Jarrod cleared his throat with enough force to rattle the inkpots on the counter, a sound that snapped Godric's attention back to him. His hands planted themselves firmly on his hips, not in fury, but in that stubborn, exasperated way older men adopt when a younger lad has blundered so spectacularly that even scolding feels like hard labor. His nostrils flared. His lips pressed thin.
"Lad," Jarrod said, "Pray tell, have you gone and got yourself nicked in the head?" He punctuated the question by slamming both palms on the counter, the wood groaning under the impact. "You're damned lucky Hector isn't one of them vindictive sorts, else—"
"What?" Godric cut across him, the word sharp enough to crack the air. "He's going to draw that blade on me now? On me?" he snapped, a slow-burning fury curling beneath every syllable. "I'm no slave, Jarrod. I don't bow, I don't crawl, and I sure as hell don't cower before the kind of deplorables who've spent years preying on people who can't fight back!"
He stepped forward, jaw set, eyes bright with a fire that refused to be tempered. "I couldn't care less about the Authority. As far as I'm concerned, they're the lowest breed of degenerate filth Avalon's ever bred. Lower than the scum rotting in the Tower, and that's saying something!" He shook his head, breath coiling tight in his chest. "If he expects me to tremble in my boots because apparently, the Guild now has their sights on me, he's got another thing coming."
Jarrod let out a breath that was somewhere between disbelief and resignation, rubbing his forehead as though massaging away an approaching migraine. "Look, lad," he said, gesturing broadly to the Guild hall, to the crowd, to the very air around them, "I understand where you're coming from. I truly bloody do." His hand swept over the room. "Everyone knows your story, and if there's a soul in Avalon who has every right, every justification under the sun, to loathe the Guild, it's you. No one's disputing that."
He leaned in slightly. "But you've got to know when to pick your fights, and more importantly, who you're picking them with."
He jerked his chin toward the entrance where Hector had vanished. "Hector Khan isn't just some well-dressed dog from the Authority. He's the top dog. That sword he carries? That's no toy." Jarrod exhaled slowly. The firelight casting shadows beneath his eyes. "Crossing a man like that without reason or caution isn't bravery, lad, it's suicide wrapped in pride."
Godric drew in a breath, ready to fire back, but Jarrod raised a hand sharply, cutting him off before a single syllable could escape.
"And before you so much as utter a bloody word about how you fought the law and won," Jarrod said, "Yes, I've sung your praises. Loudly. Enthusiastically. I've told every poor sod in this Guild how you toppled a legend of the Tower with your bare damned hands. And yes, what you did was nothing short of extraordinary."
He paused, leaning forward, hazel eyes tightening with a seriousness Godric rarely saw in him. "Basking in the glory of victory is one thing, lad. But don't let it twist into something dangerous. Don't let it trick you into thinking you're invincible. The abyss is an endless void, and though Burgess may well have been one of the demons lurking in its depths, don't for a moment believe he was the strongest creature hiding in that darkness."
Jarrod's gaze hardened, the firelight catching on the lines in his face. "There are others. Far stronger, far sharper, far more monstrous. Men and women who've carved their names into history with blood and fire. And Hector Khan?" His words softened, yet somehow grew heavier. "He's one of those demons. A creature you aren't ready to face. Not yet."
He straightened, folding his arms as if he were physically bracing Godric against his own stubbornness. "So, take the advice of a man who's lived long enough to know the difference between bravery and folly. Don't go picking fights you have no business picking."
Godric didn't answer at first. He simply stood there, caught in that taut stretch of silence that seemed to fuse the heat of his anger with the glow of the firelight. Only when his breath finally escaped did he move, his crimson eyes still narrowed, his knuckles whitening as his fingers tightened around the stamped parchment until it creased beneath the pressure of his grip.
He said nothing to Jarrod, nothing to the onlookers whose hushed whispers lingered behind him like smoke. He simply turned on his heel, shoulders tense, and strode toward the far end of the Guildhall. His boots struck the stone floor with clipped steps as he pushed through the clusters of members, adventurers and patrons crowding the space, the warm murmur of the tavern ahead casting a faint glow along his path.
Jarrod let out a weary sigh, watching the boy's retreating figure slip through the threshold and vanish into the amber-lit bustle beyond.
"Young fool's got fire enough to level kingdoms," he muttered under his breath, though the fondness in his tone was unmistakable. "Suppose that's why he's Ignis."
Then, with the ease of a man far too used to juggling tempers and troublemakers, he straightened, gestured to the next waiting patron, and carried on as the line shuffled forward.
