The skies bled with a muted amber glow as the sun sagged toward the horizon, its last streaks of red and gold slipping between the heavy grey clouds while the air, still warm with the languid breath of summer, wrapped itself around the world in a slow, suffocating embrace. For most across Avalon, the slight dip in temperature was a blessing after weeks of oppressive heat that had smothered the cities since the season's turn, and with the arrival of the fortnight mark, those same cities had emptied as their weary inhabitants fled the glass towers and concrete arteries for places quieter, gentler, and far removed from the burdens that had pulled their lives so taut they felt close to snapping.
Beneath the shade of thick canopies where late sunlight could hardly pierce, a convoy of trucks cut a harsh line through the forest path, their tires scraping over sand and loose stone while the engines thrummed with a crystalline chime, smoke drifting from the exhaust in shimmering ribbons that left a faint sweetness on the air. The cages bolted to the steel beds groaned with every jolt of the road, heavy locks clinking with each sway, and within those cramped metal confines huddled therians of every kind imaginable. Wolves and foxes, tigers and smaller felines, dogs and countless others. Men, women, children and the elderly pressed shoulder to shoulder, their ears flattened, their tails limp, and the air around them tight with fear and exhaustion.
Marching alongside the caravan was a small contingent of armed men in black, their uniforms torn, stained, and worn thin, and the once-feared emblem of Norsefire still barely clinging to the fabric in frayed patches. Their wands remained holstered, their blades sheathed, though their eyes never stopped sweeping the treeline for the faintest sign of danger. Any swagger they once carried during the Siege of Caerleon, or the older ones, during the Insurrection, had long since rotted away.
Under Burgess they had strutted as if invincible, shielded by his authority from consequence or retribution, but now, with their master executed and their faction dissolved and outlawed, they were little more than fugitives. Terrorists to be hunted, criminals who would meet the executioner long before they saw the inside of a courtroom.
Yet even as that truth loomed over them, not all had surrendered to despair. Some, clinging to a delusion forged out of desperation and pride, believed that one day they would reclaim their place within the Tower and return triumphant, hailed as martyrs and loyalists rather than hunted prey. Until that so-called glorious day arrived, they lent their talents to darker work, to smuggling, cruelty and crimes born of necessity and ideology, convincing themselves that every vile act was merely a temporary compromise. An unpleasant duty on the long march back to power.
A violent jolt tore through the convoy as one of the trucks struck a deep rut in the road, the rear axle kicking up hard enough to rattle the cages and send the cramped captives crying out in pain and fright.
"Oi! Watch it, you damned halfwits!" a voice barked from beside the cab, slicing through the tense quiet like a whip. "If anything happens to the cargo, I'm docking it straight out of your final paycheck!"
The man shouting wore battered plate armour dulled by time and grime, its once-proud sheen now lost beneath the scuffs of too many battles and too many poor decisions. His cropped, rust-orange hair caught the dying light as he exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose with gloved fingers as if attempting to massage away the headache of simply existing among such company. A cluster of Norsefire remnants nearby shot him irritated looks. Resentful, mutinous little scowls that made his sapphire eyes narrow.
"What in the Nine Hells are you mooks staring at?" he snapped. "Eyes forward. Move."
The guards muttered their disapproval under their breath but obeyed, their boots scraping through the dirt as they resumed their positions around the convoy.
Kerrick knew full well that this arrangement. This entire enterprise, was reckless to the point of idiocy. Only a man of either desperate courage or suicidal arrogance would willingly hire former Tower agents, especially Norsefire zealots who would slit his throat without hesitation if it meant clawing back even a shred of their lost glory. Every one of them was a fanatic, a wolf pretending to wear a leash, and he understood intimately that none of them had forgotten his face or what he'd done.
But necessity, as always, made fools of them all.
In the chaos of the Siege, while the streets burned and the Tower crumbled under its own sins, Kerrick had slipped through the cracks like smoke. One of the few whose luck had not yet soured. Yet Avalon had changed since then. The great power that once commanded fear now inspired only hatred and distrust, leaving a void in the underbelly of the world. And where law faltered and legitimacy rotted, people sought other hands to handle the work they no longer trusted the Tower to do.
But Kerrick understood better than most that in every tremor of chaos, opportunity slithered in like smoke beneath a door. Rumours flowed freely through the gutters and taverns. With the mass exodus tearing through the Tower's ranks, hundreds of agents had abandoned their posts, forfeiting careers, reputations, and oaths in the desperate hope of outrunning the whispers of an inquisition that now stalked Burgess' loyalists like wolves. The Tower, once vast and unshakeable, had thinned to the point of translucence, its reach stretched so far that smaller settlements, once guarded beneath its iron shadow, now lay exposed.
And exposed places were profitable places.
His sapphire eyes drifted across the cages, lingering on the huddled masses within. Therians of every breed pressed shoulder to shoulder, ripped from their homes regardless of the Accords. Kerrick did not give a damn about the legality of it. Traders never had. To the men who trafficked in flesh, a body was a body, a commodity to be weighed and sold, and once the collars were locked and the brands burned into skin, the world would look away as it always had.
