At the sound of his name, the atmosphere shifted. The tension in the room eased as recognition rippled through the staff. Murmurs rose in quiet waves—surprise, awe, confusion. Even the most junior among them knew the weight the name Van Hohenheim carried.
But Adani remained unimpressed.
"Lower your wands," she ordered, folding her arms tightly as she stared the man down. "He's faculty. And the rest of you—back to your duties. I'll handle this."
The staff obeyed without question, wands falling as they exchanged glances and began to disperse. In moments, only Adani and Hohenheim remained.
"I've told you once, Ludwig—like I've told you a thousand times," she said, stepping closer, each word clipped and sharp. "The Hospital Wing is my domain. You don't march in here and take liberties with my patients, I don't care how many myths and miracles are told in your name across Avalon."
Hohenheim adjusted his glasses, the faintest smirk on his lips. "You're right, Sadira. I overstepped, and I apologize." He gestured toward Elio's bed. "But from what I heard, the boy didn't have the luxury of time. And between forgiveness and permission, well…" He shrugged. "You've always been more open to the former."
Her glare didn't waver—but it faltered when her gaze fell to the bed.
Elio lay still beneath the covers. No tubes, no wires. No bruises, no missing arm. Not a mark on him. His breathing was steady. His skin—healthy. His expression peaceful.
As if none of it had ever happened.
Adani's breath hitched. She moved forward, stethoscope in hand, and placed it gently to his chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat rang in her ears—strong, even. She lowered the instrument and turned to face Hohenheim again, a mix of awe and disbelief behind her tired eyes.
"I've seen your work before," she said. "Too many times to count. And still… it doesn't sit right with me."
Hohenheim gave a tired smile. "We've had that debate more times than I can remember." He picked up his suitcase. "But for now, let him sleep. His body will mend. His mind, however—that's another matter. We both know some wounds take more than healing spells to close."
Adani looked back at the boy. "He'll wake up to a world without his parents. No spell in this realm can ease that."
"No," Hohenheim agreed. "But perhaps a dreamless sleep will offer him a few hours' peace before the grief returns."
A pause passed between them. Then, her tone sharpened.
"That aside, where have you been? You were supposed to be back a month ago."
He rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. "Ah. Yes, about that. I did return on time, technically. Got as far as Camelot, looking for a ship. But with Caerleon in lockdown, no airships, no trains… I decided to walk."
Adani stared at him. "You... walked. From Camelot. It's a day's trip by airship alone."
"I'm well aware." He gave a helpless shrug. "Then again, would you believe me if I told that isn't the farthest I've travelled on foot. Besides, I did enjoy the scenery. Gave me plenty of time to think."
She rolled her eyes.
He turned for the door but paused at the threshold. "I'll speak with Headmaster Blaise before I settle in," he said, then glanced back over his shoulder. "Perhaps later, you can tell me what in the name of the Gods happened to this city."
"Come to my office in an hour." Adani folded her arms. "I'll make chai."
He smiled, gave a slight nod, and stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Adani's gaze returned to the boy asleep in the bed. He was safe—for now. But even miracles couldn't shield a child from the world he'd wake up to.
And that, she knew, would be the hardest part.
****
The clock had struck one in the morning, and Castle Excalibur lay in stillness. The students had long since retired to their quarters, yet for many, sleep remained elusive. Though their bellies were full and their beds warm, comfort was a fleeting thing. The ignorant, or perhaps the hopeful, clung to the belief that things would settle. That the Tower would finally intervene. That Caerleon would be saved.
With summer fast approaching and the end of term drawing near, every student counted down the days until they could return home—to the safety of their families, to a world untouched by the chaos that had slowly crept into the stone corridors of their school. Some had already spoken of extended leaves. Others quietly wondered if they would return at all. No one would blame them if they didn't.
They had come to Excalibur for their studies, for discovery and discipline. Not to be thrust into the heart of a war they never asked for. A war they never started.
