As dawn broke over the Crown City of Camelot, golden rays pierced the veil of night, chasing shadows from alleys and rooftops alike. Light spilled across the sprawl of towers and cobbled streets, revealing a city transformed. The air itself seemed alive, thrumming with a restless energy that hadn't been felt in centuries.
The streets heaved with people, thousands upon thousands, pressed shoulder to shoulder, packed tight along the avenues. Human and elf, orc and dwarf, therian and every lineage between, all huddled together in a single mass. Guardians of the Tower stood as a living barrier, keeping the crowd contained.
The chants came like waves, rolling and crashing against the gates. Words of fury. Cries for vengeance. Curses in every tongue spoken across Avalon. Signs and banners cut through the sea of heads, Burgess' face plastered upon them, slashed, burned, marred with ink and paint. Some bore horns scrawled across his brow. Others painted him in scenes too vile to name. None of it was questioned, for their rage was shared, their hatred united.
Before the Palace of Justice, the mob swelled into an ocean of faces spilling out of every road, every alley, every crevice. They surged against the barricades as Guardians in riot gear braced themselves, shields and staves held firm. Their visors hid their eyes, but their bodies betrayed them. Tense, uneasy. They knew that if one spark caught flame, nothing would stop the inferno.
At the front of the barriers stood the citizens of Stornoway. François and his wife screamed themselves hoarse, fists raised high as they demanded justice for their razed town, for the lives Captain Hoffman had stolen. Beside them, survivors of Captain Clegane and Captain Callahan raised their own voices. Families shattered by Astrea Vikander's cruelty cried out. Mothers and fathers of those wrongfully condemned by Manfred Kaltz wept and raged, their voices joining the swell until the cries of grief and fury became deafening.
At the top of the marble stairs, Frank stood straight-backed, the tails of his long overcoat stirring in the morning breeze. Sunlight glinted off the fresh stripes on his arm, marking his new rank, though he wore them with little pride. His eyes narrowed as he looked out across the sea of faces below. An endless tide of anger and grief. The noise rolled up the steps in waves: chants, curses, shouts, all hammering against the gates.
He exhaled, jaw tight, mustache twitching.
"You see this, Wilhelm?" he muttered under his breath. "Takes me right back to the day after Dah-Tan. Same damn chaos, different banner. Only difference is… you're not here to drag us out of the fire this time." He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "What I wouldn't give to watch you chop that bastard into little, freaking, dog treats and be done with it. Gods help us all."
"Captain Reagan!" a young guard called, hurrying up the steps. His words nearly drowned beneath the crowd's roar as he snapped to attention and saluted. "Perimeter's secured, sir! Guardians on every exit and entrance. No one's getting close to the building."
"Good work," Frank nodded, though his gaze never left the mob below. "That being said, won't mean much if shit hits the fan."
The guard hesitated, eyes flicking nervously toward the chanting throng. He leaned closer. "Sir… you think it'll turn ugly?"
Frank grunted. "I'm not saying it will, kid. I'm saying I've stood where you're standing now, looking at a crowd that'll burn the world down if you give 'em half a reason. Normally, I'd tell you boys to hold firm." He turned, meeting the guard's eyes. "But after everything? We're outnumbered ten to one. These people want blood. So don't give them a reason to take ours."
The guard swallowed hard, straightening. "Aye, sir."
Frank let out a slow breath, the chants and curses swelling louder as if to underline his words. His shoulders sagged with the weight of it. "Let's pray justice shows its face today. Otherwise…" His gaze swept the crowd one last time as the roar mounted. "We're in for one hell of a day."
****
The hours bled away like lifeblood from a fresh kill, and Godric, like a hunter on the edge of patience, sat watching the barristers and prosecutors spar over every word of the case. The courtroom itself was a monument to authority—vast, towering walls of polished walnut rising into alabaster ceilings, crystal lights burning bright overhead. Nearly a hundred onlookers filled the circular tiers of seating, their arrangement echoing the colosseum ring back at the Congregation.
At the far end of the chamber, nine individuals sat in a solemn line upon an elevated bench. Three women and six men, most well into the twilight of their years, their faces carved with age and gravity, eyes shifting between the accusers and the accused. Two long tables stretched before them, the barristers and advocates of law hunched over their parchments and notes, trading volleys like duelists.
