itself is warning us. Something's coming, Salazar. Something terrible."
Salazar's gaze darkened. "I feel it too, dear friend. That same gnawing dread. Just like the day we uncovered what Creedy had done to Raine."
"Godric, Salazar—are you both alright?" Jeanne approached them quickly, eyes scanning their frames. "What in the world could've caused that?"
"It wasn't an earthquake," Rowena said, stepping beside her, her tone low and thoughtful. "Too brief. Too sudden. It felt more like an explosion. Distant, but immense. Judging by the tremor, it must've been incredibly powerful."
"No injuries from what I can tell," Helena added, jogging up after helping a few First Years to their feet. She dusted off her coat and exhaled sharply. "When I came back to Excalibur, I didn't expect we'd be neck-deep in a war with the damned Clock Tower. Now there's this. Gods know what caused it." Her words dropped. "It's like we're living through a nightmare."
Rowena's sapphire eyes flicked between Salazar and Godric. "You think Lamar's behind this, don't you?"
Neither of the boys answered aloud—but their grim expressions, their silence, said enough.
Rowena's face sank as she turned away slightly, her arms folding tight across her chest. "The more I learn about the man I once called Uncle, the more I feel like I'm crawling in my own skin. I spent my childhood summers at his estate. I laughed with him. I… I fell asleep in his arms." Her voice broke, just a little. "He stood at my wedding and told me how proud he was. That he loved me."
She closed her eyes and hugged herself tighter. "And now to see what he truly is... a monster wearing my family's face. I can't begin to describe how filthy I feel. I was blind."
Jeanne stepped forward gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Rowena," she said softly, "none of this is your fault."
Rowena's eyes shimmered, but she didn't speak.
"Back where I'm from, there's a saying," Jeanne continued. "The Devil doesn't come wearing horns, promising damnation. He comes dressed in kindness. With a smile that tells you everything you've ever wanted to hear." She paused. "After all, even Lucifer was once an angel."
"Oh, I quite like that," Salazar drawled with a smirk. "Menacingly classy."
Helena immediately elbowed him in the ribs.
"Oof! You animal," he wheezed, doubling over with a wince as she shot him a glare.
"I, for one, am grateful," came Godric's voice. It drew all their eyes to him.
"He's done hiding," Godric said. "No more masks. No more lies. His sins are out in the open now, and so are his intentions."
He looked ahead, eyes flint-hard. "The Clock Tower doesn't protect him anymore. The laws he twisted to serve himself is gone. He's no longer Director. Not an untouchable symbol. He's just a man now. A man made of flesh and bone."
His hand brushed the hilt on his back, fingers tightening. "I couldn't tear down the Tower. My sword was never meant for that." A pause. His eyes burned. "But blimey, I can kill the man who built it."
Rowena's eyes widened. "Godric, you can't be serious—"
His head snapped toward her, and the look in his eyes made her freeze. That fire burned so fiercely it chilled her. Even Jeanne and Helena instinctively tensed.
"I am," Godric said, steady and unwavering. "Asriel's already set his course, and I know he won't stop until it's finished. But if he falls. If he fails—then by the Charlamange, I'll be the one to end it."
He stepped forward, the shift in his presence enough to make Rowena retreat a pace without thinking.
"I know what you're thinking. That my grief, my rage, it doesn't measure up. That it's small. Petty. Compared to everything Burgess has done to others, compared to the lives shattered at Dah'Tan, to what Asriel has endured… maybe you're right. Maybe what happened to me and to Raine is just a drop in the ocean."
His gaze darkened, jaw set.
"But pain doesn't need to be weighed. Grief doesn't need permission. Everything that's happened. All of it, has been building to this moment. The nightmares of a world that never was. The sleepless nights, the mornings I begged not to wake up, the silence where her laughter used to be. I'd give anything. Anything—for just one more second with her in my arms."
He looked beyond them now, into something distant but inevitable. "We didn't start this war. None of us did. But it ends. Only ends—when Lamar Burgess lies dead at my feet."
And with that, Godric turned and disappeared down the corridor. Helena, Jeanne, and Rowena watched in silence, unease etched across their faces. Salazar's eyes lingered on the empty hallway, his expression tightening.
