Thunder split the skies, its echo rolling through the canyons of glass and steel as rain hammered the crystal-lit streets of the Crown City. Neon flares, green, red, violet, bled across the obsidian asphalt, their glow fractured in the slick sheen of water rushing into muck-choked gutters. The air was thick with smog, tinged with a cloying sweetness, each breath laced with the glitter of crystal residue belched from the ports and exhausts of countless passing vehicles.
For days, the city had teetered on edge. Tension hung like a lid over boiling water, the surface quivering, ready to spill over at the slightest provocation. All knew what loomed on the horizon. The trial of the century, and pilgrims of justice and vengeance had already begun flooding Camelot's streets.
The Tower had responded in kind. Guardians stood watch in greater numbers than ever before, fortifying the most sacred strongholds of power: the Citadel, the Spire, and above all, the holding facility where Burgess rotted under guard tighter than even Revel's End could boast.
A car of impossible elegance pulled into the courtyard, its frame white as seafoam and adorned with engravings of flora and fauna traced in silver and gold. Six wheels ground over gravel until it slowed to a halt, the emblem of House Duchannes gleaming at its grille like a proclamation.
The driver stepped out in a crisp black uniform, snapping open a silver-handled umbrella before gliding to the rear door, a second hung from his arm. White-gloved hands eased it open, and Macon Duchannes emerged, his gray three-piece suit cloaked beneath a rich brown overcoat. He took the umbrella from the driver, then with a curt gesture, he sent the driver circling to the opposite side.
The second door opened. Headmaster Blaise Windsor stepped forth, robes of sapphire and white billowing with the rain, half-moon glasses slipping slightly down his nose. He lifted his gaze to the tower before them, a skyscraper rising like a monolith to pierce the storm-dark sky. His breath left him in a quiet exhale as he shut the door behind him.
The driver raised the umbrella overhead, but Blaise scarcely seemed to notice. His eyes met Macon's, a wordless exchange passing between the two men. Together, they turned and strode toward the looming entrance, the storm breaking like a drum above their heads.
At the entrance, several guards stood arrayed in polished ornamental armor of white and gold, their spears etched with glowing blue veins that pulsed faintly like living circuits. One stepped forward, lowering his weapon across his chest as he raised a hand. His face and helm were hidden beneath the smooth curve of gilded steel.
Macon snapped the umbrella shut with a practiced flick, beads of rain scattering from its obsidian canopy. He gave it a sharp shake to rid the last drops before passing it to his driver. The man accepted it with a bow of quiet deference before turning on his heel and making his way back to the waiting car.
"Lord Regent, welcome," the guard said with the plain cadence of a soldier. His helmeted head turned toward Blaise. "Headmaster Windsor, the Council has been expecting you."
"I should hope so," Blaise replied crisply. "It would be rather a pity, after coming all this way in such delightful weather, to find myself turned away."
The guard shifted slightly, returning his attention to Macon. "Apologies, Lord Regent, that your presence is required at all. Protocol, given the… circumstances." He dipped his head in a deferential bow before stepping aside.
"Think nothing of it. After all, one can never be too careful. Keep up the good work." Macon said smoothly, gesturing toward the doors with a faint smile. "After you, Headmaster."
Blaise inclined his head, the faintest curve of satisfaction at his lips, and stepped forward as the massive golden doors groaned open before them.
****
The elevator hummed softly as it climbed, each level marked by the slow sweep of a golden needle across the dial. Blaise stood with hands clasped behind his back. Sapphire eyes fixed upon its steady ascent. The cabin gleamed with ostentation. Walls plated in polished gold, inlaid panels of exotic marble beneath their feet, every button a jewel that caught the light. To many, it was a marvel of prestige. To Blaise, it was little more than a monument to vanity.
"In all curiosity, Headmaster," Macon broke the silence, "when you demanded, not requested, mind you, an audience with the Council, I confess I felt a flicker of trepidation." His lips curved in a dry smile. "Imagine my astonishment when they agreed, albeit with no small measure of unease."
Blaise did not turn. "It is knowledge few possess, but the Council and I share… a history. One far older, and far deeper, than most would ever suspect."
Macon arched a brow. "Indeed? Forgive me, but Grandmother has failed to mention that particular detail."
"Agatha is among my dearest and oldest companions," Blaise replied, at last shifting his gaze to the elven man. "She has ever respected my privacy and guards my secrets as closely as her own. Even from her kin."