But all of it paled next to the figure in the center.
Lamar Burgess stood shackled within the circular dock, chains biting into his wrists. His posture was upright, though his body bore the marks of defeat. The plain black slacks and shirt hung loose around his bandaged frame. Stitches tugged grotesquely at the flesh of his face; his right eye sagged beneath gauze, burns still raw beneath the wrappings. Yet the fire in him had not dimmed. His lip curled in a near-snarl, teeth bared faintly, eyes glinting with defiance. Every word from the prosecutor seemed to grind against him, and still he stood unrepentant, unbowed.
Godric's jaw tightened. That look in Burgess's eyes. No remorse, no shame, only contempt, set his blood simmering. The man who had slaughtered, deceived, and poisoned Avalon stood there daring to glare as though he were the wronged. Godric's crimson eyes flicked to his friends. Each of them mirrored his fury, their faces hard with the same loathing that clenched in his chest.
His gaze shifted upward. Above the courtroom, half-hidden in the shadows of the gallery, several figures watched in silence. He could not see their faces, but the gleam of white-and-gold armor flanking the chamber left little doubt in his mind. These were no mere dignitaries. Royalty was watching.
"Ugh," Salazar groaned, rolling his eyes as he leaned back in his seat. "Must real proceedings be so dreadfully boring? It's nothing like those dramatized farces on the tablets. By Scáthach, I'd keep myself on the straight and narrow if only to avoid such torturous drivel."
"Courts aren't meant to be theatre, Salazar," Rowena murmured, careful to keep her tone low. "Though some may treat them as such, the purpose remains the same, the pursuit of truth."
"I'm surprised it's dragging on this long," Helga added, frowning. "With all the evidence they've got, you'd think it would be done in an hour."
"Even scum like Burgess is owed due process," Helena said, arms folded. "He's been Director for decades. With the tricks he's pulled, I'm certain he knows how to twist every loophole and exploit every rule. They want to close every gap so he can't call for a mistrial."
Jeanne nodded quietly, but Godric's crimson gaze lingered on the nine figures presiding over the trial. He leaned toward Rowena. "Hey, those nine up there. I know they said it was the Wizarding Council, but do you know anything more?"
Rowena's eyes flicked toward the dais. "Only two," she whispered. She gestured with her chin at the man seated in the center, robed in immaculate white, his long beard gleaming in the crystal light. "That's Grand Councilman Oscar Ferdinand Vessalius. He's the head of the Council. Grandfather always said he's both highly influential and frighteningly powerful."
Her gaze shifted to the wiry man seated at Vessalius's left, sharp features drawn tight in perpetual disdain. "That one is Councilman Mycellus Peverell."
Salazar stiffened, emerald eyes narrowing. "Did you just say… Peverell?"
Rowena and Godric turned to him at once. "Yes," Rowena said cautiously. "Why? Is something the matter?"
Salazar hesitated, then shook his head. "No. It is nothing." He returned his eyes to the trial, though both Rowena and Godric exchanged puzzled looks.
"As I was saying," Rowena continued, her tone sharper, "Councilman Peverell is well known—though not for anything admirable. His reputation is one of infamy. He's an elitist of the worst kind, a racist who despises every non-human race, and especially mundanes and the mundane-born." She exhaled. "Frankly, I'd say he's even more contemptible than Burgess. The only saving grace is that he's a coward at heart."
Godric's jaw clenched, crimson eyes flashing. "Sounds like a man who should be in chains right beside Burgess."
"You said it," Helena muttered darkly.
****
The gavel struck the block with a resounding crack that echoed through the chamber, stilling every breath.
"I believe we have heard enough," Vessalius intoned. His emerald gaze fixed upon the man bound at the center. "Lamar Augustine Burgess, you stand accused of high treason, corruption, genocide, and a litany of crimes so grotesque, so deplorable, they defy enumeration."
Burgess kept his head bowed, unmoving, the chains at his wrists rattling softly with each shallow breath.
"Never," Vessalius continued, "not since the fall of the Dark Lord, nor the calamities that followed, through the Dark Times and the Wars of Nations, never has there been a man so utterly wretched as you. And yet, even now, you shall be granted one chance. One final chance to speak in your own defense. A chance to speak the truth."
At that, Burgess stirred. His head lifted slowly, a twisted smirk pulling across his scarred features, eyes glinting with venom.