His gaze halted upon a fox therian girl curled tightly against her mother, her amber eyes wide with fear as she tried to make herself small beneath the weight of his stare. Kerrick felt a cold smile creep along his lips, his thoughts already tallying the silver and gold she would fetch once they reached the border markets. Pretty things always commanded a higher price, and profit, after all, was profit.
And perhaps, he mused with a bitter little chuckle curling under his breath, the night ahead would prove far less lonely than the weeks that had preceded it, for the road had been long and he had grown tired of empty beds.
He turned away, entirely unaware that the forest around him was beginning to grow very, very quiet.
Then he heard it. First a sharp, voltaic crack that split the quiet like the brief kiss of live wires, followed by the tell-tale thrum of leaves disturbed in a hurried sweep, and a strangled choke ripped from a throat. Kerrick's head snapped toward the source, his pulse lurching as the space where a guard had been standing only moments ago now lay empty, the undergrowth swaying as if exhaling after swallowing a man whole.
Before the fear could properly settle, a second sound tore through the gloom on his right. A muffled gasp, a rustle, and then nothing but the whisper of wind threading through branches. Yet another guard gone. The remaining men stiffened, their bodies tensing as every head jerked from shadow to shadow, eyes wide and unsure where to look next, as though the forest itself had begun plucking them off like fruit.
"Halt!" Kerrick shouted, the word cracking with more fear than command. The order came again, louder, desperate, carrying through the trees. The caravan responded at once. The trucks lurched to a grinding standstill, tires dragging across loose gravel until the air was filled with the scent of scorched rubber, and then, almost eerily, the engines died one by one.
A thick silence settled, broken only by the faint clinks of armor and the distant whimpers of the therians in their cages. Kerrick's hand moved instinctively to the scuffed hilt of his sword, knuckles whitening as he eased the blade halfway from its sheath. His breath misted faintly in the air despite the lingering warmth of summer, and a prickling sensation crawled across the back of his neck.
"Something ain't right," he muttered, though the words felt woefully insufficient for the dread curling in his gut, a dread that told him whatever stalked these trees hadn't come for negotiation. Only retribution.
Then, Kerrick felt it. A strange sensation on his neck, the hairs standing, a tingle down his spine. His eyes widened, lifting his hand to his face. He bit down on his glove and slipped it off as he rubbed his fingers together. It was then, he saw it, sparks of electricity jumping between his fingers. His gaze turned to the therians, the fur on their ears and tails puffing as they looked at one another in shock.
Kerrick felt a chill in his throat. He knew exactly what this is. "Oh, rut me…"
Chaos erupted with the suddenness of a firecracker thrown into dry brush, a golden blur tearing through the line of men so quickly that Kerrick barely registered movement before the screams began. Something. No, someone, moved with the speed of living lightning, a streak of incandescent brilliance that carved through the guards with inhuman precision. In the space of a heartbeat, bodies were hurled skyward as though caught in the jaws of a storm. Limbs bent at grotesque, unnatural angles, bones snapping beneath flesh, blood misting the air as men hit the earth in limp, broken heaps.
"To arms!" Kerrick roared, the cry shredding his throat even as his men scattered in blind panic, scrambling like ants whose mound had been kicked apart. "To arms—"
The words died when the guard beside him jerked violently backward, slammed against the metal siding of the nearest truck with a bone-rattling crack. His eyes, wide with confusion, dropped to his chest—where a shimmering, ethereal arrow of cobalt-blue light protruded from his sternum, pulsing faintly like some otherworldly heart. The man tried to speak, but only a wet choke escaped, a ribbon of blood spilling down his chin before the arrow dissolved into mist, leaving his body to collapse lifelessly into the dirt.
Kerrick staggered back, breath catching, just as another volley of those spectral arrows sliced through the air. Each one fired with surgical accuracy, each one finding its mark. One after another, his men stiffened, gasped, and crumpled, the cold glow in their eyes fading as their bodies hit the ground in a growing ring of silence and death.
And in that dreadful moment, Kerrick understood that whatever hunted them was not merely skilled. It was merciless, unstoppable, and utterly unseen.
A scream. Raw, tearing, full of the kind of terror that comes only when a man knows he is already dead, pulled Kerrick's gaze toward the front of the caravan. An instant later, something barreled through his ranks with the unstoppable momentum of a battering ram. Bodies scattered like rag dolls hurled by a giant's hand. Some were flung sideways into trees, others sent spinning skyward before crashing back down in boneless heaps. In the span of a few breaths, his private army. The very men he had believed hardened, ruthless, unbreakable, was being taken apart faster than they could raise steel or speak an incantation.
Blades shattered into useless shards. Wands snapped like twigs underfoot. Armor crumpled, dented, torn away, and strewn across the dirt in mangled pieces that gleamed faintly under the fading evening light. The therians in their cages cried out, shrinking into themselves, clutching one another desperately as they listened to the brutal symphony of screams and snapping bone. Fear rippled through them. Whatever monster was dismantling Kerrick's forces with such clinical ease would, surely, come for them next.