Macon let out a soft chuckle, though his eyes gleamed with curiosity. "I can appreciate such loyalty. Yet I must admit, it does wear on one's patience when such secrets touch matters of consequence." His grin widened slightly. "Still, as much as I'd enjoy watching what comes next, I must excuse myself the moment we reach the Council's floor. Other matters press for my attention."
Blaise inclined his head, a faint smile at his lips. "Please, think nothing of it. You have already done more than I had any right to ask, especially at such short notice."
"The pleasure is mine," Macon said with quiet sincerity. Then, after a pause, his tone softened. "And if I may speak plainly, Headmaster… if you are indeed about to do what I suspect, you have my respect, and my well wishes."
Blaise's eyes glimmered faintly behind his half-moon spectacles. "Your words are kindness enough, Macon. Let us hope they will not be in vain."
The elevator chimed, and the golden doors parted to spill a flood of white light into the cabin.
Beyond stretched a grand corridor. The marble floors gleamed like still water, each vein catching the glow of crystal sconces that lined the walls. A long carpet of deep navy ran the length of the hall, its golden trim catching the light in quiet brilliance, guiding the eye toward the towering doors ahead. The doors themselves were monumental, framed in gilt and emblazoned with the sigil of the Wizarding Council. Two guards flanked them in gleaming alabaster armor trimmed with gold, their spears crossed before them, motionless as statues.
Above, white stone moldings coiled across the ceiling in intricate patterns, every flourish sculpted with the delicate artistry of royalty's hand. Tall windows framed the hall on either side, the storm outside flashing in furious intervals—lightning striking, thunder rolling, raindrops streaking down the glass like tears.
Blaise stepped forward, pausing only once, turning his head to meet Macon's gaze.
"Oh, and one more thing," Macon said lightly. "Do try to keep the fireworks to a minimum. I'd rather not be saddled with the tiresome duty of explaining to King Uther why the Spire of Avalon has been reduced to ash and cinder."
Blaise allowed himself a low chuckle. "I make no promises," he replied, a glimmer of amusement in his sapphire eyes. "But for you, my good sir, I shall endeavor to restrain myself."
The elven man gave him a single, steady nod before the golden doors of the lift sealed shut behind him.
The headmaster drew a quiet breath, shoulders squaring as he turned back to the path before him. With slow, deliberate steps, he moved down the length of the carpet toward the Council's door, every footfall echoing in the vast silence of the hall.
As Blaise neared the door, the guards moved in perfect unison, their spears shifting with mechanical precision as a boot struck the marble in crisp salute. The towering doors groaned open, swinging inward to reveal the chamber beyond.
Colossal space greeted him. The walls soared skyward, twenty feet of polished stone and glass framed in accents of beaten gold, the artistry as much a proclamation of power as it was of wealth. Black marble paved the floor. Its surface so polished it gleamed like volcanic glass. Along the circumference, a continuous ring of flame burned within sculpted channels, red tongues flickering and curling in a perfect circle. Their glow filled the chamber with a warmth that belied the chill in the air.
At the heart of it stood a table wrought in the shape of a nine-toothed gear, each groove occupied by a towering chair of polished wood, high-backed and severe. Upon them sat nine figures—six men and three women—arrayed in a circle of judgment.
Their gazes found him instantly. Nine pairs of eyes, each cold, each sharp, settling upon his form the moment he crossed the threshold. Blaise met them without falter. His own stare tempered into steel. These were not strangers to him; their faces were carved into memory, their presence all too familiar.
His footfalls echoed against the black marble as he strode forward. He stopped at the open gap of the gear, his gaze narrowing to the figure seated at its head, at the very head of the outer circle.
The man at the center of the table looked to be of Blaise's own years, though time had carved his image into something colder, more severe. Long, straight hair of winter-white fell past his shoulders, blending into a beard that reached his waist. His robe, immaculate and of ashen grey, shimmered faintly with the weave of the finest threads, its folds adorned with chains of gold that hung like laurels of authority. Rings encased every finger, each crowned with a gemstone large as a marble, glinting in the firelight with an ostentation that could not be ignored.
But it was his eyes, emerald green, sharp as blades, that held the chamber in their weight. They fixed upon Blaise, and though they carried the mask of cordiality, there was no warmth within them. Only the thin edge of unease, like a man meeting the ghost of his own conscience.
