Salazar adjusted his grip, the weight of the twin spears familiar yet heavy in his hands. His emerald eyes locked onto Hartshorne, measuring the man beneath the fractured light that streamed through the shattered stained glass above. The air reeked of scorched flesh, burnt hair, and the iron tang of blood. Each step crunched against the splinters and sawdust that coated the marble floor, remnants of pews reduced to rubble.
Hartshorne's blade caught the light. Narrower and shorter than Godric's broadsword, but there was a certain precision to its form. The hilt was modest in length, made for single-handed combat, and the guard bore the faint impression of an Eastern design—ornamental, yet not impractical. Worn, but cared for. It wasn't just a weapon of a soldier. It was a weapon of a killer.
Salazar could feel it. Despite his confidence, despite his skill, something deep within warned him that George Hartshorne was no mere relic. This wasn't Erich, the pompous degenerate who postured more than he fought. No, this man was poised. Controlled. Focused. His stance was compact. His eyes unblinking. His breathing calm.
And Salazar felt the first trace of sweat trail down his temple.
Without warning, he struck.
He launched forward in a blur, twin blades slicing the air with deadly intent, his manic grin bared like a predator's. But Hartshorne didn't hessitate. The Sheriff moved like water around a stone. Blade flashing, wrist twisting—parrying each strike with seamless precision. Steel clanged, sparked. Salazar spun the spear in wide arcs, the green sash trailing like a shadow, but every angle was accounted for.
Then Hartshorne stepped in.
His blade flipped in his grip, striking Salazar in the gut with the hilt before cracking across his jaw. The boy stumbled back, breath stolen, a wheeze caught in his chest. Another sharp kick landed squarely in his ribs, sending him reeling.
Salazar dropped to one knee, clutching his stomach, choking down the air that burned in his lungs.
Hartshorne tilted his head, twirling the sword idly between his fingers.
"Slytherin… you disappoint me," he drawled. "All that fire, all that fury—and not a single drop of my blood spilled. And I've not had a proper duel in years."
Bastion, watching from the sidelines, felt his knuckles whiten around the grip of the short sword at his side. He had underestimated the Sheriff. For a man supposedly long past his prime, Hartshorne moved with a precision and speed that most younger soldiers would envy.
And Salazar had just learned that the hard way.
Salazar rose to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. A strained grin tugged at his lips.
"Patience, my dear Sheriff," he rasped. "I'm only just getting started."
With a sharp snap, he locked the twin spears together and lunged, his body a blur of motion. The blade shot forward, aimed for Hartshorne's head, but the old man shifted aside with effortless grace. The tip slicing a few strands of grey from his temple.
Then came the counter.
Hartshorne's sword lashed out. Salazar deflected, barely, the spear twisting to meet it, but the momentum carried them both into a whirlwind of steel. Salazar pressed forward, spear carving the air in wide, desperate arcs. Each strike faster than the last. But none broke through.
The clang of metal rang through the shattered chapel, echoing off scorched stone and broken pews. Hartshorne's blade shimmered with afterimages, his movements so swift they blurred with the light. And with every block, he struck in turn—quick, precise slashes that opened lines across Salazar's torso, slicing through fabric and biting into flesh beneath.
Salazar stumbled, breath ragged, chest heaving. He came in again, spear whirling low—but Hartshorne was already inside his guard.
A brutal knee slammed into Salazar's chest, driving the air from his lungs. Before he could recover, the Sheriff spun and cracked a boot across his jaw. Salazar flew backward, smashing into the base of the altar. Stone cracked on impact, webbing like shattered glass beneath his weight. Blood spilled from his mouth as he crumpled, slumped against the cold marble.
Across the hall, Bastion flinched. The snakes hissed, writhing in agitation. Still, Salazar didn't move.
Hartshorne stepped forward, blade flicking in his hand with casual menace.
"You can't win, boy," Hartshorne said coolly, his blade gleaming at his side. "Long before the Tower, back in my days with the Congregation, they called me Flashing Blade Hartshorne."
He drew a breath, the ghost of a smirk on his face. "I never ruled from the Table. Never wore the cloak of a Visionary. But I was feared. Respected. That reputation followed me well beyond the halls of Excalibur—earned, not given."
His gaze dropped to Salazar, and the smirk twisted into a sneer.
"You, on the other hand… you're no warrior. Just a boy with a stick and a death wish."
He pointed with his sword.
"The way you wield that spear? Amateurish. Flash and noise. It may have carried you through the runts and the rabble… but against someone like me?"
He shook his head.
"You don't stand a chance."
But Salazar chuckled, breath ragged, chest rising and falling as he lifted his head. His eyes gleamed—wild, unhinged, with a grin carved across his bloodied face.
"Oh, I'm well aware," he said. "I've spent far too long among the idealists... allowed myself the fantasy that I could be like them." He staggered upright, swaying slightly as his spears floated from his hands, rising into the air and hovering at either side of him.
From within the folds of his robes, he drew his wand. Sleek, black, and glinting beneath the fractured sunlight that spilled through the ruined glass above.