"The truth?" His voice was low, rough, dripping with spite.
"Yes," Vessalius replied coldly. "The Council, and all of Avalon, are entitled to it."
"Well, since you ask so very nicely…" Burgess drawled, tilting his head as though in mock courtesy. He swept his gaze across the assembled crowd, the chains clinking as he shifted. Then his spoke, harsh and bitter.
"I saved you. From the savages. From the barbarians. From beasts, monsters, undead hordes and demons clawing from the pits of Hell." His lip curled back over his teeth. "I saved Avalon, and all your worthlesslives. I should have let them kill you all."
A wave of gasps and furious cries rippled through the chamber. The air thickened with outrage.
"Order!" Vessalius thundered, slamming the gavel once more. The sharp crack echoed like a shot. "The accused will conduct himself with decorum in this court."
Burgess turned his gaze upon the Council, smirk widening, his eyes black pits of scorn.
"This farce…" he sneered. "All of it. A performance, a pageant for the serfs and the peasants, while you preen upon your lofty chairs. A ludicrous charade of justice."
He leaned forward as he cut through the uproar. "So let us bring the curtain down, shall we? The charges you lay upon me. Every last one of them. Every vile, despicable, wicked, cruel, and abhorrent deed committed in the name of the Clock Tower…" His smile split wider, almost feral. "Are entirely correct."
The chamber exploded into pandemonium. The roar of the crowd reverberated against marble and stone, rising into a frenzy. Vessalius hammered the gavel again and again.
"Order! ORDER!" he cried, cutting through the din. His gaze hardened at the man. "Have you nothing to say in your defense?"
"Nothing but this," Burgess hissed. "We live in a world hemmed by walls, and those walls must be guarded. Guarded by men with swords, with wands, with steel and fire in their hands, against the monsters who would see it all torn down. So, tell me, who will do it?" His eyes snapped to Vessalius, blazing with defiance. "You?" Then to Mycellus, lip curling. "You, you sickening parody of a man?"
Mycellus lurched forward, face contorting, but Vessalius' hand shot out, halting him with a single gesture.
"As Director, I bore a burden greater than you could possibly fathom," Burgess pressed on. He turned to the crowd, his words rolling like a curse. "You pitiful fools, crying for nameless corpses, damning the Tower that shielded you. You have that luxury. Yes, you have the luxury of ignorance. The luxury of not knowing what I know. That every decision you decry as monstrous, every deed you deem cruel, saved lives." His scarred features twisted into a snarl. "My existence, however grotesque and incomprehensible to the lot of you, saved lives!"
In the stands, Godric and his companions hardened, jaws tight, every fiber of them bristling with contempt.
Burgess' gaze lashed back to the Council. "You prattle on about truth, but let us not pretend. That is not what you want. No. You fear it. You recoil from it. Because it reveals you for what you are, frauds. Yet in your hypocrisy, you still demand me on that wall. You need me on that wall!"
His voice rose as he spun, glaring up to the shadowed gallery above. "At the Tower, we spoke of honor, of loyalty, of duty. We lived and bled by those words. They were the very marrow of our bones. And you—" he spun back around and jabbed a chained hand at the Council, teeth bared. "You drape them across your tongues as trinkets, no more than hollow speeches from your gilded thrones."
Vessalius slammed his palms against the desk and surged to his feet. "Enough of this drivel, Burgess! If you have nothing of substance to—"
"And let us not forget, Vessalius," Burgess cut in as he stepped forward within the dock. "The real truth you and your esteemed colleagues have labored so desperately to bury. Yes, I was Director of the Clock Tower, but even the dullest minds in Avalon know this." His lips curled into a feral grin. "You put me in that chair. Every single one of you."
The chamber erupted, the crowd breaking into jeers, cries, and angry shouts, yet this time, for the first time, the voices lent weight to Burgess' words. The councilors shifted uneasily, eyes darting, their masks of composure slipping. Mycellus shook with fury, while Vessalius' expression blackened with cold rage.
"You paint yourselves as the noble stewards of Avalon," Burgess went on. "But at the first whiff of inconvenience, you cast aside your golden hero and welcomed the devil through your gates." He leaned forward, eyes glinting with malice. "But that is not the whole of it, is it? At any moment, you could have stopped me. Held me to account. Put an end to the carnage you now denounce as too monstrous to stomach."