"Headmaster Windsor," the man said at last, his tone smooth, though not without strain. "Blaise… old friend. What a most unexpected pleasure. It has been far too long."
Blaise inclined his head with the briefest of nods. "Grand Councilman Vessalius." He paused, sapphire gaze narrowing. "I should like to echo the sentiment, but alas, I cannot. I did not come here for pleasantries, Oscar."
The councilman's expression stiffened, the faintest flicker of his jaw betraying discomfort.
Blaise's gaze never left his. "And before this day is done, you will come to understand that my presence here is anything but pleasant."
"Hah!" The sharp bark of laughter cut through the chamber, drawing Blaise's gaze to the man seated to Vessalius' left. "What did I say?"
The speaker was younger than both Blaise and Vessalius, though his appearance did little to suggest vitality. His hair, already receding, was combed forward into a thin, curling tuft, black and oily against his pale brow. His cheeks were hollow, cheekbones cutting harshly beneath skin drawn too tightly, giving him a look half famished, half vulturine.
A stunted beard clung to his chin in a sharp tuft, matched by a handlebar moustache as thin as inked lines, curled at the tips. He swirled his wine with theatrical leisure in a goblet of gold encrusted with gemstones, though the disdain in his eyes betrayed any pretense of mirth.
"Mycellus," Blaise said flatly, stripped of courtesy.
The man tilted his head with a mocking air, cupping a hand theatrically to his ear. "I beg your pardon? Surely you mean Councilman Peverell. Once again, Windsor, your manners are as wanting as ever." He slammed his goblet down upon the table, crimson liquid spilling over its rim.
A few of the other councilors narrowed their eyes at the breach of decorum, but Mycellus ignored them, lips curling in scorn. "Every time this man darkens our threshold, he does so with nothing but contempt."
"Not for the Council, Mycellus," Blaise countered, his gaze narrowing to a blade's edge. "Only for you. You were the hollow shell of a man even in your days at Excalibur. An empty vessel, devoid of principle. Your buffoonery may have amused in youth, but to see you now seated here?" He leaned forward. "Tell me, is anyone still laughing?"
Color drained from Mycellus' smirk, his face darkening as his teeth clenched. "How dare you—"
"Enough." Vessalius cut across the chamber like steel, halting him mid-breath. Mycellus bristled, but leaned back in his chair, arms folded in sullen silence.
Vessalius steepled his fingers, the clink of rings against polished wood echoing faintly through the chamber. His emerald eyes flickered with both irritation and curiosity. "I must confess, Blaise, I am disappointed. I had hoped, at last, you might come to your senses. That you would accept your true place at this table, rather than secluding yourself in that school." He paused. "But clearly, you are not here to accept my invitation. So tell me—why have you come?"
"Lamar Burgess." Blaise's voice carried across the chamber, echoing from the polished stone as though the walls themselves bore witness.
At once, every councilor stiffened at the name, even Mycellus, whose sneer faltered into silence. Blaise's sapphire gaze swept the table, taking in the taut jaws, the twitch of fingers, the subtle unease that rippled through those who fancied themselves untouchable.
"I imagine," Blaise continued, "that his name has dominated your every discourse these past weeks."
Vessalius exhaled sharply, his hand rising to massage his temple, though the gesture seemed less weary than performative. "Yes. Quite." His emerald eyes flicked back to Blaise with forced composure. "His trial begins in two days. The Council will preside in full. His crimes will be revealed before Avalon entire, and justice will be done—"
"I am perfectly aware, Oscar." Blaise cut across him, his expression hardening into stone. "And I do not doubt that Burgess will be found guilty. Though not through the sanctity of law, but because you must pacify the rising tide of grievance, the whispers of rebellion." He let the words hang, sharp as glass. "The verdict is foregone. The spectacle inevitable."
A pause hung heavy in the chamber. "After all," he said, "this is hardly the first time you have cast fresh meat to the wolves, merely to sate their hunger and preserve your own seat. I daresay Winston Ravenclaw might offer a most damning testimony to that."
Vessalius's brow arched ever so slightly, but the flicker in his emerald eyes betrayed a deeper unease. Then Blaise's words struck again, heavier, sharper, his next words falling upon the council like the tolling of a great iron bell.
"But I did not come here to speak of Burgess' crimes." Blaise leaned forward, his words carried with it the weight of a blade unsheathed. "I came to speak of yours."