"So, I suppose I owe you thanks," he went on, lifting his gaze to meet Hartshorne's. The Sheriff's smirk faltered.
Salazar's eyes were no longer green, but a deep, molten amber. His pupils narrow and slitted like a serpent's. "For reminding me who I truly am."
His voice dropped to a whisper, steady and cold.
"I am Salazar Slytherin. The Serpent of Ferrum..." He took a single step forward, wand raised slightly.
"...and the Herald of Darkness."
****
"Adorable," Hartshorne scoffed. "All the grand little titles in the world won't change the fact that you'll die here. Forgotten, meaningless, buried like all the other filth before you."
He lunged.
Blade spinning, Hartshorne brought it down with force—but Salazar's twin spears crossed in front of him with a metallic clang, halting the strike. The Sheriff's eyes widened in surprise.
Salazar's wand snapped forward, its tip aglow with a pulsing red light. A hum filled the air. "Let's take it from the top, shall we?"
Hartshorne tilted his head just as a searing beam of crimson magic blasted past, grazing his ear and blowing a hole clean through the stone wall behind him. He cursed, batted the spears away, and sprang back before rushing in again.
The spears circled Salazar like sentinels, parrying the flashing arcs of Hartshorne's blade. Sparks flew with each clash of steel, while Salazar's wand moved with practiced precision, hurling spell after spell like a duelist with a rapier.
"Protego!" he shouted, a shimmering sphere of light forming around him just as the Sheriff's sword collided with it. With a flick of his wand, Salazar pulsed the shield outward like a shockwave. "Depulso!"
The concussive blast struck Hartshorne square in the chest, staggering him. He coughed harshly, steadying himself, breath sharp.
"My, my, Sheriff… I suppose disappointment now runs both ways," Salazar called out. "As expected of a man who's spent his years bathing his blade in the blood of the helpless. Cowardice dulls more than just the edge. It rots the steel from within." He smirked. "How else could a mere boy with a stick be giving you such a dreadful time?"
Hartshorne's jaw tightened. Fury twisted his face as he rushed forward once more. His blade blurred. Slash after slash deflected by the swirling spears. Then, in a sudden shift, he drew his wand and swept it along his sword in one fluid motion.
"Incantatio… Fulgur!"
A surge of blue light burst across the blade, arcs of lightning dancing along the steel like living veins. With a roar, he thrust it forward.
Salazar raised a shield, but too late. The electrified blade tore through it, cutting into his shoulder. He gasped, pain blooming through muscle and bone.
Still, his wand remained steady. "Depulso!"
The blast erupted point-blank, throwing both men backwards. Salazar tumbled across the stone, landing in a crouch, clutching his bleeding shoulder. Hartshorne hit the ground with a grunt, rolling before rising slowly to his feet.
Both stood locked in a silent stare. Blood dripped. Chests heaved. Their gazes, narrowed, burning—spoke of nothing but resolve.
****
Bastion clenched his jaw, fingers drumming impatiently against his arm as he wrestled the urge to draw steel and charge in. Every blow traded between Salazar and the Sheriff was another test of restraint. But deep down, he knew, this wasn't his fight. Not yet. If, by some unholy twist, the old bastard actually managed to kill Salazar, Bastion had every intention of cutting the Sheriff's head clean off and turning his skull into a paperweight.
Hell, nothing was stopping him. Well—almost nothing.
His gaze dropped to the floor, where a writhing sea of snakes curled and slithered between shattered pews and broken stone. They didn't scare him, not exactly, but he had no plans to find out how venomous they were either. Interfere, and they'd tear into him before he took a single step.
Then he froze. Something cold slithered up his leg.
"Hey—hey! Who the hell's touching me?" he barked, half-jumping.
He looked to the side just in time to see the white serpent coiling itself over his shoulder. It stared back at him, tongue flicking lazily. Bastion blinked.
"Oh, it's you," he muttered, staring into the serpent's beady black eyes. "Just so you know, this is wildly inappropriate."
The snake tilted its head.
Bastion sighed, rubbing his face with one hand. "Great. I'm standing in the middle of a war zone, talking to a snake. The guy running my next psych eval is goanna have a field day with this."
His attention drifted back to the duel. The sharp ring of steel, bursts of spellfire, and the rhythmic pulse of footwork echoed through the ruined sanctuary. Salazar's wand darted through the air, flinging hexes with brutal precision, while Hartshorne ducked and deflected like a man decades younger. The spears danced around Salazar, lashing and stabbing—but the Sheriff was relentless, matching speed with calculated aggression.
"I hate to admit it," Bastion muttered, "but the old man's got moves. Should've known you don't survive this long on brown-nosing and political bluster alone. Burgess doesn't keep dead weight."
The snake hissed, the sound almost curious.
Bastion nodded. "Looks like the kid's used to dueling spellcasters. Hartshorne's built for swordplay. They're both out of their element, and right in it. It's like watching a fencer fight a brawler—one misstep and it's over."