Kerrick felt his limbs begin to shake uncontrollably. A ghost from memory wrapped cold fingers around his spine. He saw again, as vividly as if it were yesterday, the carnage in the Mirkwood. The night Serfence the Black had torn through his men with the quiet, merciless precision of a former Executioner. He had escaped that demon by the grace of the Gods and the mercy of the man. And now, staring into the devastation unfolding before him, he knew deep in his marrow that whoever had arrived was cut from that same monstrous cloth.
This time, he would not be so lucky.
His knees buckled beneath him. Air wheezed from his lungs in a strangled sound. His sword slipped from his trembling fingers and fell to the ground with a faint metallic tinkle. He dropped after it, hands scrabbling in the dirt, but before his fingers could close around the hilt, something cold, perfectly still and mercilessly sharp pressed gently, almost tenderly, against the side of his throat.
He froze.
Slowly, with dread crawling up his spine, he lowered his gaze and saw the weapon. A spear, its obsidian-black blade polished to a mirror sheen, catching the dying sunlight in an eerie emerald shimmer. Serpentine engravings curled along the metal like living things, twisting toward the edge.
His eyes travelled upward, past the shaft forged from hardened steel, past the gloved hand gripping it with unshakable ease, until they met the hooded figure looming above him. The man's coat. Thick, canvas-like material reinforced with panels of armor, hung heavy over his frame, an emerald scarf draped around his shoulders and stirring softly in the breeze like a heraldic banner.
Most of his face was lost under the shadow of his hood, but what little Kerrick could see was worse than any nightmare. An amused grin, sharp and knowing, playing at the corner of the man's mouth as if the slaughter around them were nothing more than an evening's entertainment.
The stranger glanced down at Kerrick's fallen sword, then back at the man himself. He clicked his tongue once, almost disappointed.
Without a word, he shifted his grip, flipped the spear, and slammed the butt of the weapon into Kerrick's skull with a single, fluid strike.
The world collapsed into darkness.
****
The world drifted back to Kerrick in a nauseating swirl of colour and sound, each breath dragging a fresh spike of pain through the side of his skull. He groaned, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached, and tried to shift his weight, only to discover that he could not move at all. Panic surged through him as he glanced down. His arms were wrenched behind his back, bound at the wrists with coarse rope pulled so tight it bit into his skin like iron shackles. He was propped against the enormous wheel of one of the supply trucks, its metal frame cold against his spine.
He pulled, twisted, strained with everything his battered body had left, but the bindings did not yield. They only dug deeper.
Footsteps rustled through the clearing. His head snapped up, vision still swimming. The first thing he saw was the therians. No longer caged. Dozens of them were clustered together in the open, some crying openly, others laughing through tears as families reunited in desperate embraces. Their voices filled the forest with a soft, trembling joy that made the hairs on the back of Kerrick's neck rise in cold disbelief.
His gaze drifted across the clearing, taking in the carnage with a sinking, hollow disbelief as the wreckage of his private army lay strewn over the ground like discarded dolls. Bodies sprawled in broken heaps, some already sinking into dark pools of blood while others, unfortunate enough to still draw breath, twitched and whimpered in quiet, agonised pleas, their limbs twisted into grotesque angles no human body was ever meant to endure. Jagged splinters of bone pressed through torn flesh, white and glistening under the fading light, the sight enough to churn his stomach even as fear locked his spine rigid.
He forced his gaze upward, toward the truck, to the steel cage bolted onto its bed where a handful of his men still remained intact, their faces ghost-pale as they stared out between the bars. Trapped, helpless, and fully aware that survival might, in the end, be the crueler fate.
And then, he saw them.
Four figures stood nearby, clad in the same dark, armour-reinforced coats he remembered before the lights went out. Each wore a scarf draped over their shoulders. Crimson red, warm amber, deep emerald, and shimmering sapphire, fluttering like house banners in the wind. Tribal sigils were etched across the backs of their coats: a roaring lion, a steadfast badger, a coiled serpent, and a raven mid-flight.
But it was the emblem stitched onto their arms that tore the breath from Kerrick's lungs.
He knew that sigil. Everyone in Avalon did.
"No… no, impossible…" he muttered, disbelief twisting his face.
As if sensing the moment, the boy in emerald turned. His black hair fell in a neat sweep across his brow, his gloved hands folded casually before him. Half his face no longer shadowed beneath the hood, but a confident, almost playful smirk curved his lips. Cold, cutting, and unmistakably aristocratic.
"Well, well," the boy drawled, "it seems our little gutter rat has finally rejoined the land of the living."
The other three turned toward Kerrick, their gazes sharpening, and the smirk widened.
"How about we go and say hello?"