Patrols still roamed the halls—tired Prefects pacing in shifts under flickering torchlight, their eyes bleary but vigilant. The grounds outside remained guarded, not just by wards, but by Professors whose expertise had been tested far beyond the classroom. The remaining Norsefire forces knew better than to approach.
Between Serfence's precise wandwork and Ryan's unflinching marksmanship, the message had been made clear: Excalibur was not undefended. And now, disavowed by the Tower, Norsefire's presence was little more than scattered remnants in the city. In the depths of the castle, a quiet creak broke the silence as the pantry door eased open, its ancient hinges groaning in protest.
Ryan winced. He froze in the doorway, eyes scanning the gloom with the urgency of a man expecting divine retribution. Any moment now, he half-expected Chef Gusteau to come flying out of the shadows—bellowing furious French and brandishing a cast iron skillet like a warhammer.
But there was only silence.
Ryan exhaled, grinning as he wiped his brow. He crept into the pantry like a man on a heist, shoulders hunched, each exaggerated movement comically deliberate—tiptoeing past sacks of flour and rows of preserves like a thief in a temple.
Victory, after all, came in many forms. And sometimes, it looked a lot like midnight snacks.
The crystal sconces overhead cast the pantry in a soft amber glow. Rows of metal trays were lined up across the counters, each one crowded with half-finished desserts—eclairs, donuts, cakes, and other sugary masterpieces abandoned to their fate. By morning, they'd be dumped into the incinerator without a second thought. A damn shame, really.
If there was one thing Ryan couldn't stand, it was seeing good food go to waste.
With the grace of a seasoned burglar, he slid across the tiled floor, boots barely making a sound. His fingers twitched with anticipation as he licked his lips, eyes scanning the decadent display like a kid at a carnival. He grabbed a saucer and a metal fork with a triumphant grin.
"Oh, for me? Don't mind if I do," he muttered, practically purring as he eyed a particularly sinful slice of chocolate torte.
But then—he froze.
There was someone else in the pantry. A presence he hadn't noticed. One he should've caught the second he stepped through the door. He scowled to himself—retirement had dulled him more than he liked to admit.
His gaze snapped to the right.
There, tucked into the corner, slumped against the wall with knees pulled tight to their chest and face buried between them, was someone curled up in silence. The sight jolted him, and it took every ounce of self-control not to yelp like a startled child and alert the entire kitchen staff—or worse, the night guard in the slave quarters.
He blinked, lowered the plate, and stared.
"Well… that's not something you see every midnight snack run," he muttered.
As he stepped closer, the figure in the corner came into clearer view—and recognition hit him like a punch to the gut.
"Hey… I know you," Ryan said, squinting as he tapped his chin. "Hera? No—Hubba?" He snapped his fingers. "Helga. That's it. Helga."
But she didn't move. Didn't lift her head. Her face stayed buried between her knees, her body folded in on itself like she was trying to disappear.
Ryan's grin faded, replaced by a quiet unease that twisted in his chest. He knew Helga. Hell, everyone knew Helga. The kid had enough energy to power the whole damned castle. A walking sugar rush, always bouncing off the walls with a grin, cracking jokes, spreading sunshine like it was her job. Seeing her like this. Quiet, still, completely hollow—it didn't just unsettle him. It scared him.
He let out a sigh, glanced around, then lowered himself down beside her.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked gently, already settling onto the cold floor.
She didn't answer. Didn't even flinch. The silence wrapped around them, thick and heavy. Ryan just sat there beside her, eyes on the desserts cooling in the distance.
Ryan drew a breath, his eyes still on her. "I heard," he said softly. "About what happened. Pablo. Edda. Elio." He hesitated, his jaw tightening. "About Norsefire… and what those bastards did." His words dipped lower, more strained. "And about what you did to them."
He caught it—a flicker of movement, the faintest shiver in her shoulders.