Gasps broke the silence like splintering wood. Vessalius's eyes widened, the mask of calm faltering. Around him, councilors stiffened, scandal and dread flickering across their features. Mycellus's lip curled into a snarl, his teeth bared in barely bridled fury.
"Lamar Burgess is, without question, guilty of the crimes he committed. The atrocities he orchestrated." Blaise stepped closer. "The man was the architect of tragedies innumerable: the Dah-Tan massacre, the assassination of Lady Gloreth, Grand Duchess of Beleriand…"
His gaze lowered briefly, eyes closing as though weighed by memory, before he lifted them once more. "And more besides. Too many, too unspeakable to name." His expression hardened. "Yes, Burgess will be punished. He will face the reckoning he deserves. But let us not forget those equally complicit in his sins, those who placed him in that seat of power to begin with."
"Blaise…" Vessalius lifted a finger, edging with restrained fury. "Old friend, you tread upon perilously thin ice. I would strongly advise you to choose your next words with care."
"Good," Blaise replied, his hands folding neatly behind his back. His gaze sharpened. "For I am far from finished."
He let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, before cutting through it. "Do you truly believe that by sending Burgess to the gallows, or whatever ill fate you devise, you absolve yourselves? That his blood will wash the stain from your hands?" He shook his head slowly. "You knew he was unstable. You always knew. Wilhelm Reinhardt warned you. Zachariah Trench, your own former Director, warned you. And yet you turned away."
His sapphire eyes swept the table. Some councilors faltered, lowering their heads; others sat rigid, jaws clenched. Mycellus twisted in his chair, coiled like a spring about to snap.
"Time and again," Blaise pressed, "he exceeded his mandate. His campaigns wrought chaos beyond necessity, his 'collateral damage' excused as a necessary evil." His gaze fixed like a blade upon Vessalius. "You, and every one of you at this table, had chance upon chance to intervene. To correct course. To strip him of power before he could poison the Tower entire." His tone dropped, quiet but heavy. "Instead, you lauded him. You applauded his victories. For you wanted the outcomes, and turned a blind eye to the methods. That makes you…"
He looked around the circle, holding each in his gaze.
"All of you. Guilty, all the same."
"Silence!" Mycellus thundered, his fist crashing down upon the table with such force that his goblet toppled, spilling crimson wine across the polished wood before dripping onto the marble floor below. His chair scraped violently back as he shot to his feet, his face contorted with rage. "I have endured your ludicrous prattle long enough. This Council has indulged your presence for far too many years out of misplaced sentiment. And now you dare to stand here and accuse us of sharing in Burgess' crimes?!"
His fist slammed against the table once more. "Preposterous!" he declared. "Never in all my years have I endured such galling insult. You have overstepped your bounds for the final time, and I shall brook your insolence no longer. Mark me well, Windsor—" his voice rose, sharp as a whip, "—I will personally see to it that you be dragged through the very streets of Camelot and scourged like the mangy dog you are, and I shall relish every moment of—"
"SIT. DOWN!"
Blaise's command erupted. His voice did not merely echo. It resounded with something almost inhuman, reverberating through stone and marrow alike.
A jet of sapphire fire burst from his eyes, searing away the half-moon spectacles upon his face, reducing them to cinders. Around the chamber, the ring of fire roared to life, shifting from red to an incandescent blue, climbing higher and higher until the very air wavered with heat.
Mycellus shrieked, stumbling backward into his chair. His wiry frame curled in upon itself, clawed fingers gripping at the arms as he recoiled, dragging his knees close as if the flames themselves would consume him.
Blaise advanced upon the cowering man, each step leaving the marble stones blackened and charred, as if the very floor recoiled from his presence. His voice thundered in dual tones, echoing like the wrath of two men at once.
"I would have thought that in your years upon this Council you might have learnt restraint, but clearly I was mistaken," he snarled, sapphire flames glinting in his eyes. "Perhaps I should have relieved you of your forked tongue when last I had the chance!"
The ring of fire roared higher, shadows leaping across the vaulted chamber as the heat pressed down upon them all. Blaise's face hardened, fury carved into every line. "Because of your negligence. Your gross incompetence, my school lies in ruin. Students… my precious students, lie in graves. And why? Because you and your gutless colleagues placed a raving madman in power, knowing full well the depths of his depravity!"