Another hiss, sharper this time.
"Yeah," Bastion said quietly. "Something's gotta give. One of them's gonna break."
His hand settled on the hilt of his short sword, gaze narrowing.
"I'm betting on the kid. I've seen what he's got in him. Fire, grit… maybe a little madness, but it's the right kind."
The snake hissed once more, almost in agreement, and gave a slow nod.
Bastion blinked. "Did you just nod?" The serpent blinked.
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Gods, Frank's never goanna believe me."
****
Hartshorne snarled as he staggered back, baring his teeth.
"Enough!" he growled.
He spun his sword and drove the tip into the marble with a sharp crack, leaving it upright as he began unfastening his coat. Salazar arched a brow as the old man shrugged it off.
"Oh, Sheriff," he said with a smirk. "At least buy me dinner first."
Hartshorne ignored him. He tossed the heavy coat aside, then tore off his tie and unfastened the bottom buttons of his shirt. Beneath the fabric came the sound of buckles being undone—metal against leather, something thick and mechanical being unstrapped.
Bastion's eyes widened. "Wait... are those—?"
Hartshorne pulled out a long, bar-wrapped object, still wrapped in dark tarp. As he tossed it to the ground, it hit the marble floor with a deafening thud, sending a wave of dust across the church. Then came another—he rolled up his slacks and pulled two more from around his calves, unstrapping them with practiced hands. When he dropped them, the floor shook again beneath their weight.
Salazar's smirk faltered. His gaze dropped to the indentations left in the stone, eyes narrowing as the realization set in.
The old sheriff exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he stepped forward. "Weights. Been wearing them every day for decades," he said, tinged with satisfaction. "To think that a mongrel like yourself would force me to go all out."
He reached for his sword and gave it a spin, the silver catching the fractured light filtering through the ruined glass above.
"But I'll admit," he continued, a grim smile tugging at his lips, "it's been a while since I've had cause to cut loose. So… thank you for that. Just a shame it'll be the last thing you're thanked for."
In a blink, Hartshorne vanished. The ground beneath where he stood cracked and shattered from the force of his movement. Salazar's eyes snapped wide as the sheriff reappeared before him, the sheer speed nearly invisible. His spears barely raised in time—metal clanged against metal with a force that echoed through the church.
Hartshorne's eyes glistened with a manic gleam as his blade came alive in his grip, slashing from every direction. Salazar twisted, spun, blocked, but he was losing ground with every passing breath. The blade moved like a whisper of death, a blur of gleaming silver and blue lightning.
That feeling crept up Salazar's spine. The same one he felt when watching Godric in the dueling ring, a man transformed by Vis Vitalis, more lightning than flesh. Hartshorne was nowhere near Godric's caliber. Not even close, but to Salazar, caught in the storm of slashes, he may as well have been.
Salazar flung himself back, wand flicking in desperate bursts.
"Expulso!Confringo!"
Spell after spell crackled across the space, but Hartshorne dodged with ruthless efficiency. His sword crackled, lightning dancing along its edge as he surged forward with a thunderous thrust.
Steel clashed again—spear and sword grinding as sparks flew. Salazar's wand snapped up, drawing the lightning coursing through the blade into his own body. Power surged down his arm, into his palm, crackling at the wand's tip.
"Tonitrus!" Salazar roared.
A bolt of pure lightning burst forward. Hartshorne twisted, but not fast enough. The magic caught his cheek, searing a black streak across his face. He growled, staggered—but retaliated in the same breath. His blade hooked round the spear's shaft and cut deep across Salazar's chest.
Both men paused, breathless.
Hartshorne wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.
"Familiar, isn't it?" he rasped, sweat running down his face. "In my prime, I'd say I might've been a match for the Lion of Ignis. But time makes weaklings of us all."
Salazar hissed through clenched teeth, one hand clutching the wound at his chest, blood soaking through his jacket.
"Your arrogance truly knows no limits," he spat. "Godric would've carved you into dog-sized treats before you so much as reached for your blade."
Hartshorne's lips curled into a humorless smile.
"Perhaps," he said quietly. "But I'm not fighting Godric Gryffindor… am I?"
Salazar straightened, his spears hovering at his sides, the tips faintly pulsing with restrained magic.
"Before we continue," he said coldly, "I've but one question."
Hartshorne arched an eyebrow.
"Back at the Stelios," Salazar went on, his gaze narrowing, "when Valerian came for you, he spoke as though you had a hand in what happened to the Se'Lais. Not only that you orchestrated it, but that you were there." His amber eyes gleamed, slitted like a serpent's. "Now that your role in Burgess' scheme is no longer rumor but fact—I want the truth. What happened that night?"
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Hartshorne chuckled.
"A sentimental streak, Slytherin? How very unbecoming." He exhaled slowly, as though weighing how much to share. "Alright," he said at last, a grin creeping across his weathered face, "I'll indulge you."
Salazar's posture stiffened.