"I've got a feeling I know what's running through your head right now," he continued. "We all grow up thinking there's a right way to be. A code to follow. We latch on to ideas like honor, mercy, justice… because they help us make sense of a world that doesn't give a damn about any of those things." He turned his gaze to her. "But life has this messed-up way of putting a knife to your throat and asking how much you're willing to bleed before you give up who you are."
Still, Helga didn't speak.
Ryan looked ahead. "Most people go their whole lives never knowing what it feels like to take a life. Never crossing that line. And good for them. They'll never know what it does to you." He exhaled. "I still remember my first. I told myself it was justice—that I was doing it for someone else. For the people we lost. That I was standing up for something bigger than me."
His hand twitched slightly as he stared at the floor.
"But the truth is… I did it for me," Ryan said quietly. "Because I was angry. Because I wanted something to bleed for what I'd lost." He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "Funny thing is, a lot of us in The Watch were like that. Young, pissed off, and looking for something to hit back at."
He leaned back against the wall, eyes distant. "We were mad at the world for making us squibs. Mad at the monsters who used magic like a weapon, tearing people apart for nothing more than shits and giggles. Mad at the ones who were supposed to protect us and didn't—when it was literally their one damn job."
A scoff escaped him. "And me? I was just a kid, burning with rage and thinking if I could hurt the world bad enough, it'd stop hurting me." He let that sit for a moment before he added, quieter, "It didn't."
"Maybe that's why I see so much of myself in that kid, Godric," Ryan said. "Watching him tear through those students in the Congregation… the way he lashed out, the look in his eyes. It was like looking in a mirror. No, worse than that… it was a glimpse of what I was, and what I could've been."
He turned to her again, eyes softer now. "You're not a monster, Helga. You're human. And right now, that hurts like hell."
"I killed them," Helga said at last, her voice hoarse, frayed at the edges. "I broke them. Tore them apart. They cried, screamed, begged… and I didn't stop."
She lifted her head. The shadows under her amber eyes were heavy, the dried tracks of old tears etched into her cheeks. Her auburn hair hung in tangled knots, unwashed, unbrushed—like sleep had long forgotten her.
"Every time I hit them, I saw it… I saw them. Edda. Pablo. Their smiles. The way they laughed. The way they cared. They didn't deserve to die like that." Her teeth clenched, jaw tight. "And when I saw her—Astrea—standing there, grinning, proud of what she'd done... I snapped."
Her hands dug into her knees as her whole frame shook. "I didn't stop because I didn't want to. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted her to suffer. I wanted her to pay—for Pablo, for Edda, for Elio, and everyone else she destroyed."
"And I don't even hate myself for doing it." She swallowed hard. "I hate myself because, for a moment… I enjoyed it. The rage. The power. The way she screamed." Her eyes closed. "If that doesn't make me a monster, I don't know what does."
She sniffled. "Since I was little, that's what they called me. The beast. The abomination. The freak. The half-blooded jötnar girl who couldn't help but hurt everyone she cared about. Break everything she touched."
Fresh tears welled and spilled freely down her cheeks. "Everyone I've known, every friend I ever made… they all left. Sooner or later, they always leave." Her shoulders shook. "Because they were afraid of me. Because when they looked at me, they didn't see a person. They saw what I am."
She curled into herself, choking back a sob. "And maybe it's time I stopped pretending to be anything else."
Ryan chuckled quietly. "Ah, kids and their nicknames. Real little shits, huh?"
His gaze was distant. "Let me tell you a story. I was an orphan. Dark wizards murdered my parents when I was three. They dumped me in this godawful orphanage in Brooklyn."
Helga glanced up at him.
"A district back in the States," he clarified. "And yeah, I'm a pasquil—born to magic parents, but no spark of my own. A freak, they said. Didn't belong in either world. I got lucky in a way. My folks were more grounded in the mundane world, so living among normies wasn't a stretch for me. But others... not so much."