"I hate to be the one to say it," Salazar murmured, breaking the quiet. "But I've seen that look before. That wasn't some declaration born of heat or grief. That was a promise. Godric intends to kill Burgess. And I don't believe anything will stop him."
"You really think he could… would, do it?" Helena asked.
Salazar gave a grim nod. "Take it from someone who's walked that path. They say the first time's always the hardest. But it becomes easier. So much easier—when there's purpose behind the blade. And now, Godric's finally got a face to his pain. That kind of clarity sharpens a man's resolve."
Jeanne turned toward Rowena, her brow furrowed. "Rowena, I'm sure he doesn't—"
"No," Rowena said quickly, cutting her off. "You don't need to soften the truth for me, Jeanne. And I don't blame him. Hecate, how could I? The anger in him—I know it. I feel it myself every time I think of what my uncle's done."
She lowered her gaze. "But not like this. Not if it means losing the best of who he is. Godric's not a killer. I can't bear to watch him become one because of that monster."
Salazar sighed. "I wish I shared your certainty. I truly do. But none of us can say what we'd do. Not really. Not until the person who's ruined everything you love is standing right in front of you. Tell me, Rowena... if the architect of your suffering stood defenseless before you—wouldn't you take the chance to end him?"
Silence followed. None of them answered.
Salazar's gaze remained fixed on the spot where Godric had vanished. "All we can do now… is hope the man we know can survive what's coming and not lose himself to the darkness waiting on the other side."
****
The shockwave struck the mountain like a hammer blow. Lamar caught himself against the table as the earth beneath them groaned and lurched. Hartshorne and several guards were thrown to the ground, crates toppling, Lacrima crystals spilling and skittering across the stone floor. Equipment clattered, lights flickered, and then—stillness.
Lamar looked up, heart thundering in his chest.
Caerleon still stood.
No crater. No plume of flame. No ruin. The towers, the homes, the castle—all untouched. Distant on the horizon, a fireball rose into the sky, miles from the city. His eyes darted between the pillar of smoke and the unbroken skyline.
The color drained from his face.
They had stopped it. Somehow, they'd bloody stopped it.
His hands trembled with rage. Then, like a man possessed, he swept his arms across the table, sending charts, models, and relics crashing to the ground. With a roar, he slammed his fist down, once, twice, again—until the wood cracked beneath his fury. Breathing hard, he sagged over the table, hair disheveled, knuckles bloodied.
Hartshorne rose, dusting himself off. He hesitated, then took a cautious step toward the seething figure.
"Gather the men," Lamar muttered.
"Pardon?"
Lamar snapped upright. "I said gather the men. Every last one of them—the main battalions, the reserves, the bleeding cooks if they can carry a wand." His words sharpened with venom. "I want the warcasters armed and charged. Every sword honed. Every rune primed. We march at dawn."
Hartshorne blinked. "Everyone?"
Lamar turned, seized him by the collar, and yanked him close. "Every. Bloody. One!"
He shoved him back and strode to the tent's entrance, glaring down at the glittering city below. "We take Caerleon. We raze the city. And we seize Castle Excalibur."
Hartshorne frowned. "Excalibur? Why in the nine hells do we need the castle?"
"Because the Tower will retaliate. And when they do, we'll need a fortress that can withstand them." Lamar's lips curled. "Excalibur can weather a siege, and its students. Those blasted little miscreants—they'll make fine leverage."
Hartshorne paled. "And Windsor—what of him?"
Lamar scoffed. "The man's all bark and poetry. Once his precious professors are dead and his Visionaries hang by their ankles over the gates, he'll fall to pieces. They all will."
He took a step forward. "The children will learn fear. Real fear. And the Council?" He smiled, teeth bared. "They'll be forced to listen. Forced to see. Forced to submit."
"Lamar…" Hartshorne tried, stepping closer. "It's not too late. We can still flee—change our names, disappear to the edge of Avalon. Live out our days in peace."
"Peace?!" Lamar spun, fury igniting in his eyes. "You would run. You'd scurry off into the shadows and die an old, forgotten man. That's cowardice I've come to expect of you!"
He stepped closer, finger stabbing the air. "But not me. I don't run. I don't cower. You'd have me vanish? Let my name rot in silence? After everything I've built? Everything I've sacrificed?" He struck the table again, eyes wild. "No! I will not die in obscurity. I will not let this world spit on my legacy."