He bared his teeth. His gaze locked on the quivering councilor. "And you, Mycellus Peverell. Yes, you. Baseborn, venomous, a cold-blooded reptile so wretched that even the heel of man would disdain to crush you. You dare. Youdare to stand so shamelessly before my very presence and threaten me?!"
The flames surged with a deafening blast, rattling the chamber and drawing cries of terror from the Council as Mycellus shrieked yet again, louder this time, curling tighter into his chair.
"Me," Blaise declared. "Whose very name has made the eldest of wyrms quake within their hoards, whose wings falter, and whose fire gutters out in fear. I am the Lord of Ashes… The Calamity of Asran… the Flame of the West!"
At his words, a shudder passed through the chamber. Vessalius's gaze darted about in alarm as the towering panes of glass lining the walls began to splinter. Cracks streaked downward like the lightning bolts from the stormy skies above, branching and webbing with every heartbeat, as though the very Spire itself strained beneath the weight of Blaise's fury.
"Dies Irae, dies illa, solvet vos in favilla." Blaise's words cut through the chamber in a low, resonant chant. "Maledicti ac proiecti in flammis aeternis estis."
The ancient tongue rolled from him with the weight of judgement itself, each word igniting the flames higher, brighter, until panic rippled through the chamber.
"Blaise, enough!" Vessalius bellowed, surging to his feet. "Cease this madness at once!"
And then, as swiftly as it had come, the fury abated. Blaise straightened, drawing in a slow, measured breath. In a blink, the sapphire flames receded, returning to their steady crimson hue. The inferno faded from his eyes, leaving only the faint glow of exhaustion.
Calmly, he reached into his robes, produced a fresh pair of spectacles, and placed them upon the bridge of his nose. The chamber, still trembling from his display, was silent.
The great doors slammed open with a thunderous crack as the guards burst inside, alabaster spears leveled. For a heartbeat, the chamber trembled with the threat of violence, until Vessalius lifted a single hand.
Reluctantly, they lowered their weapons. One by one they straightened, fists striking their breastplates in salute before bowing in unison. Without a word, they withdrew, the heavy doors closing once more with a resounding boom that left the Council alone in the storm of Blaise's fury.
Vessalius drew a sharp breath, his fingers raking back through his long white hair as his emerald eyes lifted to Blaise. "Those words…" His words faltered, trembling with something perilously close to fear. "I have not heard that cursed litany since…" He hesitated, as if speaking it aloud might summon the memory itself. "Since the Blue Night."
At once, the chamber erupted into frantic murmurs, councilors shifting uncomfortably in their seats as if the very name had dragged them back to some unspeakable horror.
"And to think," Vessalius continued, his tone darkening, "that you would dare utter that black speech in this hallowed chamber. Blaise… you have clearly forgotten your place."
"Is that so?" Blaise cut through the noise, calm yet flint-hard. His sapphire gaze swept across them all. "From where I stand, it is not I who have forgotten my place, it is you. All of you."
"The Ethereal Horizon," he said. "Our Clan once stood for something. Honor. Justice. Duty. To shield the weak, and most of all, to serve. But somewhere along the way, you bartered it all away. Everything you were, everything that gave this Council its purpose…" He gestured around the chamber, contempt sharpening his words. "You sold it for this… empty pomp, hollow authority, a gilded cage."
His gaze returned to Vessalius. "So tell me, Oscar, how, precisely, are you any different from Burgess?"
Vessalius' face blanched, fury burning beneath the weight of the words.
"You ask why I refused your invitation, time and again, to join this Council?" Blaise pressed. "There is your answer. I would not bind myself to a carcass dressed in velvet and call it honor," he said. "And yet I do not come with mere accusations. No, I bring a warning. Like Burgess, you are not above consequence. And when it comes, as surely it will, it will be more than you can bear. A reckoning most fitting, and long overdue."
Vessalius scoffed. "What in the name of the Old Gods are you on about?"
"Nothing more than speculation," Blaise replied smoothly. "For instance, I hear Mayor Ramonda is on the warpath. Demanding recompense for her own unlawful detainment and the monumental ruin brought upon her city." He paused. "Then, of course, there are the citizens themselves, who endured Burgess' tyranny and the savagery of his personal hounds, Norsefire. Whom, I might add, you sanctioned during the Camelot Insurrection. A stain that has not gone unnoticed by King Uther."