He paused. "That place wasn't an orphanage—it was Hell. Stronger kids ruled the halls, and the weak? We were just target practice. You got beat up, robbed, humiliated. The caretakers? Didn't give a damn. They were just there to cash checks."
Ryan's jaw tightened. "I got the worst of it. They knew what I was. A dud. A broken thing. A mistake." He gave a bitter smile. "But when I turned five, I'd had enough. They called me a monster... so I gave them one."
He laughed once, grim and tired. "Started hitting back. Hard. Broke noses. Knocked out teeth. Sent five of 'em to the hospital in one week. After that? Even the rabid ones learned not to poke the dog when he's cornered."
"I'm not gonna stand here and pretend that everything I did—every bone I broke, every line I crossed, every time I kept swinging long after someone was already out cold in a pool of their own blood—was for some noble cause," Ryan said. "Wasn't about protecting anyone at first. It was for me. Like I said, the world hurt me, and I wanted to hurt it right back."
He exhaled. "But then something changed. I was ten. This new kid shows up—swaggering in like he owned the place. Thought he was the new top dog in the yard. We fought, a few times. He lost, every damned time, but he never quit. Stubborn, stupid bastard."
Ryan's gaze darkened, his jaw tightening.
"Then one day, he went too far. He and his buddies grabbed a girl. One I'd been watching out for—sweet, quiet kid. Didn't deserve any of it. They thought they'd use her to get to me. Get the upper hand."
He scoffed. "They lured me to the roof. Thought they had me boxed in. But I brought hell down on them. Just my fists, just rage. Walls stained with blood by the end of it. And when I got to him—the ringleader—I beat him half to death. Then I threw him off the roof."
Helga's amber eyes widened at the admssion.
Ryan gave a bitter smile. "Three stories. Right into a dumpster. Kid lived, somehow. Spent a month sucking soup through a straw." He gave a small shake of the head. "What happened to him after, or his buddies, or even the girl… I never really found out. I got pulled into The Watch not long after that."
He turned toward Helga. "But before I left, she caught me at the door. Hugged me like I was the last good thing in the world. Kissed my cheek and said two words I never thought I'd hear in that place—thank you."
There was warmth in his eyes now, muted and distant. "That moment stuck with me. For all the rage, for all the fists and broken bones… that was the moment I understood who I was. What I was meant to do. Yeah, maybe rage got me moving. Maybe revenge lit the fire. But that girl? She gave it direction."
Helga watched him in silence. Her gaze locked to his.
"I've done things, Helga," Ryan said. "Awful things. Some I regret. Plenty I don't. And yeah, it stays with you. The screaming. The crying. The faces—they come back when you least expect it. Right when you're about to fall asleep, that's when they're clearest."
He took a breath. "But you want to know what you do with that pain? You grab it. You hold it. You keep it close and you let it remind you why you fight. So, no one else has to feel it."
"Because for every bastard I've put in the dirt—every sadist, every murderer, every piece of shit in a man's skin, there's someone out there who saw me and breathed a little easier. Someone who got to live because I didn't hesitate." He smiled, faint but real. "And for Elio… for Pablo and Edda… for everyone Astrea and Norsefire ever hurt—you were that someone. You were the wall that held. The sheepdog staring down the wolf."
His voice dropped to a quiet murmur, meant just for her. "And maybe you didn't ask to be one. But you were their hero, Helga. Whether you believe it or not."
A silence settled between them for a moment, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then Ryan stood, brushing the dust from his slacks with a slow, casual sweep.
"A man once told me, the world's a mean, unforgiving place. Doesn't matter if you're jötnar or mundane, it'll knock you flat and keep you there if you let it." He looked down at her. "Nobody hits harder than life. But it ain't about how hard you hit—it's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. How much you can take and still keep pushing."
Helga lifted her gaze.