****
The four of them approached with the easy, unhurried confidence of hunters who already knew the prey could not flee. Kerrick felt his throat tighten, a cold sweat breaking across his brow as they came to a stop before him, casting long shadows over where he sat bound against the truck's wheel. They stood like executioners awaiting a command, each one radiating a presence that pressed on his chest like a physical weight.
The boy at the front. Tall, broad-shouldered, windswept hair the color of burning embers, fixed him with crimson eyes that seemed to glow with a latent, simmering fury. The royal-blue hilt of his sword peeked over his shoulder, gold embellishments gleaming like fire caught in metal. Beside him, the auburn-haired girl folded her arms, the golden bracelets on her forearms catching the fading sunlight, casting warm glints over her steady, unblinking gaze.
A few steps to the right stood the raven-haired girl, sapphire eyes sharp as cut glass, her expression the very definition of disdain. And next to her, the one who had struck Kerrick down, the black-haired boy with emerald eyes like polished stones, gleaming with cool amusement. A smirk tugged at his lips, elegant, refined, and just a shade cruel.
The red-haired boy spoke first. "You know who we are?"
Kerrick nodded at once, his entire frame trembling. He wet his lips and looked to the auburn-haired girl. "You… you're Helga Hufflepuff." His gaze shifted to the raven-haired girl. "Rowena Ravenclaw." Then, faltering, he turned to the smirking figure in emerald. "And you… Salazar Slytherin."
Finally, his eyes returned to the crimson-haired boy at the front. "And you're… Godric Gryffindor. The Lion of Ignis… the Hero of Caerleon."
Salazar began to clap, slow and deliberate, each motion dripping with elegant sarcasm. "Bravo," he drawled. "I suppose that saves us the trouble of introductions. Though I must say, it is rather gratifying to know our names travel so very far."
Rowena exhaled, placing a hand on her hip, her expression caught somewhere between pride and exasperation. "Or notoriety," she muttered. "A moon away, and already half the world seems to know who we are. Frankly, it's becoming unsettling."
Helga's face lit up, bright as the last streaks of sunset overhead. "Oh, come on, Row, look on the bright side for once." She shifted her weight, hands settling on her hips with unmistakable cheer. "At the very least, we get free stuff wherever we go. That baker in Stornoway practically threw in an extra dozen doughnuts the other day. On the house!"
Rowena pinched the bridge of her nose with a quiet, despairing sigh. "For Hecate's sake, Helga, I'm aware we've gained… recognition, but do try not to exploit every scrap of goodwill that happens to fall into your hands."
Helga only shrugged with a wide grin. "Can't call it exploitation if they insist. Would be rude to say no, wouldn't it?"
Kerrick, still bound and struggling to regain some semblance of dignity, glared up at them with a hard, furious edge. "Alright, fun's over," he snapped, attempting to straighten himself despite the ropes digging into his wrists. "Mind telling me what the Marauders think they're doing ambushing my caravan?" He jerked his chin toward the overturned cages and scattered uniforms. "In case it's slipped your notice, I run a legitimate business."
Salazar let out a sharp, elegant laugh, one that carried the precise mix of amusement and disdain that only he could manage. "Legitimate?" he echoed with a tilt of his head, pressing a gloved hand over his forehead as if pained by the absurdity. "Oh, dear Mister Stonejaw, do tell me, do you genuinely believe that simply because we're still attending school, we possess the intellectual capacity of a garden slug?"
He lowered his hand, emerald eyes narrowing with refined predatory focus. "We are not, despite your insultingly low estimation, out here merely 'playing hero.' We're also here because your name just so happens to be on a card."
Kerrick blinked. "A… card?" His gaze flickered from one Marauder to the next. "Hold on, this is a contract?"
"Straight from the Congregation," Rowena replied, her sapphire gaze settling on him with the kind of cool precision that made Kerrick instinctively shrink a fraction. "It seems certain individuals have finally had their fill of thugs and half-witted bandits parading as legitimate traders while peddling illegally captured slaves in flagrant violation of the Accords."
She folded her arms with a measured grace. "And believe me, Mister Stonejaw," she continued, "your name is hardly unfamiliar. My family has spoken of you more times than I care to count, and not once with even the faintest trace of fondness."
Kerrick let out a low chuckle, pulling a grin through blood and bravado. "Aw, truly warms my heart, being a topic of conversation among the illustrious Ravenclaws." His grin contorted into a smirk, sly and venomous. "How's the new job treating your old man? Hell, how's the whole world treating the lot of you now that everyone knows you're tied at the hip to the Tower… to Burgess?"
The change in Rowena's expression was subtle, but the air tightened all the same.
Kerrick leaned in as far as the ropes would allow, lips curling. "After all, wasn't he your godfather once upon—?"
He never finished.
With a swift, disdainful snap of motion, Salazar drove the heel of his boot into the side of Kerrick's skull. The crack echoed across the clearing.
"ARGH!" Kerrick yelped, crumpling sideways as a fresh bolt of pain tore through his head. "Ergh—gah—why is it always the head with you people?!"
Salazar lowered his foot, adjusting the fall of his coat as he looked down at the man coolly, as though tidying up after a minor inconvenience.