****
The tavern breathed warmth and color from rafter to floorboard, every inch steeped in oaken grain polished smooth by age and countless nights of revelry. Firelight from the broad stone hearth spilled across the room in soft amber waves, catching the gleam of crystal sconces fixed to carved pillars and dancing along the iron-chained chandeliers that hung above the bustling crowd. Voices rose in half-drunken chorus as patrons clapped shoulders, slung arms around friends, and belted out songs in a dozen languages known across Avalon. The scent of roasting meat mingled with spilled ale and frothing beer, tavern hands weaving through the chaos with trays bowed under the weight of tankards fresh from the tap.
At a round table tucked into the far corner, away from the worst of the din but close enough that the energy still thrummed through the floorboards, Salazar, Rowena, Helga, and Jeanne gathered around a feast that nearly swallowed the table whole. Racks of ribs, mounds of mashed potatoes, grilled vegetables glistening in butter, pies still steaming from the oven. All piled atop a chipped wooden surface that creaked under the weight.
Helga wasted no time in tearing through a rack of ribs, strips of meat vanishing as she tugged at the bone with unabashed gusto before licking her fingers clean with the same enthusiasm. Three untouched tankards of butterbeer sat in front of the others who simply watched her, Rowena already massaging the bridge of her nose as though bracing herself for inevitable defeat, Jeanne shaking faint laughter from her shoulders, and Salazar observing the spectacle with an amused curve tugging on his lips.
"My dear Helga," Salazar said in that smooth, elegant drawl of his, lifting his tankard for a sip, "it is always a marvel watching you sate your hunger. One begins to wonder whether the rumors are true. That your stomach is, in fact, a portal to some other dimension entirely."
"You're just jealous that I can strip a pig clean and still have room for pudding while you can't," Helga smirked, shoveling a generous spoonful of mashed potatoes into her mouth. She sighed in delight. "By the Gods in Asgard, this is unbelievable. People talk about Stornoway's food, but the stories don't even come close."
"Helga, for heaven's sake, slow down. The meal isn't about to grow legs and sprint off the table," Rowena remarked, exhaling with weary resignation. "Honestly, I'd have better luck telling a crocodile to chew before swallowing."
"Well, considering crocodiles are physically incapable of doing so," Salazar replied with a soft simper, "I daresay that would prove quite impossible."
Rowena shot him a glare sharp enough to cut parchment. "It was a figure of speech, Salazar."
Salazar merely raised his tankard with a genteel nod, the corners of his mouth twitching in faint mischief.
"Well, I'd say this feast is more than well-earned," Jeanne murmured, lifting her butterbeer for a sip. The sweetness clung to her lips, and she drew them together with a small hum of approval before setting the tankard down again. "I spoke with the administration earlier. They'll make arrangements so the townsfolk are given temporary lodging within the city until a proper plan can be settled." She exhaled softly and lifted one shoulder in a modest shrug. "And… my apologies that I couldn't be out there with you. I know I'm hardly much help in a fight."
Helga waved off the apology with a broad grin, already halfway through a roast chicken leg. "Oh, don't go kicking yourself over that," she said, pointing the bone at Jeanne before taking another hearty bite. "You'll get there in time. Give it a few months and I'm sure you'll be knocking heads together better than half the mercs out there."
"I would hope not literally," Rowena muttered. She stared into the frothy surface of her butterbeer, her sapphire eyes dimmed with a quiet heaviness. "If anything depresses me, it's how quickly everything across Avalon seems to be fraying at the seams. Ever since the whole… well, you know." She gestured vaguely. "The Tower is stretched thinner than parchment. Settlements that once relied on its protection are now dealing with bandits, raiders, slavers. Every creature that crawls out from under the rocks when law begins to falter."
Her gaze swept the tavern. Over the laughter, the clatter of tankards, the hum of life trying to stitch itself back together, before dropping slightly. "And not everyone can afford the luxury of hired shields and mercenaries. Some of them are simply left hoping the next wave of trouble overlooks their homes."
Jeanne's fingers tightened faintly around her tankard, the soft scrape of metal against wood nearly lost beneath the tavern's din. "I can't begin to imagine what those therian townsfolk must be feeling," she said quietly, her gaze drifting toward the firelight as though searching for the right words. "From everything I've learned, the Accords are meant to guarantee protection. Certain territories, certain people, safeguarded regardless of race. It's supposed to be one of the few foundations everyone in Avalon can trust."