"And right now, you've got a choice, Helga Hufflepuff." Ryan turned to face her fully. "You can stay there on that cold, sticky floor, feeling sorry for yourself… or you can get up. Show the world it doesn't get to break you. That no matter how bad it gets, you don't fold, and you sure as hell don't run."
He smiled faintly, a flash of teeth beneath tired eyes. "Because if I'm not mistaken… that's what badgers do, isn't it?"
Her amber eyes widened, the weight of his words sinking in.
Ryan made his way to the door, snagging a donut off a tray as he passed. He took a bite, chewing as he paused in the doorway. "Whatever you choose, I've got faith in you. This city needs people like you, kid. And so do your friends." He raised the half-eaten donut in a lazy salute. "But hey, what do I know? I'm just an old sheepdog."
With that, he slipped out of the pantry, leaving her alone with the silence, the flicker of light, and the first stirrings of something she hadn't felt in days—resolve.
****
The precinct buzzed with tension. What remained of the Tower's presence in Caerleon was running on frayed nerves and fading time. Guards, Guardians, and Aurors rushed through narrow halls. The clatter of boots echoed against stone floors littered with parchment, scuffed armor, and discarded gear. Some worked feverishly—stocktaking, sharpening weapons, fastening bracers—while others barked orders or scribbled updates by flickering lamplight.
Inside the war room, the center of it all, Langston, Frank, and Bastion stood over a wide table bearing a detailed map of Caerleon. Around them, commanders and officers formed a tense circle, murmurs spreading like wildfire.
Langston's eyes scanned the glowing projection from his orb. The words etched across the screen turned his face grim. He dismissed it with a breath and a flick of his wrist. "You called it, Frank. Scouts just reported troop movements a few miles out. Burgess is marching, and he's bringing the wrath of the Gods with him."
Frank folded his arms. "How many?"
Langston hesitated. "Couple hundred—maybe close to a thousand. And that's not counting the warcasters… artillery."
The room stirred. Panic bloomed in the silence that followed, rippling through the gathered officers.
Bastion stepped forward, jaw tight. "How the hell does Burgess have that kind of loyalty? The man's been exposed for orchestrating mass murder and treason, and there's still a damn army behind him?"
Langston didn't blink. "Loyalty like that isn't built overnight. He's been planting seeds for years—maybe decades. Hell, some of those men would probably die for him without knowing half the things he's done."
Frank grunted. "Wouldn't surprise me if most of them had their hands dirty in the Camelot Insurrection. Could be fear. Could be devotion. Either way, he's got enough bodies to level this city to ash."
Bastion turned toward Langston. "What's the ETA on Tower reinforcements?"
Langston's expression darkened. "Best case? End of tomorrow. Logistics are a mess. Mobilization's slower than it should be."
Frank's brow furrowed. "By then, Burgess'll be knee-deep in Caerleon's blood. And if I know the bastard, he's not aiming for the streets."
He jabbed a finger at the map—specifically at Castle Excalibur.
"That's his prize. The stronghold. The symbol. And the students?" Frank glanced around the table. "They're his leverage."
Bastion's tone dipped into skepticism. "How can you be sure that's his play?"
Langston and Frank exchanged a look. It was brief, but telling.
"Because," Langston said, "it's exactly what we'd do."
"Take the most defensible position in the city," Frank continued, "and turn its occupants into bargaining chips. It's a smart move—hell, it's a brutal one—but it works."
Bastion folded his arms and arched a brow. "That's twisted. Even for you two."
Frank gave a wry smile. "Tactics 101, kid. And don't forget—your grandpa wrote the book on it."
Bastion scoffed. "I'd say I'm surprised. But I'm not."
"Bottom line is," Langston said, sweeping his gaze across every face in the room, "we're outnumbered and outmatched. Even if we pulled every last Tower agent in Caerleon, we still wouldn't have a fraction of the forces Burgess is bringing."
A silence followed. Then Bastion spoke, lifting his head with quiet resolve. "Which is why we need them. The Congregation."
Langston and Frank both snapped their attention toward him. The air shifted.