His smirk widened. "But you did not. Because you did not hate it. You loved it. You gloried in it. The horror, the cruelty, the spectacle. Each abomination made your thrones more secure. You cheered it, you sanctioned it, so long as it served your order."
He lifted his bound hands, pointing a trembling finger toward the bench. "It was you who said it, was it not? That rebellion must be crushed in blood, that fear was the strongest tether to bind men's hearts. And better, far better, to be feared than to be loved." His burning gaze locked on Mycellus. "Wasn't it you, Peverell, who whispered that truth into my ear?"
Mycellus blanched, his face drained to a ghostly pallor as he spluttered wordlessly, yet before he could summon a retort, Burgess pressed on.
"You see, gentlemen, I can go on, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to justify myself to cowards. Cowards who rise and sleep under the blanket of security that I alone provided, and then dare question the manner in which I provided it!" he exclaimed as his eyes swept the chamber with venomous disdain.
He turned, his voice rising to reach the crowd. "You should be on your knees. Yes, on your bloody knees, offering thanks, emptying your lungs in gratitude for every dawn you saw without your children butchered, your homes razed, your world devoured by the beasts I held at bay. You should grovel before me for the years of safety I carved out of blood and steel, not spit upon the hands that bled for you!"
His face twisted, eyes burning with a wild intensity. "But if gratitude is too much for your pitiful pride, then I suggest you do the next best thing. Take up a blade, stand the post, and see how long you last staring into the abyss I stared into every damned day. Either way—" he spat the words, lips curling into a snarl, "I don't give a damn what you, or the whole of Avalon, think you are owed!"
"Silence!" Vessalius thundered, the gavel crashing down with such force that the head split clean from the haft, skittering across the marble floor until it came to rest at Burgess's feet. The chamber fell silent, save for the echo of splintered wood. Vessalius drew a sharp, steadying breath. "It seems there is no need for deliberation." His emerald eyes swept the Council. "Those in favor of conviction."
One by one, hands rose. Nine in total, unanimous, even Mycellus's trembling fingers.
Vessalius exhaled heavily. "Lamar Augustine Burgess. For your countless crimes against Avalon, you are hereby declared… guilty."
A murmur rippled through the chamber, swelling until it threatened to break into chaos. Burgess's gaze darkened, his hands twitching violently against the chains as they rattled with each breath. Godric and his friends leaned forward, every nerve taut.
Vessalius's tone sharpened to steel. "And for the enormity of your sins, you are hereby sentenced to death—by Avis Dilaceratus."
Gasps tore through the crowd. Godric and Helga exchanged baffled glances, Jeanne frowned in confusion, while Helena's face drained of all color. Rowena raised a hand to her lips in shock. Only Salazar smirked, a cruel spark in his emerald eyes.
"May the Gods have mercy on your soul," Vessalius finished. He turned to the guards. "Take him to his cell."
Burgess suddenly lifted his head, exploding like thunder. "On my soul?" His chains clattered as he lunged forward, eyes blazing. "On my soul?! You wretched, cowardly vermin! You twisted, spineless degenerates! I did everything you demanded of me. I bled upon the altar that kept you in those gilded chairs, and this is how you repay me?!"
The guards seized him by the arms as Lamar thrashed against their grip.
"For years I have been the steward of your secrets. The progenitor of every twisted scheme, the executor of every vile design you dared not soil your own hands with!" he snarled, his face contorted with fury. "I was your shield, your dagger in the dark, the guardian of your wretched interests!"
His eyes blazed as he spat. "Do not delude yourselves, I know them all. Every sin. Every betrayal. Every crime you have buried beneath gilded stone and silken drapery. The skeletons rattling in the cabinets of this Council would shame the grandest catacombs in all of Avalon!"
The Council rose, their faces drawn and uneasy. Burgess's words cut through the chamber, raw with fury. "Send me to the slaughter if you must! But mark me well, the storm is coming. All of Avalon will rise for their pound of flesh, and when they do, I pray they carve it from you first, Mycellus!"
Mycellus stiffened, turning only enough to scoff dismissively before striding away with the others, his robe sweeping the floor.
The crowd erupted, cheers and cries of vindication shaking the walls.