"Yes, I was there," Hartshorne confirmed. "Along with Burgess' loyal few. Clegane. Kaltz. Hoffman. Stevens. And that foul little pelt-shagger, Callahan."
Across the way, Bastion's expression shifted—surprise, then revulsion.
Salazar's jaw tightened.
"I didn't partake in the… festivities," Hartshorne said with a mockingly noble gesture. "Even I refuse to sink low enough to indulge in the lechery of savages." His smirk darkened. "But I did bleed Keenah. Took him apart slowly. One piece at a time. While the others had their fill of his wife." He paused. "And his daughter."
The words landed like stone.
Salazar didn't move, but the light in his eyes dimmed, then sharpened into something far deadlier.
"But the stubborn bastard wouldn't talk. Even after I'd stuffed what was left of him into a bucket, he wouldn't give us what we wanted." Hartshorne shook his head in mock pity. "So, I ended him. Made it painful, of course. As for the girl. Well, scar or no scar, she had a figure worth fighting over." He smiled thinly. "And while it happened, we held Valerian down. Made him watch. Made him listen. Every scream. Every beg for mercy. Right until the moment they strangled the life out of her."
A silence swept the ruined church like a black tide.
Bastion's hand flew to the hilt of his greatsword, jaw clenched, fury etched into every line of his face—but the white serpent coiled on his shoulder hissed sharply. His eyes snapped to it. The serpent met his gaze and gave a single, slow nod.
His fingers loosened. He stepped back.
Hartshorne glanced at him with amused indifference, then turned back to Salazar.
"It wasn't hard to pin the blame on the boy. He already had a reputation. Just needed a little… encouragement." He shrugged. "Though, in hindsight, I should have killed him when I had the chance."
A thick, unnerving silence settled over the ruined church, until it broke with a sound that chilled the marrow.
A chuckle.
Soft at first. Then louder. Louder still, rising into full, unrestrained laughter. Salazar threw back his head, his chest heaving with each breathless bark of madness. One hand moved to his face. Fingers splayed across his cheek as his head dipped. His serpent-like eye, gleaming amber, pulsed like a dying star, narrowing to a burning pinprick. A feral smile curled across his lips—too wide, too knowing.
Even Hartshorne faltered, his expression twitching at the edges. Bastion, several paces back, swallowed hard.
"Thank you for that, Sheriff," Salazar murmured, lowering his hand, his posture slouched and coiled, like something in wait. "Truly. It's rather unfair, don't you think? That you're the only one given the opportunity to cut loose."
Hartshorne's smirk pulled tight, uneasy. "What in blazes are you prattling on about, boy? Have you finally—"
He stopped.
The air changed.
A wave of unseen power rolled across the church, rippling like a shockwave through stone and bone. Hartshorne staggered, his instincts screaming though he couldn't say why. Bastion felt it too—a pressure in the air, thick and suffocating, winding tight around him like the cold coils of a serpent.
Salazar looked up. He straightened with purpose, lifting his wand before his face. The blackened wood began to shift, peeling away like scorched bark. Beneath it gleamed polished silver and stone-grey, carved in layered coils. The wand's surface glistened, textured like snake's skin, Celtic runes glowing with a deep amethyst light that pulsed in rhythm with his breath.
"Valerian was right about you," Salazar said. "You're no man. Just a wretched thing in a borrowed uniform. A demon in human skin, void of decency, mercy, or honor."
He stepped forward, eyes glinting.
"Tell me, did you truly believe your men captured me because they'd managed to get the drop on me?" Salazar tilted his head, almost amused. "Please. That wasn't chance, Sheriff. That was intent."
The smirk vanished.
"I could've torn through them. Could've levelled half the city just to drag you from your hole. But I didn't. I let them take me, because I knew the dogs would lead me straight to their master. And despite everything you've done, I came here intending to end you quickly. Cleanly."
His eyes gleamed with conviction. "I've changed my mind."
"For every soul you've tortured. Every voice you silenced. Every innocent left to rot because of your filth—I want you to remember them. One by one. And know," His spear and wand crackled at his sides, "that their names will be the last thing you'll think of… as you leave this world screaming."
****
Hartshorne's face twisted in rage, his grip tightening around the hilt of his blade until his knuckles whitened.
"Bold words, boy," he snarled, stepping into his stance, blade raised and gleaming. "Shame I won't get to hear them much longer, once I cut that silver tongue from your mouth and mount it on my wall."
In a blur, he surged forward, the marble cracking beneath his boots. But Salazar didn't move.
That's when Hartshorne saw it—too late.
A faint glow pulsed beneath his feet. He looked down and froze.
A circle of runes, unfamiliar and ancient, blazed to life in a radiant amethyst hue. His eyes flew wide in alarm just as a lance of dark energy tore upward from the circle, crackling with arcane lightning. Hartshorne twisted away, the beam narrowly missing him as it carved a hole through the vaulted ceiling with a deafening blast.
Another sigil unfurled beside him. Then another.