"Hold up, kid." Frank raised a hand, as if to stop the thought mid-air. "Forming a militia's bad enough—but dragging students into this? That's not bold, that's borderline psychotic."
"You saw what they did, Frank," Bastion shot back. "Some of them were going toe-to-toe with warcasters. They weren't just surviving—they were winning. Cutting through Norsefire squads like bloody lawn trimmers. Half of them could put Tower personnel to shame. If they fight with us, we might actually stand a chance."
Frank scoffed but looked to Langston, expecting backup. Instead, the former soldier gave a nod.
"I hate to say it," Langston said, "but the kid's right. I've fought too many battles to ignore what I saw out there. Those students aren't just talented—they're battle-tested now. And this isn't about rules or rank anymore. It's about staying alive."
Frank's brow furrowed, his hand moving to pinch the bridge of his nose. He drew in a long breath. "By the Gods… I can't believe I'm entertaining this."
He dropped his hand, eyes grim. "Alright. If we're going down this road, we need the man at the top to sign off."
Langston nodded.
Bastion straightened.
Frank looked between them. "We need to speak to Blaise Windsor."
****
The emerald projection flickered once before vanishing, leaving the room cloaked in silence. Headmaster Blaise sat unmoving behind his desk, his fingers steepled, elbows resting heavily on the polished wood. The conversation with Langston and Frank had offered no solace—only confirmed the quiet dread coiling tighter within his chest.
His sapphire eyes rose to meet those gathered before him. The Professors stood in a semicircle, each wearing the same haunted look, their faces drawn and weary. In the corner, the six Visionaries lingered in the shadows. Genji, Artoria, and Arthur stood rigid, lips pressed thin, jaws set with quiet fury. Even they—war-forged and far-sighted—had not anticipated the scale of Burgess's madness, nor the ruin now marching toward their gates.
Blaise drew a slow breath, then spoke, measured but low.
"My fellow Professors. My dear students. It is with great sorrow that I must tell you this: we now stand on the edge of catastrophe."
He straightened slightly, though the weight on his shoulders was evident. "The institution we once believed would shield us, the man we trusted to uphold it—has revealed himself not as a guardian, but a butcher. A villain whose crimes are unspeakable. And now, in his desperation, he has turned his fury upon Caerleon. Upon Excalibur."
A hush fell over the chamber.
Professor Serfence's jaw tightened visibly. Workner's arms folded across his chest, his mouth a grim line. Eridan, Lotho and Lagduf shared a glance, three of them troubled. Rasputin remained unreadable, his cold eyes unmoved. Professor Kyar folded her arms, though her tiger tail swished behind her in agitation. Agatha Duchannes said nothing, her presence quiet but alert.
And in the back, leaning against the wall with casual indifference, stood Professor Ryan, a strip of jerky in one hand as he chewed slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor. If the coming storm unnerved him, he didn't show it—though Blaise knew better. Beneath that calm was a powder keg.
Blaise's fingers unclasped. "Lamar Burgess is coming for us. And I daresay… he means to finish what he started."
"Then I say—let him come," Professor Lagduf stepped forward, all traces of his usual cheerfulness gone. The towering orc's scowl cut deep, and his tusks caught the light like ivory blades. "I will stand between my students and the enemy, even if it means laying down my life."
"A noble sentiment," Serfence replied coolly. "But now is not the time for grand declarations, Lagduf. This calls for strategy, not martyrdom."
Lagduf's glare was immediate. "Forgive me if I'm less inclined to play the tactician when our wards are the ones bleeding." He turned to the others. "For months, Rasputin and I have scraped and clawed to keep the Hospital Wing afloat—scrounging supplies, growing what we could, brewing what we must. My hands are cracked and raw. My garden nearly barren. And for what? Another Mandrake pulled from the soil, another student on the table with their insides outside their body."