Turning back to the city, his voice dropped, but every word was razor-sharp. "They will remember me. They will kneel. And they will thank me—when I remind them why they feared me in the first place."
He glanced over his shoulder. "Run if you want, Hartshorne. Go on. Disappear." His tone turned ice-cold. "But we both know how this ends. The Tower always finds you."
A wicked smirk curled across Lamar's face, sharp and joyless. "And I'm quite certain King Uther still harbors a grudge after your... contributions during the Insurrection," he said. "If fortune favors you, perhaps they'll make it quick. But knowing Uther, I daresay he'll have you strung up in a gibbet, left to rot in the sun while the ravens strip you to the bone."
Hartshorne swallowed hard, his jaw clenching. He faltered a step, eyes lowering. For a moment, he looked every bit the dead man Lamar described. But then, he steadied himself. He drew a long breath, opened his eyes, and gave a single nod.
"I'll rally the men. We march at dawn." He turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the tent.
Lamar watched him go, then returned his gaze to the distant city, that shimmering jewel on the horizon. His expression darkened, the grin fading into something colder, more resolute.
"Tomorrow's the day, Windsor," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we find out whether the man Avalon has deified is truly all they claim—or just another relic, long past his prime."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
"And when I put the famed Blaise Windsor in the ground… they won't just remember me." A cruel smile cut across his face. "They'll worship me."
****
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting Caerleon in the final hues of dusk, the sky shifted from a blood-red glow into the velvet black of night, pierced by a scattering of stars. In the wake of so much turmoil, the city exhaled. The blockades had fallen. Norsefire patrols dismantled. Their officers either dead or dragged into custody. The Tower had retaken the streets, and with it came the familiar sight of AEGIS agents and Aurors distributing food, medicine, and relief to those left battered and broken by the long occupation.
For the first time in months, families gathered without fear. Children clutched warm bread with trembling hands. Couples sat in silence, the weight of survival heavy on their shoulders, yet somehow lighter than the crushing dread that had haunted every corner of the city. Some fell to their knees, tears streaming down their cheeks—not for loss, but in fragile relief. The nightmare had loosened its grip.
And still, the scent of ash and blood lingered in the air. A reminder that not all wounds could be bandaged in a day.
Outside the charred husk of Pablo and Edda's beloved restaurant, the crowd stood quiet, solemn. The fire had gutted everything. Stones scattered, timber scorched black. The inside was little more than soot and ruin. But someone had placed flowers there. Dozens more followed. Candles flickered in the breeze, a vigil for the lives lost. Pablo and Edda had been laid to rest by their neighbors in the city cemetery—graves marked with simple wooden crosses, and a promise: once peace held, they'd return to honor them properly.
No one had witnessed the battle when it happened. No one saw how the once vicious Norsefire Captain met her end. But in the ruins left behind, whispers began to bloom like weeds through broken stone. Tales of a girl from Excalibur. A storm of magic wreathed in fury. Of a Grim torn apart and soldiers massacred—those who had reveled in cruelty now left scattered in pieces.
They spoke the name: Astrea Vikander. The unbound monster who finally met her reckoning.
And yet, when the dust settled and the bodies were counted, she was gone. Vanished into silence. Neither her corpse nor her shadow remained.
Not that anyone searched.
Their thoughts, instead, turned to little Elio. The boy now lay in the Hospital Wing of Excalibur, his breath shallow, his life balanced on a blade's edge. An entire city mourned him—mourned the boy who had yet to understand what it meant to be an orphan. The child of two kind souls, taken by hatred, left behind in the wreckage of a war he never asked to be part of.
And still, the candles burned.
In the Hospital Wing, exhaustion clung to every wall. The staff moved like ghosts through dim corridors, fuelled by pots of bitter coffee and sheer willpower, trading off in shifts that barely allowed for sleep. Doctors, nurses, healers, even the techs—were stretched thin, and among them, Doctor Adani was fraying at the seams.
She hadn't left her office in over two days, save for the most urgent checks. Her hands shook as she flipped through Elio's charts for the hundredth time, her desk buried beneath crumpled notes, diagnostic parchments, and fading hopes. The boy's condition had worsened—injuries too severe for even magic to mend, and the loss of blood had triggered cascading organ failure. No potion, no spell, no machine could bring him back from the edge he hovered on.