Kerrick shook his head to steady himself, a strained, broken laugh scraping out of his throat as he lifted his gaze to the four figures standing over him. "So, this is it, huh?" he muttered, the amusement thin and bitter. "The new normal. The Tower falls apart, the whole world starts pointing fingers, and suddenly every kingdom's leaning on adventurers and mercs to pick up the pieces."
He scoffed, though the fear in his eyes betrayed him. "Heard rumors about how Guild contracts have been piling up. The demand for adventurers going through the roof, but never, not in a million years, did I think the Congregation would go legit. Guess times really have changed."
"You'd better believe it," Godric said, his glare hardening as he looked to the freed therians clinging to one another in stunned relief. Then his eyes returned, sharper, colder. "And I know exactly who you are, Stonejaw. I know you were the bastard who crawled into bed with Peter Creedy."
Kerrick stiffened, his breath catching as a cold sweat rolled down his temples.
Godric stepped in closer, the evening light catching on the edge of his blade's blue-gold hilt. "Tell me something," he continued. "How many? How many of Excalibur's slaves did you ship out? How many vanished because of that little agreement you made? How many lives were carved up and sold because you decided to run logistics for that damned whoreson?"
Kerrick forced a shaky grin, desperate to mask the panic creeping into his expression. "Hey, easy, kid, easy. That was… that was ages ago." He swallowed, the sound loud in his throat. "Besides, it wasn't personal. Just business, yeah? Creedy had the stock, I had the routes. Clean deal. Everybody wins." His laugh faltered almost immediately.
Godric didn't move at first, but something in his expression shifted. Something darker, colder. His hand snapped to the dagger sheathed across his back. Steel hissed as it slid free, the sound slicing through the stillness.
Before Kerrick could react, Godric dropped to one knee, seized him by the jaw, and pressed the shimmering blade inches from his cheek. Kerrick's breath stuttered, his eyes widening to the point of panic.
"The contract," Godric said, "tells us to bring you back alive." His grip tightened as he leaned in, the words landing with the weight of a verdict. "But it doesn't say a single damn thing about bringing you back with every part still attached."
"Wait, wait!" Kerrick shrieked, the words tumbling out as his eyes dipped to the polished surface of the blade, wide enough for him to see the terror shaking in his own reflection. "Look, I screwed up, alright? I've got a mountain of debts to pay and a long list of people who want me dead because I've pissed off half the world. You're right, I'm a rat, I cling to any rotting carcass I can find just to survive another day!"
Godric's grip tightened, the ornate blade shifting dangerously close to Kerrick's eye.
"But whether you like it or not, I wasn't the one responsible for what happened to your girl!" Kerrick near shrieked. "That was Creedy's doing, every godsdamn moment of it!" His breath quivered. "And I sure as hell wasn't the one who wiped her memories and dumped her back home." His gaze flicked to Rowena, and she froze as if struck.
Silence followed, thick, heavy, dragging.
Godric felt a hand settle on his shoulder. He glanced toward Salazar, whose expression had softened into something steady and grounding, an anchor against the storm building behind Godric's eyes. He breathed in once, the inhale deep enough to tremble at the edges, before letting it go. Slowly, he loosened his grip on Kerrick's jaw and stood upright, sliding the dagger back into its sheath with controlled restraint rather than mercy.
"You're wrong about one thing, Kerrick," Godric said, turning from him as if the man were no more than filth beneath his boots. "You're no rat." He started walking away, never once looking back. "You're a roach."
Salazar folded his arms with a quiet, unhurried grace, his head tilting just enough for a simper to unfurl at the corner of his mouth. "And I am rather inclined to agree."
"I second that," Rowena added, her eyes narrowing with cool precision.
Helga didn't bother with words. She simply nodded, the agreement written plainly across her face.
****
As Godric stepped toward the cluster of freed therians, he halted mid-stride, surprise flickering through his crimson eyes as something small and warm wrapped tightly around his waist. He looked down to find a young fox-therian girl clinging to him, her torn pink dress hanging in ribbons around her legs, auburn hair tumbling to her waist while her black ears twitched with timid excitement. She tilted her face up toward him, and despite everything she had endured, she somehow managed a smile.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for saving me… and my mommy."
She glanced over her shoulder at an older fox-therian woman watching them, her eyes shimmering with gratitude.
"The travelers who passed through our village told stories," the girl continued. "They said there was a boy with hair like fire who carried a sword. They called him the Lion of Ignis… and the Hero of Caerleon." Her smile softened, quivering as tears gathered along her lashes. "When we were taken, I prayed to Freya that you would come. And you did."
A quiet warmth unfurled in Godric's chest as he knelt down to her level, his hand gently ruffling her hair. "I'm glad we reached you in time," he said. "And you hold onto that faith of yours. As long as there are monsters to cut down and people who need saving, I'll be there. I promise."