He bared his teeth. "I've had enough. No more lectures. No more silence. If they mean to breach these gates, they'll find me waiting with my hammer—and their corpses will feed my soil."
A long pause followed.
From the back, Ryan raised an eyebrow, a piece of jerky still in hand. "Jesus," he muttered. "That's not just dark—that's 'write a manifesto and bury it in the woods' kinda dark."
"I understand your rage, Lagduf—truly, I do," Workner said, adjusting his glasses with a tired sigh. "But Serfence is right. We cannot afford to act on impulse. Not now. Not when every decision could cost lives. Our students need protectors, not lone avengers."
"And you know me," Kyar added, her tail flicking behind her as claws slid out like ink-dipped blades. "I'd love nothing more than to sink my teeth into Norsefire flesh and dance in their blood. But we don't get to indulge that instinct. Not when we're the ones these children look to for strength."
Lagduf opened his mouth, but Professor Agatha placed a hand gently on his arm. The tension in his jaw eased.
Then, all eyes turned to Blaise as he leaned forward, his fingers laced on the desk.
"You all make fair points. And you all know me well. I've spent decades playing the role of the wise, calm, measured headmaster. A steady hand for unsteady times. A face for the world to trust." He paused, his sapphire eyes sharp. "But I'll not lie to you now."
A chill swept through the room. The air grew heavy, ancient, as though the walls themselves remembered something old and terrible. Even Ryan, hardened by years of battle, went still as a bead of sweat traced his temple. The magic in the room crackled—primordial and barely restrained.
"I am furious," Blaise said at last, his words low and controlled, though it carried the force of a storm behind it. "Furious that the man I once called friend has traded reason for tyranny. Furious that the institution I spent my life building is now under siege. Furious that it is our children who must suffer for Lamar Burgess's sins."
Then, just as suddenly as it came, the magic vanished. The weight lifted.
"But this fight is no longer ours alone," Blaise continued, tone softer now, yet no less resolute. "By dawn, Burgess will descend upon Caerleon like a hammer. The Tower is stretched thin, and I fear they will not last against the force he commands."
He turned his gaze to the Visionaries in the corner. Shadows clung to their robes like smoke, and even they stood straighter as Blaise's eyes settled on them.
"Let me be absolutely clear," Blaise said. "I do not condone your existence. I do not endorse the authority you wield, the power you hoard, nor the shadowed dealings of the Table. And I most certainly do not sanction the hold you've maintained over The Congregation."
He let the silence settle, then exhaled quietly, eyes closing for a brief moment as if admitting something long buried.
"As Headmaster of Excalibur, I have spent years trying to erase that legacy. To dismantle The Congregation, piece by piece. To sever this academy from its darkest tradition. I wanted to believe that with time, discipline, and reason, I could excise it from our halls like a disease."
"It was never vengeance that compelled me," Blaise continued. "Nor bitterness. Not even resentment. I embarked on this path because I've seen what it does to men. Good men. Friends. Colleagues. Individuals I once held in high esteem."
He drew a breath, as though peering into memories he'd rather forget.
"I watched them unravel. Slowly, quietly. Seduced by coin, intoxicated by influence, and finally consumed by power. What began as tradition. Harmless, even noble in their eyes—twisted into something far more insidious. Something that dragged out the worst in each of them."
He paused. When he spoke again, it was quieter, personal.
"It is a darkness I know well. One I have carried. One that still lingers… no matter how far I believe I've distanced myself from it."
His eyes opened, their blue depths tired but resolute.
"But some traditions burrow too deep. Some roots sink into the stone itself. And no matter how fiercely one digs, there are things that cannot be unearthed in a single lifetime. Not even mine."
He paused, breath shallow, as if what came next wounded him deeper than any blade.
"But as a former Visionary… as a former Chair of the High Table… I ask—not as Blaise Windsor the Headmaster, but as Blaise Windsor the man. Lend us your strength. Lend Caerleon your might."