Her fingers tangled in her raven-black hair as her eyes scanned the last report. The ink bled where her hand trembled. Gritting her teeth, she muttered under her breath.
"No, no, no…"
Pages turned. Scribbled notes, dead ends.
"No, no, no, no, laanat hai—NO!"
She shoved herself to her feet and in a fury swept everything from her desk. Folders, glass vials, loose papers, and books crashed to the floor in a heap. The sound echoed through the walls.
And then there was only silence.
Adani slumped back into her chair, her face buried in her hands. Her shoulders trembled, and a quiet sob escaped her lips.
There was nothing more she could do.
And she knew—Elio wouldn't make it through the night.
****
Outside Doctor Adani's office, the Hospital Wing had settled into a strained, unnatural silence. Midnight had struck, casting long shadows down the sterile corridors. Nurses murmured among themselves in hushed tones, some too tired to speak, others clinging to routine as a shield against helplessness.
At the front desk, a lone nurse sat buried in paperwork—two days deep into a backlog that never seemed to shrink. Her eyes were glazed, attention flickering between charts and fatigue. She barely registered figure who passed quietly before the counter without a word.
He moved with purpose, unhurried and deliberate.
Tall and broad-shouldered, the man looked carved from stone—middle-aged, with long blond hair pulled into a neat ponytail that fell between his shoulder blades. A thick Donegal-style beard framed his square jaw, adding to the weight of his presence. He wore a tailored brown three-piece suit in deep, earthy tones, a dark overcoat draped over it like a mantle of authority. A muted green tie was knotted tightly at his collar, crisp against the stark white shirt beneath. White gloves covered his hands. A single leather suitcase hung from one of them.
His shoes tapped lightly across the chequered floor, the sound precise and metered. He stopped at one of the doors near the end of the hallway. Mounted at eye level was a simple brass plate, etched with the name of the patient:
Elio.
He adjusted the square-rimmed glasses over his golden eyes and quietly turned the handle.
Inside, the room was dim. The boy lay still amid the weave of tubes, wires, and mechanical limbs of brass and glass, the air thick with antiseptic and quiet dread. A machine at the bedside clicked rhythmically, a soft purple glow pulsing from the crystal core at its heart—barely enough to light the boy's pale, bandaged face. His left arm was gone, the stump neatly wrapped. A respirator veiled the lower half of his face, rising and falling with shallow, labored breaths.
The man shut the door behind him and walked to the bedside. He looked down at the child—not with pity, but with something far older. Something gentler.
A soft, weary smile touched his lips.
"How cruel this world must be," he murmured, "to carve such tragedy into someone so small." He let out a breath. "Surely not even the Gods are so callous."
He knelt and placed the suitcase at his feet. Then, he reached into his coat and withdrew a crimson crystal, no larger than a marble, its surface flickering faintly like embers in a dying fire.
He studied it for a moment. Then he looked back at Elio.
"But not tonight," he said, gently.
His gloved hand hovered over the boy's chest.
"This will not be your fate. Not yet."
****
A sharp, electrified crack split the silence outside Doctor Adani's office. She froze, her head snapping toward the door. It sounded voltaic—like lightning tearing through steel and stone. A flash of red light spilled across the floor beneath the threshold, followed a heartbeat later by the sound of raised voices, urgent and alarmed.
Her breath caught.
Adani surged to her feet, gathering the hem of her saree in one hand as she threw the door open. Chaos erupted in the corridor—nurses and orderlies rushed past in a frenzy, faces pale, wands drawn.
"Elio," she whispered, dread twisting in her gut.
Without hesitation, she plunged into the corridor.
"Move!" she shouted, shoving her way through the cluster of staff. "Out of the way, all of you!"
She reached the end of the hall just as a group of personnel had formed a half-circle around one of the rooms—wands aimed and hands trembling. Her gaze followed theirs.
There, calmly standing beside Elio's bed, was a man. He raised his gloved hands, unarmed and seemingly unconcerned. Slowly, he turned.
And smiled.
"Adani," he greeted. "What a pleasant surprise. It's been quite some time, hasn't it?"
Her steps faltered. Her eyes widened in shock.
"…Professor Hohenheim."