She nodded once. Firm, earnest, before throwing her arms around his neck in a brief, fierce hug. When she stepped back, her tail swayed in a soft, relieved rhythm as she hurried back to her mother, who offered Godric a look of profound, wordless thanks. He answered with a quiet nod.
Rising to his feet, Godric lifted his gaze to the sky now deepened into night, the blanket of stars glittering like diamonds scattered upon velvet. He drew in a long breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs before exhaling slowly, the weight of the moment settling into him like a vow.
****
The heavy stamp came down with a dull, decisive thud, pressing a crimson seal of the Congregation onto the faded parchment and echoing briefly before dissolving into the steady hum of the Guildhall. The old tavern, once left to rot after its owner fell victim to one of Burgess' loyal brutes, now thrummed with renewed life at the heart of Stornoway. Wide, loud, and buzzing with members of the Congregation fresh off their latest contracts, it bore little resemblance to the ruin it had been. Banners of well-known Clans hung from thick wooden rafters, their colors proudly draped beneath the warm glow of crystal light, while shields embossed with Clan crests lined the walls in a patchwork of history and pride.
Tales of the tavern's former owner, avenged by the black-cloaked specter known only as Asriel Valerien, drifted through the city like folklore made flesh, and some locals had even begun mounting the Nemesis crest on their doors as though it were a charm strong enough to ward off evil itself.
Meanwhile, the Guildhall pulsed with a living warmth, the great fireplace along the far wall throwing waves of amber light across the stone floor as its flames crackled and danced. The steady rhythm of boots striking the flagstones added to the low thrum of activity, weaving into the rising swell of conversation that filled every corner of the space.
Clusters of members pressed around the towering Contracts Boards, scanning row upon row of parchment sheets pinned in neat lines. Each request, inked in dense black and sealed with a bold red rank, promised its own peril, its own reward. The small jobs offered little more than pocket change, enough to buy supper or a warm bed, while the higher ranks glimmered with sums large enough to change a man's fortunes overnight, though they carried dangers that could just as easily end them.
At the long oaken counter, clerks worked with brisk efficiency, quills scratching across ledgers as they verified reports, recorded completions, and tallied earnings. The clinking of coins, platinum chiming against gold, gold against silver, and silver rattling with copper, created a steady metallic chorus as pouches were weighed, counted, sealed, and handed across the counter to weary members fresh from the wilds. The entire hall breathed with purpose and possibility, a place where risk and reward mingled in equal measure.
"Well, I'll be," came the graveled voice of the middle-aged clerk behind the counter, his fiery beard and hair making him look as though he'd stepped straight out of a forge. His hazel eyes glinted with something between pride and amusement. "This makes your fourth completed contract. Clean work at that. Wouldn't surprise me if you start qualifying for A-rank missions soon."
He tipped his head with the smug certitude of a man who believed he had called it from the start. "Then again, it's exactly what I'd expect from the one and only Marauders… especially the Hero of Caerleon."
Godric let out a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. "Come on now, Jarrod," he said as he collected the stamped parchment. "You're laying it on a bit thick. I'm nobody, mate. Just a boy who grew up on the moors of England."
Jarrod leaned forward, bracing his burly arms against the counter. His waistcoat strained over a chest that hinted he'd been more at home on the battlefield than behind a desk, and the badge of a Congregation Clerk glinted proudly on his lapel.
He slid a hardened silver card across the counter, the embossed gold lettering catching the firelight as it came to rest beneath Godric's hand. The details of the previous contract gleamed up at him, Kerrick's name etched with crisp, merciless clarity.
"Right then," Jarrod said, brows lifting as though the answer should have been obvious from the start. "And you honestly think the Congregation's about to let a freshie clan like yours waltz into B-rank contracts as if the world owes you the privilege?" He let out a short, incredulous breath, shaking his head. "Believe me, lad, the only reason you and your friends get to play in the same league as the seasoned lot is because of what you did during the Siege. That alone bought you a ticket into the big boys' yard."
He jabbed a thumb toward Godric's chest. "So do yourselves a favor. Eat the humble pie while it's warm, take the compliment where it's due, and by all means, feel free to thump your chest a little. You've earned that much."
Jarrod then leaned in closer.
"And besides, I wouldn't call anyone who went toe-to-toe with Grim Reaper Burgess and lived to tell the tale 'nobody'," he said with a lopsided grin. "Whether you fancy it or not, lad, you're famous now. In and out of the Congregation. Folks are talkin' about you in the taverns, in the shops, over supper with their families." He jerked his chin toward the hall behind Godric. "Don't take my word for it. Go on, look."
Godric turned, and the shift of conversation around the Guild was almost palpable. Dozens of eyes. Some wide, some curious, others simply awestruck, had drifted toward him. Soft whispers, half-formed comments, and the unmistakable stir of recognition followed him like a faint ripple through the crowded hall.
He chuckled under his breath, one hand rising to rub at the back of his head. "Blimey… it honestly feels like only yesterday I was just another nameless face blending into the crowd, nothing special, nothing worth a second glance. Now it's as though I'm walking around with a pair of antlers sprouting out of my skull." He let the words hang for a moment before glancing around the hall.