Burgess twisted in the guards' grasp, laughter spilling from his throat, jagged and unhinged. "And I hope you scream!" he howled above the din. "I hope to the Gods the lot of you scream like the worthless mongrels you are!"
His maniacal laughter lingered long after the chains dragged him from sight.
****
The streets of Camelot roared with life, a tide of celebration that spilled through every avenue and square. Cries of joy and tears of relief mingled as families embraced, strangers clasped hands, and voices rose in unison. To the people, justice had finally been served; the monster who had cast a long shadow over their lives would at last meet the fate he had spent decades evading. Chants thundered in every tongue of Avalon, echoing against stone and glass, carrying on the night air as dancers filled the streets.
And yet, for all the revelry, the Tower stood apart. The Citadel remained ringed by Guardians, its gates surrounded by watchful citizens whose fury had not dimmed despite Burgess's conviction. The man might soon be gone, but the institution he had commanded for decades remained, tarnished by his hand. To sever Burgess from the Tower would be a task of generations, and men like Bran, Frank, and Langston knew the path ahead was long, fraught, and bitter.
By the time the sun dipped beyond the horizon, stars shimmered across the black canopy of sky, silver light spilling where the golden rays had vanished.
At the Continental Hotel, its opulent lobby thrummed with polite excitement. Guests clustered in groups, their conversations brimming with hushed speculation and enthusiastic recounting of the day's events. But in a quiet corner, away from the eager din, six friends sat together on leather couches. Their uniforms were neatly pressed. Their drink glasses beaded with condensation as melting ice chimed against crystal rims.
Godric's sword rested against the wall beside him, its ruby-studded hilt glinting beneath the chandeliers. The group sat in silence, each lost in thought, the weight of the trial heavy on their minds.
"So… that happened," Helga finally said, gesturing vaguely with both hands.
"Tell me about it," Helena muttered, leaning back as she sipped from her straw. "Boy, what a day."
"I must confess," Salazar drawled, his arms folding with an air of lazy superiority. "I was mistaken. Dreadfully dull at the start, yes—but the second half? Positively riveting. I daresay I have not been so thoroughly entertained in quite some time." A smirk tugged at his lips.
Rowena rolled her eyes and sipped her tea with exasperation. "You are impossible, Salazar."
"Perhaps," he conceded, leaning forward now, elbows resting on his knees. His smirk softened into something quieter. "But all jests aside, are you well? Truly?"
Rowena blinked, her lips parting as if to deflect with a cutting remark. Yet the sharpness never came. Instead, her gaze lowered to the tea swirling in her cup. "I… do not know. I was certain the Council would find him guilty. How could they not? But Avis Dilaceratus?" She paused. "As much as I loathe him, as much as I find him irredeemably vile, I cannot quite imagine…"
"So…" Jeanne broke in hesitantly, setting down her half-finished drink. "Is someone, perhaps, going to kindly explain what exactly Avis Dilaceratus is?"
"In all honesty," Godric said at last, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "It's been gnawing at me since the end of the trial. What's got everyone so spooked?"
"Yeah," Helga added, raising a brow. "They all looked rattled. I don't recall ever reading about it. Not even in History of Magic, and you know how Professor Lotho loves to drone on about things that aren't in the books."
Rowena froze for a heartbeat before her expression softened. She set her cup down, folding her fingers together. "I suppose it's only fair you should know. There's a reason you've never heard of Avis Dilaceratus. In the common tongue, it means The Torn Bird. It's… a form of execution reserved for the worst of the worst. The vilest criminals in Avalon's history." She raised her gaze to meet theirs. "In over a thousand years, since the end of the Calamity, it's only been carried out three times. This will be the fourth."
"I see," Godric murmured. "But why exactly?"
Rowena parted her lips but faltered.
"Because it is unspeakably horrific," Helena answered for her, drawing all eyes. "I won't… I can't go into every detail, but when I first read about it, I was sick to my stomach for days." Her brown eyes shifted to Helga. "If you need a comparison, it's not unlike the Blood Eagle."
Helga stiffened instantly, the color draining from her face. Jeanne's hand flew to her mouth, horrified. Godric's jaw tightened, his crimson eyes narrowing.
"Now that," Godric said grimly, "I have heard of. Blimey… that's monstrous."