Beams erupted from each one in rapid succession, and Hartshorne was forced into a desperate scramble, stumbling and ducking as the church exploded around him in bursts of violet flame and shattered stone. One blast caught the floor at his side, flinging him through the air. He struck the ground hard, driving his sword into the marble to stop his slide.
Panting, scorched, and dazed, he lifted his gaze to Salazar—still standing, untouched, wreathed in silent fury.
"That magic…" Hartshorne muttered, his eyes wide. "That's not possible."
****
"Dax… Darbicans…" Bastion's mismatched eyes widened, sweat beading down his temple as the heat around him thickened.
The church was drowning in that unnatural light. An eerie lavender blaze that flickered across Salazar's face, illuminating the amber slits of his eyes. The white serpent on his shoulder hissed, tilting its head as though sensing something even it couldn't comprehend.
Bastion exhaled sharply. "Back in Wallace, they taught us the bare bones of old magic. Stuff most people thought were just stories. Ancient crap from the Calamity, a thousand years back, when magic didn't have rules." His tone dropped. "It was chaos. Wild. Unbound."
He gestured vaguely toward the glowing runes now crackling through the floor. "Sarkon—yeah, that Dark Lord—he hoarded every scrap of arcane knowledge. Gave it to only a handful of twisted followers."
His gaze fixed on Salazar. "Before spells had form, before the use of staffs or wands, there were sigils carved into stone, rituals scrawled in blood. Complicated. Messy. But gods, they were powerful."
He swallowed hard. "They say Sarkon's magic, the root of all Dark Arts, was the Original Sin. The Unforgivables? Just watered-down echoes of it. What he used... they called it Dax Darbicans."
A chill traced down his spine. Bastion gave a shaky laugh. "First Gryffindor pulling Vis Vitalis out of his ass... now Slytherin dragging up magic the Librarium swore was extinct. Hell." He shook his head. "Maybe I should've gone to Excalibur after all."
****
"How…" Hartshorne's voice broke as the word escaped him. "How?!" he roared, eyes wild.
Salazar's smirk widened, slow and cruel, as if feeding off the disbelief now carved deep across the old man's face.
"Dax Darbicans—that was the Dark Lord's magic!" Hartshorne barked. "From the Calamity! It shouldn't exist anymore! It was eradicated!"
"And yet," Salazar said with a soft shrug, "here we are."
Hartshorne stared in stunned silence as Salazar held his wand aloft, letting it catch the flickering lavender glow still burning around them.
"As for how and why…" he tilted his head, smirk deepening, "I'm afraid I don't kiss and tell. But I will say this—" his gaze narrowed, "—it was a gift. One of many."
He glanced fondly at the wand. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he said softly. "While others are content with shop-bought mediocrity, I forged this with my own hands. Snakewood shaft. And the core?" He looked Hartshorne dead in the eye. "Basilisk horn."
Hartshorne flinched, blood draining from his face.
"Quite the acquisition, I know," Salazar went on, twirling the wand effortlessly. "Impossible for most. But when you speak their tongue?" He let the implication hang. "It's really just a matter of conversation."
Rage twisted across Hartshorne's face. His blade snapped to his side. "No matter," he snarled. "You can dress yourself in old myths and dead men's magic—but it won't change the fact that you're outmatched."
He lunged forward, blade flashing. "I'm the Flashing Blade! I've cut down a hundred blades in my time, and a hundred more to come!"
Salazar's wand swept through the air. The twin spears, floating dormant until now, suddenly flew high, tips aimed at Hartshorne. His eyes narrowed, teeth bared.
"How about a thousand?" he roared.
A magical circle surged to life behind him, pulsing violet, ancient runes spinning in its orbit. The spears began to multiply, splitting and splitting again until dozens hovered above the ruined church like floating javelins, each spinning in place like drills.
Hartshorne's eyes widened.
"Now…" Salazar said quietly, "disappear."
The spears launched forward in a blur. Screaming as they tore through the air. The first slammed into the floor inches from Hartshorne's feet, erupting in a violent explosion that tore marble to pieces and flung splinters of pews like shrapnel.
Hartshorne moved fast, breath ragged, jaw clenched. He dodged left, ducked right, feet sliding across blood-slick marble. Planting himself, he snarled and spun his blade, a blur in his grip, every strike ringing out as it deflected the onslaught of spears. Sparks burst with each clash, steel screaming against steel, but he wasn't fast enough.
The ones he missed tore into him. Slashing his arms, his torso, his thighs. Red streaks painting the floor as blood flew with every impact.
Salazar's wand lashed through the air, each motion spawning more weapons. For every spear Hartshorne turned aside, two more took its place.
One struck the stone beside him, the explosion shaking the ground and knocking him off balance. Another landed behind him, its force blasting him forward. He hit the ground hard, gasping, pain ripping through his ribs as the breath was torn from his lungs.
He looked up, and froze.
A dozen glowing sigils hung above him, humming with deadly energy.