"By the way," Godric added, turning back toward Jarrod with a raised brow, "isn't the place a bit… livelier than before? I swear it used to be half this loud and twice as empty." Godric asked, his gaze drifting back to the man behind the counter.
"That's putting it mildly," Jarrod replied as he straightened, thick arms folding across his chest. "Ever since that whole debacle with the Tower, most of Avalon's had enough of uniforms and fancy titles. No trust left, no patience either." His hazel eyes flicked across the bustling hall. "So they've turned to mercenaries, sellswords, adventurers… and, inevitably, to us."
He drew a long breath, his beard shifting with the motion. "What really surprises me is how quickly the Congregation rallied. Guilds sprouting up in every major city like someone scattered seeds in the wind. Makes sense, I suppose. They want to strike while the iron's still searing, especially when they're riding the blaze you left in your wake." A crooked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Seems you've become rather good for business, lad."
Godric laughed under his breath. "Really? At this rate I ought to start charging them royalties."
"Maybe run it through Shimada." Jarrod drew a smirk. "Heard you was tight with the lad."
It was then that the heavy wooden doors swung open, the sudden draft stirring the flames in the hearth until they danced against the stone. A hush rolled through the Guild like a silent wave. Chatter thinned, boots stilled, and every wandering gaze drifted toward the entrance. Godric turned with the rest, an eyebrow rising as his eyes settled upon the figure in the doorway.
A young man stepped inside, his presence cutting through the room with a quiet, unnerving gravity. The greys of his uniform marked him immediately, the long coat layered over black garments that framed a navy collar and a matching sash that hung down his left side like a narrow banner. Firelight slid across his olive-toned skin and caught the subtle sheen in his thick, unruly black hair. A short beard sharpened the line of his jaw, while a curled mustache drew the eye to the hard obsidian black stare beneath it. Eyes that seemed to simmer with something controlled, restrained, and dangerous.
But it was the weapon in his left hand that stole the breath from the room.
Godric recognized the style at once. A blade reminiscent of the katana Genji Shimada carried with such fluid mastery, though this one was far longer, forged for reach and devastation. Its navy lacquered sheath glimmered as if freshly polished, the gold guard flashed, and the pristine white hilt was bound so neatly it could have belonged to a temple guardian rather than an officer. A thin golden cord tied near the mouth of the sheath trailed elegantly at his side, swaying with each step.
Godric could not explain the feeling that crept over him, but every instinct he possessed stirred sharply to life, warning him, urging him toward the sword strapped across his back. It was as if this stranger carried with him an aura soaked in danger, a quiet, suffocating bloodlust that clung to him like a second skin. Something refined, disciplined, but unmistakably lethal.
"Ah, Commander Khan," Jarrod called out with a broad grin. "You certainly wasted no time getting here."
"Quite," the young man replied. "Time is, regrettably, a resource I find rather intolerable to squander." His gaze travelled, landing upon Godric in a single, sharp sweep, and at once Godric felt his shoulders tighten as though bracing beneath unseen weight. "And I imagine we have you and your comrades to thank for today's efficiency."
He stepped forward, extending a gloved hand with impeccable composure. "Commander Hector Khan," he said. "A pleasure. Though I admit, it isn't every day one has the opportunity to meet the fabled Lion of Ignis." A faint glimmer of amusement tugged at the edge of his mouth. "I must confess, I had imagined you somewhat taller."
Godric glanced down at the offered hand, then clasped it with a firm shake, his lips curling into a rueful smile. "Likewise," he said. "And yeah… I hear that more often than you'd think."
"Well, don't go selling yourself short," Jarrod said, nodding toward Hector with a knowing tilt of his head. "Hector here is something of a legend himself. At least among the Authority."
The word hit Godric like a spark to dry tinder. His grip tightened around Hector's hand, fingers clamping down as a slow, simmering heat climbed up his spine. Hector's eyebrow lifted a fraction, the only sign he'd noticed the shift.
"Authority?" Godric repeated. "As in… the Slaver's Guild?"
"Yes," Hector replied as he glanced down at their joined hands, now rigid beneath Godric's tightening hold. "Very much so."
The firelight reflected in Godric's eyes, turning the crimson into something closer to molten iron. His stare dropped to the badge pinned neatly to Hector's chest. Silver, polished, stamped with the words Burra Authoritas. Recognition settled in like poison.
"I've heard of the Authority," Godric murmured, the words threaded with a quiet, rising danger. "If I'm not mistaken, you're the ones tasked with enforcing the Slave Laws." His hand clamped down harder, tendons standing out along his wrist. "So tell me, Commander… how does a man in your line of work sleep at night?"
Jarrod, noticing the way the air had begun to tighten between them, turned sharply toward Godric. "Lad—"
"Knowing exactly what you uphold… and who you answer to?" Godric pressed on, steady but thrumming with restrained anger. "Hell, if I'd known this contract came crawling out of the hands of that sort of filth, I wouldn't have—"
"LAD!" Jarrod barked, the word cracking through the tension.