He tilted his head ever so slightly. "Furthermore, what do you suppose will happen when the elves of Beleriand come knocking on your door, demanding blood for the Grand Duchess Burgess had assassinated under your watchful eye? That is a question worth pondering."
The color drained from Vessalius' face, his composure faltering beneath the weight of the old headmaster's words. Blaise allowed the silence to linger, then turned on his heel, his robes whispering against the stone as he strode toward the great doors without another word.
"Blaise!" Vessalius cried out after him, his palms striking the table with a crack that echoed through the chamber. "Between this chamber and the gates stand hundreds of Custodians. After that deplorable display, tell me, why should I permit you to leave? Flame of the West or not, not even the legendary Blaise Windsor would survive such a descent."
Blaise paused mid-stride, his back still to the Council. "Why?" he asked quietly. "I fear I can give you no reason, old friend… only a reminder." He turned his head slightly. "A personal reminder of how you fared the last time you levelled such threats against me, and more precisely the outcome." A faint exhale, almost a sigh. "Still… if you continue to doubt me, you are more than welcome to try."
Blaise drew a slow breath, clasping his hands neatly behind his back. "That being said, I do hope our little conversation has compelled the lot of you to look inward, to perhaps unearth the soul you buried long ago beneath the weight of your sins and misgivings." His gaze swept the chamber, then fixed squarely on Vessalius. "And I pray you succeed, for if I ever find myself back in this hallowed chamber over yet another of your irredeemable blunders…"
He turned slightly, sapphire eyes glinting with an otherworldly glow as his expression hardened. "…then know this, there will be no force in all Avalon powerful enough to spare you from my wrath." He paused, his expression easing as the faintest curl of satisfaction tugging at his lips. "Now… I am finished."
The golden doors then swung wide, spilling warm light into the chamber as Blaise departed with unhurried, measured steps, leaving only silence and unease in his wake.
Vessalius sank back into his chair, the strength draining from his limbs until his knees buckled. He pressed a hand over his face and let out a long, weary sigh. Lowering his palm, his gaze slid to Mycellus—still curled into a pitiful huddle, his trousers stained with shame. Vessalius's jaw tightened as he pinched the bridge of his nose, his temple throbbing with the weight of it all.
****
The following morning carried the scent of sunlight warming damp foliage and freshly cut grass. Birds sang from the branches overhead, their chorus weaving with the low hum of bees that drifted lazily through the clearing at the forest's edge. Winston hummed under his breath, the tune of a song once cherished by Brenna, as he worked the smoker across the hives. His padded garb gleamed white beneath the light, a net draped neatly from the brim of his hat, while rows of painted boxes stood in ordered lines about him.
He drew a frame from the hive, studied it with squinting eyes, then slid it carefully back into place. As he reached for another, he stilled. A voice, muffled beneath the swarm's buzzing, carried faintly across the air. Lifting his head, he turned. Through the mesh he spied a man standing at the edge of the clearing: Macon, in a grey three-piece suit beneath a brown overcoat, his presence composed yet distinctly out of place among the hives.
Winston exhaled softly, shutting the box before him. He made his way over, removing his hat and net as he drew close.
"I would say I'm surprised to see you here," Winston remarked, his blue eyes fixing on Macon. "But that would be a load of beeswax, if you'll pardon the pun." A faint smile tugged at his mouth as he peeled off the thick gloves and gestured lightly with them. "Come, let us walk. I'll put the kettle on, and you may sample some of my finest honey."
Macon's lips curved into a warm smile. "That," he said, "I should very much enjoy."
****
The patio of Ravenclaw Manor opened to a sweeping vista of cultivated beauty: gardens arranged with geometric precision, lawns stretching into the horizon, a tranquil lake glittering to the east, and to the west, dense woods climbing toward snow-capped peaks. Yet for all its idyllic surroundings, the manor itself stood in striking contrast. A fortress wrought of black volcanic stone, its windows framed with ebon steel, its spires and arches steeped in a brooding Gothic grandeur. Raven motifs adorned nearly every surface, from ceiling moldings and carved banisters to the grand fireplace within, as though the very manor were a monument to its name.
Winston returned bearing a silver tray, upon which rested two fine china cups and a matching teapot, each delicately adorned with ravens in flight. He placed the tray upon the glass table and lowered himself into the chair opposite with a quiet groan of age, though his eyes gleamed with amusement.