Hartshorne snapped his wand up. "Pro—"
The word died in his throat as a beam of searing energy erupted from the floor beneath him. It struck his wand mid-incantation, disintegrating half of it in a flash of heat and light. Ash rained from his hand as he staggered back, wide-eyed, staring at the charred stump where his focus had once been. Around him, the sigils pulsed brighter.
"No—" he choked out.
The beams fired.
The church erupted in a storm of violet flame and raw magic. A shockwave blasted through the chamber, sending chunks of stone and fire in all directions. Snakes scattered, rolling and hissing across the marble floor. Bastion raised an arm, shielding his face from the storm of debris as wind howled past him.
The glow began to fade.
From the heart of the smoke, Hartshorne's body came hurtling backwards. His coat in shreds, uniform scorched and clinging to his bloodied frame. His face was slick with crimson, his eyes barely open, consciousness flickering.
Then, like a wraith stepping from the smoke and flame, Salazar emerged. His emerald scarf whipped around him in the fading heat, his expression carved from stone. The black shaft of his spear extended, its twin ends now joined, forming a singular weapon.
Hartshorne forced himself upright with a groan, his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. He raised it just in time to meet Salazar's onslaught.
Steel clashed against steel with a scream of sparks. The spear spun with brutal grace, battering against Hartshorne's weakening defense. Salazar's eyes blazed, his cry tore from his throat as he drove the spear forward again and again, pushing the old man back with every blow.
A cry tore from their throats as steel met steel, locked in a violent bind. Sparks screamed from the clash, the weight of their strength pressing hard as they braced against each other.
Hartshorne snarled, breath ragged, eyes wide with disbelief. "Impossible… I'm being driven back—by a mongrel like you?"
"You were right, Sheriff," Salazar gritted, holding the spear firm. "I'm no warrior. Not even a soldier. Just a scholar, with a sharper tongue than blade." His words grew colder, more resolute. "But what I am... is a man who's watched this wretched world reward the wicked and punish the good more times than I can count. A man sick to death of degenerates like you—leeches who take and take and laugh while others suffer beneath their heels."
Sparks screamed between them as steel ground against steel. Salazar pressed forward, jaw tight, eyes locked. "I've looked away too many times. Thought only of myself. Dismissed those I deemed beneath my notice. And in my indifference, I let darkness fester in the corners of everything I hold dear." His voice hardened. "But no more."
With a sudden surge, he drove forward, forcing Hartshorne back a step. "I swore I'd make the Tower bleed. That I'd rip it apart, brick by brick, until its laws, its lies, and the filth hiding behind them crumbled into dust. And for that, for my friends, for Godric, my spears, my magic, my power... stand ready."
His gaze sharpened. "And I'm always one step ahead!"
Salazar twisted, forcing the spear down. The clang of steel rang out as Hartshorne's sword was knocked aside, the older man stumbling, eyes wide.
"D-damn you…" Hartshorne gasped, spinning his blade back into position as Salazar surged forward once more. The spear twirled like a cyclone, catching light in rapid arcs.
"Damn you!" Hartshorne roared, blocking one strike.
"Damn you!" he cried again, deflecting another.
"Damn you!" he shrieked, slashing wildly as the weight of the assault bore down.
Steel screamed against steel. Hartshorne twisted, swinging a heavy kick toward Salazar's ribs. The younger man caught it with the shaft of his spear, absorbing the blow as he flew backward. Mid-motion, he split the weapon in two—each half whipping in either hand. With a single motion, he hurled both toward Hartshorne, the spears spinning fast through the air. The sheriff batted it aside, but not without effort.
Salazar planted his feet, hands spread wide, fingers curling like talons. A dozen spears blinked into existence around him, their black shafts humming with latent energy. With a cry that tore from his chest, he thrust his arms forward—unleashing the spears in a devastating volley.
Hartshorne roared in response, his blade flashing as it deflected the incoming storm of steel, sparks erupting with every parried strike. Then, without hesitation, he surged forward.
"Slytherin!" he bellowed, his sword spinning like a whirlwind in his grip.
"Hartshorne!" Salazar shouted in return, charging to meet him.
With a flick of his arms, the spears reversed course in mid-air, snapping back to his sides and locking into a single weapon as he caught the staff in his grip, spinning it with lethal grace.
Then came the clash.
Steel met steel in a violent crescendo. Sword and spear collided in a furious dance, the sound of each blow reverberating through the crumbling church. Their cries rose over the chaos. Every strike tore flesh. Every clash drew blood. The floor beneath them slickened with it, but neither man gave ground. They moved with fury, with purpose, their weapons extensions of their will, refusing to falter.
The air grew heavy, thick with magic and rage, like the center of a gathering storm. Around them, the shattered remnants of the altar trembled from the sheer force of their exchange, and above them, light poured in through the ruined stained glass like the eye of the heavens watching them rage.
Still, they fought.
Still, they endured.
Two forces collided. Not for glory, not for honor, but for vengeance. And Bastion couldn't tear his eyes away.