The silence that followed was deafening. Every professor turned toward him, wide-eyed. Agatha alone remained still, gaze unreadable. Ryan's jaw slackened as the piece of jerky slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.
"Headmaster Blaise… was a Chair of the High Table?" Workner asked, tight with disbelief.
"By the Gods, you were one of them." Serfence's gaze snapped sharply to Agatha, his expression unreadable but tense. "... and you—you knew this?"
Agatha drew a breath, calm but firm. "It was not my secret to share, Serfence," she replied. "Just as yours is not for anyone else to speak of."
A hush lingered in the air before Professor Lotho spoke. He adjusted his glasses with careful precision, as if speaking a truth long buried. "There were rumours, of course. Whispers of a student long ago who once stood at the summit of the High Table." His gaze swept the room, then returned, settling with quiet weight.
"It was said that he and his Clan were unmatched. The most formidable force The Congregation had ever seen since its founding." He paused. "And then… they vanished. Not expelled. Not graduated. Not Excommunicado'ed. Just… gone. As though the very record of their existence had been scrubbed clean."
His eyes drifted toward Blaise, hesitation in their depths. "No one knew how. Or why."
"Whoa, pump the brakes, short stuff," Ryan cut in, raising both hands. "The old man ain't that old. I'm pretty sure if Windsor here ever had a seat at the Big Boy Table, someone would've remembered."
Blaise simply raised a hand, calm and composed. "I understand there are questions—plenty, I'm sure. And I promise, in time, you'll have your answers." His gaze shifted to the Visionaries. "But for now… what say you?"
The Visionaries had remained silent, unmoving, until Arthur finally stepped forward. A small, knowing smile touched his lips as he gave a practiced flourish and bowed deeply.
"One does not simply refuse a request from the exalted Blaise Windsor," he said. "And I believe I speak not only for the Visionaries…" He cast a look over his shoulder to the group behind him. Each nodded in silent agreement. "But for the Chairs as well. Your will be done, Headmaster."
Blaise met his eyes and inclined his head. "Then do what must be done."
Without another word, the Visionaries turned and exited the office, some already murmuring plans, others with their paths clearly chosen. The Congregation would be summoned. Every Clan called to arms. By morning, the streets of Caerleon would bear their standard—and the weight of their fury—against the tide that threatened to consume all.
Once the door closed, Blaise turned back to his Professors.
"I've spoken to Lucian," he said. "While the Tower begins evacuations to the bunkers beneath City Hall, our students will remain confined to their dormitories. Lucian and the Prefects will hold the line within, and the Visionaries will defend each House."
He took a breath, steadying himself.
"That leaves you—my colleagues. You know I chose each of you not merely for your academic merit, but for the measure of your character. You've come from varied paths… some darker than others. Lamar believes you to be mere scholars. We know better."
His gaze hardened.
"When the wolves breach our gates—and they will—you have my full authority to do whatever is necessary to keep our students safe. To keep Excalibur standing."
He paused.
"I know they're men. Flesh and blood. Sons. Fathers. Mothers. Daughters. Some may even be reluctant in their loyalty. And on any other day, I would urge discretion. Restraint. Mercy." His voice dropped lower. "But this is not that day. Those virtues were abandoned the moment Burgess set his eyes on this school."
He looked each of them in the eye.
"As I said before, do what needs to be done."
The Professors nodded in silent agreement. Ryan and Kyar exchanged matching smirks—tired, but ready. The room settled into a brief moment of tense quiet… until the door behind them creaked open. It burst inward, and a man stumbled through.
All eyes snapped toward him in unison, surprise flashing across every face.
Hohenheim blinked beneath the sudden attention. His long coat trailed behind him, dust clinging to the hem, and his hair slightly windblown, as if he had sprinted across half the castle to be there.
He straightened his posture, offered a sheepish grin, and adjusted his square-framed glasses.
"Good evening," he said casually, glancing around at the startled faces. "I… don't suppose I missed anything important?"