"Forgive an old man," Winston chuckled, adjusting himself with care. "These bones are not what they once were. Please, help yourself."
Macon inclined his head, taking the teapot by its curved handle and pouring for them both. "It seems unusual, seeing you serve your own tea. I would have thought a man of your standing would leave such tasks to servants."
"I gave them the day," Winston replied with a wry smile, leaning forward. "Truth be told, it is nothing but a convenient excuse for solitude. A man requires time to himself, now and then."
"I cannot disagree," Macon said, spooning honey into his cup. "So… beekeeping. An unexpected pastime."
"Alongside gardening, fishing, even the occasional hike," Winston answered, lifting his saucer and sipping with quiet satisfaction. "Small pursuits, but they steady the mind. They keep the silence from feeling quite so heavy."
"Ah, fishing," Macon chuckled. "A passion of mine as well, much to the annoyance of certain more… austere members of my kin. I've never been one for the stricter trappings of our faith. Most of it strikes me as needlessly performative."
"You would do well to keep such confessions to trusted company," Winston said mildly. "Zealotry is not confined to temples. It thrives wherever fear gives it soil."
"Quite so," Macon agreed, raising the cup to his lips. His brows lifted in genuine surprise. "By Gil-Galad… this is extraordinary. You could sell this at a king's ransom."
Winston laughed softly. "Nonsense. I'll have a jar packed for you before you leave. Think of it as a gift, for indulging an old man's company in the middle of nowhere."
His gaze drifted through the open doors toward the cavernous interior of the manor. "I remember when this house was alive with voices. Children running its halls, laughter at the tables, quarrels by the hearth. My own, my siblings', all under one roof. But the years pass. Children grow. One by one they leave, and build their own nests. And what remains…" His hand brushed the cool porcelain of the cup. "Empty chairs. Empty tables. Empty walls."
"Except on holidays, I presume," Macon said with a knowing smile.
Winston chuckled softly. "Yes, quite so. Those are the times when you suddenly long for the quiet you've grown used to. Do not mistake me, I adore my children and grandchildren beyond measure, but at my age, one hardly has the stamina to keep pace with their boundless energy."
"That is not what I heard during your duel with Burgess," Macon replied, setting his cup gently back upon its saucer. "From what reached my ears, the Peacemaker still has plenty of fight left in him."
"You'd be surprised what a man can do when those he loves are in danger," Winston said, rolling his shoulders as though still carrying the weight of it. "But, by the Gods, I paid for it dearly afterwards."
Macon set the saucer gently back onto the tray, his expression composed. "I suppose you already know why I am here."
"Perhaps," Winston replied with a wry glint in his eye. "Or perhaps the illustrious Grand Regent has simply travelled all this way because he has at last heard tell of my incomparable honey."
Macon chuckled under his breath. "I wish it were so. Alas, the truth is far less entertaining." He drew a steady breath, shoulders easing before he spoke with quiet deliberation. "I shall be direct, Winston… I would have you take over the Clock Tower. To assume its mantle as Director."
Winston's expression did not so much as flicker. No surprise, no hesitation. Merely calm inevitability, as though the offer had long since been anticipated. He placed his cup and saucer back upon the tray, crossed one leg over the other, and steepled his fingers lightly upon his knee.
"I decline."
For the first time, Macon faltered. "I… beg your pardon? You decline?"
"You heard me," Winston said, his gaze level. "I humbly decline your offer. I have no intention of returning to the Tower, least of all to sit upon its throne as Director."
"But why?" Macon leaned forward. "Was that not always your desire? Was the Director's chair not the most coveted prize you sought?"
"Of course… thirty years ago," Winston answered evenly. "Had they offered me the chair then, I would have taken it without hesitation. But you, more than most, know how that tale ended."
"Winston, what was done to you was monstrous," Macon pressed, his composure fraying. "A grotesque miscarriage of justice, one so vile it still curdles the blood to speak of it. And yet now, at last, we have the chance to set it right. To place you where you should have been all along."
Winston's expression softened. "Macon… I am touched, truly, that you would champion me so. I know you too have borne the scars of Burgess' treachery and the Council's corruption." He allowed himself a small, wistful smile. "But I made my peace long ago. Aye, I will not deny it. Watching the years I gave to the Tower crumble into ash near broke me. But time… time granted me more than renewal. It granted me clarity."