Amid the clash of steel and the roar of magic, he saw it: the subtle falter in Hartshorne's step, the heaviness in his breath, the tightness in his shoulders. The old man was slowing. Not from lack of will, but from the one foe no warrior could outrun—time.
His chest heaved, each motion more labored than the last. Bastion narrowed his gaze. Hartshorne had expected a swift end, perhaps to overpower a young upstart with brute strength and experience. But Salazar Slytherin wasn't just another name. He was a storm wrapped in a scholar's skin, and he had come to claim retribution.
Perhaps, Bastion thought, if Hartshorne were Salazar's age again, he might have ended this long ago. Or perhaps not. The outcome no longer felt uncertain.
A cry of pain tore from the sheriff's throat as the spear carved across his chest.
"You bastard!" Hartshorne roared, lifting his blade in a final desperate swing.
But Salazar was already moving. Salazar pivoted sharply, spinning on the balls of his feet, then slammed his boot into Hartshorne's chest. The air burst from the old man's lungs in a wheeze of pain as his body slid backwards.
Without a word, Salazar spun the spear in a tight arc, lowering his stance as he braced himself. He drew a sharp breath, his eyes snapping open, teeth bared. The spear flared to life, wreathed in an emerald blaze—green fire writhing and coiling like serpents around the blackened shaft.
"Call forth the night… and drown the world in darkness!" he roared, the flame spiraling downward in luminous tendrils. "Strike—Gáe…" He hurled the spear with all his strength. "Birgha!"
It tore through the air, a thunderous shockwave bursting from the release, scattering the last of the lavender fire in its wake. The emerald flame twisted mid-flight, coalescing into the shape of a serpent, jaws wide, fangs bared, reflected in Hartshorne's wide, horrified eyes.
But Hartshorne stood his ground, boots planted firm against the cracked stone. A fierce cry ripped from his lungs as he swung his blade upward to meet the oncoming spear. Steel clashed with steel in a blinding flash, a burst of sparks erupting between them. The sheer force of the impact sent a shockwave pulsing outward, a sudden gust tearing through the ruined hall.
With both hands gripping the hilt, Hartshorne pushed back, teeth clenched, boots dragging through the debris as he held against the crushing weight bearing down on him. But then—he heard it.
The cracks.
Thin at first. Then louder. Sharper. Splintering up through the length of his blade like lightning through glass. Before he could react, the sword gave way in a violent eruption. Shards of metal exploding outward, fragments catching the light as they scattered into the air.
Hartshorne froze. For the briefest breath, the world held still. His eyes dropped to the jagged hilt in his hand.
It was over.
And then it struck.
Hartshorne's cry was strangled, barely human. His body flung across the desecrated church, slamming into the far wall. The stone cracked on impact, dust and rubble falling in his wake. The blade sank into his abdomen, pinning him to the wall with such force that it shattered behind him. Blood sprayed from his mouth in a violent burst. His body sagged under the weight, legs trembling, arms limp.
And there, impaled and broken, the sheriff hung—his strength gone, his eyes wide, staring at the boy who now stood, silent and still, beneath the shattered altar light. The lavender flames that once raged around them had begun to wither, their glow dimming as they sank into the blackened ash and curling soot.
Salazar limped forward, blood slick across his palm as it pressed to his ribs. Each step was a struggle, but he made it, until he stood before the ruined figure of Sheriff Hartshorne. His smirk was faint now, lacking the sharp edge it once carried, and though the amber fire had drained from his eyes, the emerald that remained held no less weight.
Hartshorne writhed, choking on his own breath.
"Y-you… wretched… little—" he croaked, but the words dissolved into a violent cough, blood splattering the cracked marble beneath him. His limbs twitched, his back arched as he let out a strangled cry. Black veins began creeping up from his gut, thick as rope, threading under his skin like coiling serpents. His muscles seized, spasmed. His entire body trembling as if gripped by some invisible noose.
"W-what's… h-happening…" he gasped.
"You feel it, don't you?" Salazar replied. "Consider it a dear little parting gift… from me, to you."
He reached down and grabbed the spear lodged in Hartshorne's gut. With a sharp twist, he ripped it free. The old man screamed, collapsing face-first to the floor with a splatter of blood. His body convulsed as bile and red foam spilled from his mouth. His breath hitched, staggered. His skin turned a sickly pallor, lips trembling, veins blackening beneath the surface as his fingers began to curl unnaturally inward.
Salazar knelt beside him.
"It's spreading," he said. "Creeping through your veins, drowning your insides. You'll last another six minutes at most. Every second of it worse than the last." He leaned in slightly. "You'll feel it in your lungs first. Then your spine. And once it reaches your heart…"
Hartshorne let out a sob. A rattling, blood-soaked thing—more out of fear than pain. Blood poured from his nose, his ears. His eyes reddened to the point of bursting.
"If I were you," Salazar said coldly, "I'd spend what time remains making peace with whatever gods you still believe in. Ask their forgiveness. Beg for it. Because mine," he rose slowly to his feet, "is beyond you."
He stepped backwards, back straight, then stopped.
"Run."