Salazar, who had been quiet until now, gave a soft, humorless laugh, his words deliberate and cutting. "Monstrous indeed. But perhaps fitting. For men such as Burgess, the ordinary gallows or even the axe would almost seem merciful." He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You think they'd allow us the privilege of watching? I could do with some genuine sport."
Helena recoiled, her brow furrowing. "Ugh, you're absolutely disgusting, Salazar. How can you even joke about something like that?"
"My dear Helena, whatever gave you the impression I was jesting?" Salazar's smile lingered, sweet as honey yet carrying the venom of a viper. Slowly, it twisted, shedding all pretense until only something darker remained. "I do not take pleasure in suffering for its own sake, but when a creature is so wretched, so grotesque, that it surrenders all claim to the word human… then yes, I will make an exception."
His emerald eyes gleamed, cold and unyielding. "And in that moment, I will not be burdened with morality, nor haunted by sympathy. For such vermin, I have none to give."
Helena recoiled, leaning back ever so slightly, her face marked with quiet unease.
Rowena exhaled softly, her gaze dropping to the rim of her teacup. "I doubt it. Something so grotesque isn't meant for children… nor for the common man. Very few could stomach it. No, such a spectacle would be reserved for a select few, and even then, only those with iron in their veins."
"I don't suppose… you intend to go?" Jeanne asked quietly.
Rowena was silent for a long moment before shaking her head. "No. The man I once called uncle. The man I cherished and loved, died the moment he revealed his true face." Her jaw tightened, her sapphire eyes hardening. "Whoever they condemn on that day won't be Lamar Burgess, my uncle, but Lamar Burgess the criminal. The tyrant. The murderer. And he'll have to make peace with the fact that in his final moments, he'll be utterly alone, trapped in the Hell he built for himself."
Jeanne hesitated before meeting Rowena's gaze. "I know I may speak out of turn," she said softly, "but the Lord teaches that forgiveness is the only way forward."
Salazar's eyes narrowed at the word, but Jeanne pressed on. "Not for him. Burgess has debts in this life and the next. But for you, Rowena. Forgiveness is a way to make peace with what's been done to you, to let go, so that one day you can heal."
Rowena's hardened expression faltered, her gaze softening.
Helga leaned against her, slipping an arm around her shoulder. "And hey," she said gently, a small smile breaking through the gloom, "you'll always have us. Every step of the way."
Godric shared Helga's smile before it faded from his face. Salazar, ever watchful, caught the change. "Something troubles you, dear friend?" he asked.
Godric hesitated, then gestured with a hand. "It's this… all of it. It doesn't feel like a victory. Not really. I mean, we lived. We survived against all odds, against an army led by a madman, and yet…" His tone dropped. "Once again, it feels hollow. Empty. Just like with Volg and the Calishans."
Helena leaned forward. "War's never meant to feel glorious or triumphant. Everyone fights for their own reasons. Some cruel, some selfish, some just trying to protect what they love, but in the end, it all boils down to one thing: making it home alive."
She let out a breath, eyes flicking toward Godric. "I'll admit, I did feel a sense of satisfaction watching you put Volg down, he deserved it, no question." Her gaze snapped to Salazar, who was smirking. "Wipe that grin off your face before I do it for you, Slytherin."
Salazar merely arched an eyebrow, lips twitching but saying nothing.
Helena cleared her throat and continued. "But seeing him at the end. What that drug did to him, it stuck with me. I couldn't shake the thought that maybe it had gone too far." She paused, her expression hardening. "I won't say Volg and Burgess were anything alike, one's far viler than the other… but the cost of it all still feels too steep."
"Oh, Helena, ever the drama queen, you speak as though such costs are a lamentable accident." Salazar arched an eyebrow, his smirk lingering.
Helena bristled, but Salazar continued, swirling his drink with a calm indifference. "The truth is, wars are meant to feel hollow. They strip away illusions, leaving only what is necessary. Victory or defeat. Volg, Burgess, all their ilk… they were monsters by choice. To pity them is to waste breath better spent on the living."
His gaze shifted to Godric. "You say it feels meaningless, yet I say it is precisely because of its cost that it carries meaning. Every life lost, every horror endured… it reminds us what happens when we falter. And why we cannot."
Godric's gaze dropped, lingering on the floor before lifting again with a heavy breath. "You know… I never thought about it that way. But I suppose you're right, it does make sense."