His gaze drifted, softened with memory. "I spent those years with my Brenna, through to her final breath. That was the truest honor I ever held. Do I regret the chain of cruelties that led to my discharge? Aye, bitterly. Do I regret my ill friendship with a man who willfully fed me to the wolves for his personal gains? Perhaps. But were fate itself to offer me the chance to undo it all, I would not change a single moment."
Macon leaned back into his chair, the polished wood creaking softly beneath him. A low, weary chuckle escaped him as he lifted a hand to cover his eyes. "I have lived a long life, Winston. Nearly a century or two squandered, if I am honest. I spent my first as men do. Crude, reckless, half-submerged in blood and wine, temper shorter than a candlewick. I was the black sheep of my kin, and rightly so. They often said I would one day be found lifeless in a ditch, the victim of my own ruin. And for the longest time, I believed them."
His hand fell away, revealing a faint, rueful smile. "I spent the second century begging the Gods to take me. Cursing immortality as a punishment rather than a gift. Every day stretched into an eternity of loathing and futility. It was not until my third that I realized what an abject fool I had been." He exhaled. "I have my grandmother to thank for that. She was the only one who refused to surrender me to myself."
Macon's emerald eyes lifted, meeting Winston's unflinchingly. "Somewhere along the way, I acquired this grotesque sense of superiority. I believed myself above those around me. Those who chased foolish dreams, who made reckless choices, who lived and died without hesitation. I saw only waste, only vanity. And men like Burgess seemed to prove me right, solidifying the notion that mankind was selfish, cruel, and irredeemable."
He paused, fingers resting lightly on the carved armrest. "But you… you confound me. You remind me that even an elf who has walked Avalon for centuries has much yet to learn. I confess, I envy you, Winston. You've found contentment where I found only emptiness. When others look at you, they may see a man who has lost much, but in truth, you are the one who has everything."
"Well," Winston lifted his teacup and took a slow sip, savoring it before setting it down again. "As my Brenna was fond of saying, it is never too late. And for a man who lives outside of time, late ought never to be a word of consequence."
Macon gave a quiet chuckle. "I daresay you are right."
Winston unfolded his legs and leaned forward, his blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "But let us not dance around it. You did not come merely to offer me the Director's chair." His tone sharpened. "You came seeking my leave."
Macon's expression stiffened, though he said nothing.
"Of course, I was your first choice," Winston continued evenly. "But you already have a second in mind. A man you are convinced will accept." He straightened in his seat, his hands clasping the armrests. "If that is the course you wish to pursue, then by all means, do so. He is his own man, capable of making his own decisions."
Winston gestured faintly with his cup. "But know this, his moniker has been rightfully earned. It is truth, bound to his very nature. Place him in the Director's chair, and he will scour Burgess' stain from the Tower with blood and fire. He will cleanse it, yes… but the cost will be ruinous."
He leaned back with a weary sigh, his words falling heavy in the air. "As a foreign scripture once stated, there will be a great cry across Avalon, such as never was, nor ever will be again."
Macon was silent for a moment before drawing a long, steady breath. He rose from his chair, smoothing down his jacket. "Then, I suppose it is settled. You must forgive me, Winston, but I must take my leave. Burgess' trial begins on the morrow, and I have a long journey back to the Crown City." He paused, tilting his head ever so slightly. "I take it you will not be attending."
Winston shook his head. "No. I would rather remember him as the man he once was. For Brenna's sake… and for my own."
Macon inclined his head, offering a courteous bow. "Thank you for the tea. It was exquisite." He turned and made for the door, but lingered at its threshold. "If I may be so bold," he added, "everything you said earlier… I am, in truth, counting on it."
Winston's brow arched.
"For years we have suffered under the ruin wrought by men lauded as heroes of the Tower," Macon continued, his gaze cool. "And I confess, Winston, I believe the Tower has no need of another hero. What it needs, what it deserves… is a monster. One without tolerance for blatant corruption, without quarter for the beasts in badges, and above all, without mercy for those who've grown comfortable in their depravity."
Winston's expression faltered, his lips parting as though to speak, but no words came. At last, he shook his head, weariness written upon his features. Rising from his chair, he moved past Macon into the shadowed hall. "Perhaps you are right," he said quietly. "Come, I shall see you to the door. But first…" he allowed the faintest of smiles, "let me fetch you a jar for your journey."
Macon's lips curved in satisfaction as he followed the old man deeper into the manor.