Hartshorne whimpered.
"I said run!" Salazar snarled.
The old man scrambled to his feet, shrieking as he staggered across the ruined church, his cries echoing through the rafters. Each step left streaks of blood behind him, his legs barely holding as he dragged himself toward the light.
"Run you wretched cur!" Salazar called after him, "cling to the life you never deserved. Beg for mercy, just as your victims did. Plead for the peace you denied them. And die—die alone, disgraced and abandoned, like the worthless mongrel you are!"
Hartshorne's screams faded as he disappeared through the threshold, the sound of his footsteps a chaotic, desperate patter into the silence that followed.
****
Hartshorne staggered through the broken streets, his breaths shallow, wet with blood. Drool and bile clung to his chin as he sobbed, choking on the rot that filled his lungs. His knees were raw, scraped to the bone from stumbling again and again. Still, he crawled forward—pathetic, ragged, and dying. Every nerve screamed. It felt as though hooks had taken root beneath his skin, tearing him apart from the inside in slow, rhythmic agony.
He staggered through the alley, collapsing against the door of a building. His bloodied fists struck the wood with a hollow thud.
"H-Help me…" he rasped, voice shredded and raw. "Please… someone…"
No answer. Only silence.
He coughed violently, red splatter painting the door as he crumpled forward, his forehead resting against the wood. For a moment, he lingered there, trembling, then dragged himself to the next doorway.
His legs barely held beneath him, each step a torture, each breath jagged and thin. He pounded again, but the blows were feeble now. Weak. Desperate.
"Gods… please…"
No lights stirred behind the windows. No footsteps came. Only the quiet drip of his own blood on the stone.
He pushed off once more, stumbling forward, his vision swimming, his body broken in ways he could no longer track. His knees buckled, his cries grew louder.
"Help me!" he shouted. "Help…!"
He then crashed into a Norsefire guard at the mouth of a narrow alley, clutching at the man's uniform with blood-soaked fingers.
"H-help me," he rasped, lips flecked with foam.
The guard recoiled in horror.
"Bloody hell—!" he gasped, shoving Hartshorne away.
The former sheriff collapsed onto his back, convulsing. Blood gushed from his mouth as the guard fled, boots echoing off into the distance.
"N-no… don't leave me…" Hartshorne whimpered, reaching for nothing. He tried to stand, but his legs crumpled beneath him. His body slumped into the grime, face half-buried in rot and ash.
"S-somebody…" he croaked, dragging himself on his forearms, leaving a smear of red and black across the cobblestones. "H-help me…"
He rolled onto his back, blinking through the blur of sunlight overhead, vision swimming.
Footsteps.
Then a shadow.
Then a voice he hadn't expected to hear again.
"Well, would you look at that," Asriel said, standing over him, a lazy smirk curling on his lips. "Guess the Gods really do have a sense of humor."
Hartshorne's eyes widened in horror.
"Honestly, I was half-hoping I'd get to take your head," Asriel continued. "But… looking at you now?" He shrugged. "This is so much worse."
Hartshorne tried to speak, but his words had dissolved into raw, hoarse sobs. Nothing more than the helpless wheezing of a man moments from death.
"You remember that night, don't you?" Asriel went on, crouching beside him. "You, standing over me, full of piss and pride while I lay chained, broken. You took everything from me. My name. My life. My future… My Tala." He leaned in closer. "And now look at you. Worming through filth. Gasping like a dog."
"You said you didn't fear the Gods… or whatever judgment waits beyond." He straightened, drawing a slow breath as he rose to his feet. "Well, I guess you're about to find out."
A soft chuckle escaped him.
"It's funny, isn't it? We live like it'll never end. Thinking there'll always be more time. We chase power, fame, comfort—whatever keeps us feeling invincible. Some of us even make enough friends to fill a city block." He glanced down at the broken figure before him. "But when the moment finally comes, when it's just you and the end… you realize no one's there to walk you through it. No hand to hold. No one to remember your name."
"Even a bastard like you probably imagined something different. Thought maybe the man you sold your soul for would send someone, say something. But he didn't." He stepped back. "And he won't. Because this ending? It isn't what you wanted…"
His eyes sharpened.
"…but it's exactly what you deserve."
Hartshorne twitched, his eyes rolling. The black veins spread further, his fingers curling into claws as the last of his strength fled him. His chest hitched once, twice—and then stopped. His body froze, mouth agape, eyes wide in unblinking terror.
Asriel stared at the corpse for a moment, then exhaled softly, shaking his head.
"But don't worry," he said, stepping over the body before heading down the alley. "We'll have plenty of time to catch up… once you get to the other side."
Without warning, the stones beneath the body cracked and bled shadow. A pool of darkness unfurled like oil, silent and smooth. Blackened hands, twisted and veined with molten fire, reached up from the void. They clutched Hartshorne's body and dragged it down, inch by inch, limb by limb.
No screams. No resistance. Just silence.
Then nothing.
The alley was empty once more.
The once proud Sheriff of Caerleon was gone.