His eyes shifted to the sword propped against the wall. "My uncle Gareth used to tell me that all it takes for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing. And that's what happened, isn't it? Somewhere along the way, they surrendered their will to the Tower… to the Council. They let themselves be herded like sheep, marched to the slaughter without a word of protest."
His fists clenched against his knees. "If not for Asriel. If not for the Sword of Damocles… we'd still be living in that shadow." A hollow chuckle escaped him, dark at the edges. "And the bitter truth of it? The one who saved Avalon wasn't some shining knight, wasn't some noble king… but a man driven by vengeance. By fury. By spite. Salvation, born of hatred." He shook his head. "It'd almost be funny, if it weren't so damned tragic."
Godric looked away, jaw tight. "And I can't even claim I'm any different. They call me the Hero of Caerleon now, praising me for my victory over Burgess… but what they don't know, what I can't admit to them, is that I held no love for Caerleon. A part of me wanted to watch Caerleon burn for its indifference. For Raine. For me. That's the truth. And I'm ashamed of myself for it."
"Godric," Helga said softly, her amber eyes locking on his. "You're a hero, not a saint. Stop holding yourself to a standard no one has ever lived up to. Do you really think the Five Heroes themselves never faltered? Never failed? Uther Pendragon burned an entire village and everyone in it for what they did to the elves. Gil-Galad cut down his own brother for allying with Sarkon. And Aura Stormbreaker…" she shook her head. "You've read what she did to the Black Dwarves of Blackrock after they murdered her only son. They all carried sins, some greater than yours."
She lifted her hands in emphasis. "The point is, you're human, Godric. So are we. We're allowed to stumble. We're allowed to get it wrong. We're allowed to be messes." She leaned forward, her fist pressing lightly against his chest. "What matters is here. That even with all that hate burning in you, when it came down to it, you still chose to fight. You still protected Caerleon. You stepped up when it mattered most—and that means everything. More than the anger. More than the shame. That's what makes you the Lion of Ignis."
Godric smiled faintly, a small chuckle slipping past his lips. "Thanks, Helga." He paused, his crimson eyes sweeping over all of them. "And thank you. All of you. You stood by me when all I ever did was push you away. A man can't ask for better friends."
"I'll admit," Salazar drawled, lips curling into a smirk, "there were moments where I very nearly fetched a chair and brought it down on your head. But I suppose that won't be necessary now."
Godric smirked back. "And I'd have bloody well deserved it."
Before another word could be spoken, the sharp beat of wings thundered through the lobby. All eyes lifted as a silver-winged falcon swept down from above, its plumage shimmering like polished steel. With a powerful flap, it descended upon their table, its talons clinking against the glass. The bird tilted its head, sharp eyes scanning each of them as it gave a piercing chirp.
"Ayden?" Helena breathed, her eyes widening. "What are you doing here?"
"Wait, you know the bird?" Helga asked, brow raised.
"Ayden is King Uther's falcon," Helena explained quickly. "I've seen him countless times, delivering letters to Arthur and Artoria. He's only ever used for official decrees or personal orders."
Jeanne's lavender eyes darted to the harness strapped to the bird. "Look, there, in the satchel. Is that a letter?"
Godric leaned forward, carefully sliding the alabaster envelope free from the harness. The wax seal shimmered under the crystal light. The unmistakable crest of House Pendragon. All of them stared at it, eyes widening.
"By Hecate," Rowena whispered, swallowing hard. "What business could King Uther possibly have with us? Did we—have we broken some law?" Her hand flew to her mouth. "What if we offended him somehow?"
"Gods above, maybe it's an execution order!" Helga clutched her neck dramatically. "What if he wants our heads on pikes?!"
"Oh, do stop panicking," Salazar scoffed, though the nervous flicker in his eyes betrayed him. "I'm quite sure it's nothing… catastrophic. Well, not entirely catastrophic. Go on, open it."
Godric broke the seal and unfurled the letter. Silence gripped the group as they leaned closer, breaths held. After a long moment, he raised his gaze, his expression unreadable.
"It… it is from King Uther," Godric said at last. Color drained from their faces. "He…. requests our presence at the Grand Palace tomorrow."
"The Palace?" Jeanne asked cautiously. "But… for what purpose?"
Godric cleared his throat. "For tea."
The group froze.
"…Eh?"