Godric snapped out of it just enough to release Hector's hand. The Commander drew his fingers back, flexing them once as he studied his knuckles, then lifted his gaze to Godric with a faint, unreadable crease forming between his brows.
"That is… quite the grip you've got," he said, his tone calm, almost impressed.
"I apologize on the boy's behalf, Commander, I—" Jarrod began hurriedly, his concern evident.
But Hector raised a hand, silencing him. "No need." His eyes returned to Godric as if he were examining a man standing on the edge of a blade. Godric didn't look away. The simmer behind his stare hadn't faded in the slightest.
"In fact," Hector continued, "there is nothing to apologize for." He then stepped a little closer. "I know, Gryffindor. About you. About her."
The words struck like an unexpected blow. Godric's eyes widened, a cold ripple working its way down his spine.
"Your story has echoed through the halls of the Authority," Hector said, straightening, "and further still through the Guild as a whole. Some of my more detestable colleagues may grind their teeth at the mention of it, but I would be the first to admit it was rather… inspiring." His fingers tightened around the sheathe of his blade, the faint creak of leather drawing Godric's attention.
"And if I may be so bold," Hector continued, almost conversational despite the weight of the words, "your story has grown into something far louder than a passing tale. Amongst the more… spirited factions. Those terroristic insurgents who've taken to calling themselves Libertas, it's practically gospel. They speak of your defiance as if it were a rallying cry, a spark that set their crusade against the Guild ablaze. I'd daresay it has become something far greater than mere inspiration."
Godric said nothing. He simply stood there, the silence around him thickening, as though every unspoken thought pressed against the back of his teeth, waiting to either erupt or wither away.
"But contrary to whatever you may think of me or the organization I represent," Hector went on, "slavery is woven into the laws of Avalon, stitched into its culture and its history. Many despise it. Many reject it. Some cling to it with voracious pride, but whether loved or loathed, it exists. Trying to uproot it entirely…" He exhaled softly. "You would have better luck attempting to rearrange the stars themselves."
Hector straightened with quiet composure, brushing a thumb along the polished ridge of his sheathe. "Believe me when I say I am no stranger to the disdain cast my way," he said. "You are not the first lad to bristle at the sight of this uniform, and you most assuredly will not be the last."
He drew a slow breath, his expression neither defensive nor apologetic, simply honest. "Nevertheless, you do have my sympathy. And regardless of the rather… tense manner of our meeting, I still consider it a pleasure."
He offered a short nod before turning toward Jarrod. "Kindly excuse me while I take my leave. Always good to see you, my friend."
Jarrod inclined his head. "Where you headed next, if you don't mind me pryin'?"
"I've been reassigned from the Crown City," Hector replied. "My final post has yet to be determined, though I'll be certain to keep you updated when the brass decides where to drop me." His attention drifted back to the pair. "Gentlemen."
He pivoted, the hem of his coat gliding behind him as he strode toward the door. But at the threshold, he paused. Without turning fully, he spoke again.
"Lad."
Godric stiffened instinctively, meeting his gaze as Hector glanced back over his shoulder. Those obsidian eyes held a quiet certainty, sharpened to a deliberate edge.
Hector's gloved fingers settled at the edge of his sword's sheathe as he regarded Godric with a calm that felt almost ceremonial, the faintest sliver of respect woven into the steel of his gaze. "From the moment I first heard tell of you," he said, "the gallant Lion of Ignis who dared to bare his fangs at Volg Dryfus, the younger scion of one of Avalon's most prolific slaver dynasties. All for the sake of a single slave's freedom…" He paused, letting the weight of those words stretch between them like a drawn bowstring. "I knew, deep in my bones, that the day would come when our blades would inevitably cross, just as surely as our ideals."
His eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in recognition. As if he were staring at a storm he had known for far too long. "And with that in mind, I offer you a caution, Gryffindor. The Guild watches you with great interest, and a hint of trepidation, and so do I."
He drew in a long breath, shoulders lifting slightly beneath the crisp grey of his coat before he exhaled, as though shedding whatever sentiment lingered.
"You asked me," Hector said softly, "how I sleep at night doing what I do." A faint shadow of a smile traced the corner of his mouth, not mocking, not cruel. Simply honest in a way that made the moment colder. "The answer, I'm afraid, is peacefully."
With that final word, he pushed the door open.
A sliver of the outside world spilled into the Guild. Summer air, street noise, the gleam of an armored vehicle parked by the curb. Kerrick was being shoved toward it, hands cuffed behind his back, protesting loudly.
"Oi, watch the head!" he yelped, only for the officer beside him to give a little extra shove. Kerrick's skull clipped the frame with a dull thud. "OW! You bastard—! You did that on purpose!"
The door slammed shut on his complaint.
Godric stood frozen, the echo of Hector's footsteps fading into the street. Rage curled through him, sharp and immediate, his hands balling into fists at his sides as the firelight behind him flickered like the breath of a barely-contained storm.