She drew a slow breath. "Yet here we are, watching slavers wagering everything on the chance that the profits might outweigh the consequences. It's absurd. Terrifying, really, that an agreement meant to be ironclad can be broken so brazenly. Imagine putting your faith in laws designed to shield your home, only to watch that home torn apart and burned to ash while the world looks the other way." Her shoulders lowered, a subdued resignation softening her words. "And if not for us…" She let the thought hang, its weight settling heavily over the table. "Well… their story might have ended very differently."
Helga paused mid-chew. Salazar's usual smirk softened into something more contemplative at the corners. Avalon, for all its light and legend, felt as though it were shifting beneath their feet. And every one of them knew it.
"I find myself in agreement," Salazar said, folding one leg over the other as he rested back in his chair with that familiar, thoughtful poise. "I've mentioned before that the Congregation would eventually seize the moment to plant roots across Avalon, given the rather convenient blend of newfound legitimacy and public goodwill now orbiting them." His gaze lowered, contemplative, almost rueful. "Though, I will admit, I rather grotesquely underestimated how quickly they'd move, and how aggressively."
His eyes lifted to the others. "We've been away for what? A month at most? Barely enough time for the seasons to shift, yet in that short window they've managed to carve out a presence in every city, every hamlet, and every backwater corner you can name." He drew a slow breath, exhaling where amusement and exasperation blurred together. "In all honesty, I'd daresay they already had one foot in the doorway. They were simply waiting for the moment Avalon blinked… and they stepped through without hesitation."
"All things considered, it's becoming painfully clear that mercenaries, adventurers, and contractors are in higher demand than ever," Jeanne replied. "And like Rowena pointed out earlier, there are plenty of people across Avalon who are more than willing to pay through the nose for a scrap of protection or the slightest hint of security. Gold and silver have become the quickest way to buy peace of mind, even if only for a night."
A faint, wry breath escaped her. "The Congregation's simply riding the wave. Helena mentioned before we left for the summer that they aren't just stable. They're exceptionally well-funded. Perhaps better than most private guilds combined. And when you consider who sits at the head of the Table, it stops being surprising." Her gaze swept the group. "The Pendragons have seats in both worlds. With that kind of reach, it's no wonder the Congregation is flourishing while everyone else struggles to keep up."
Salazar let out a quiet chuckle. "Believe me, dear Jeanne, the Pendragons are hardly the only dynasty with coffers deep enough to drown in and influence that spans continents." He lifted his tankard and tipped it slightly before taking a slow drink. "But that is a realm none of us have any business wandering into, nor should we."
Helga leaned back with a mischievous glint warming her amber eyes. "Speaking of which, Salazar… how's Helena been over the summer?" she asked, her grin stretching just wide enough to spell trouble.
"Oh, nothing of note," Salazar began breezily, swirling the butterbeer in his tankard with practiced nonchalance. "She mentioned that her family would be taking a well-deserved retreat to their lake house after the whole Caerleon fiasco. Evidently, the weather has been—"
He stopped dead, the words collapsing on his tongue as realization flickered across his face. His emerald eyes widened and darted first to Jeanne, who stared back with open delight. Then to Rowena, whose expression hovered between faint horror and a disbelieving scowl. Helga didn't even bother to hide the slow, knowing rise of her brows.
Salazar cleared his throat with theatrical force, the sound sharp enough to break glass. "I mean," he corrected hastily, staring off to the side as a flush crept up his cheeks, "how would I possibly know what that insufferable girl is doing with her time?" He straightened his collar with unnecessary precision. "It's not as if we… write. Or speak. Or maintain any form of correspondence. And I certainly don't concern myself with her whereabouts."
"Huh," Rowena said, nodding once with a tone so neutral it was practically accusatory.
Jeanne tried, and failed, to stifle her laughter, pressing her fingers to her lips as her shoulders shook. Helga simply lifted her brows again, her grin widening.
"Well, if it's any consolation, my summer was just as uneventful," Jeanne said, her smile gentle and warm. "My parents insisted I keep everything that happened in Avalon to myself, considering how… zealous the people of my time can be." She lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug.
"Speak for yourself," Helga chimed in cheerfully before taking a hearty swallow from her tankard. "My family threw a feast the moment I walked through the door. I swear I couldn't move for nearly a week afterward."
"Oh, so the legendary Helga Hufflepuff does have a bottomless pit with an end after all," Salazar drawled, the corner of his mouth lifting into a sly curve. "As for Slytherin Manor, it remains the empty mausoleum it's always been. Last I heard, my father was somewhere in the Himalayas, doing Scáthach-knows-what with Scáthach-knows-who."
He rolled his eyes ever so subtly. "Although I will admit the solitude afforded me plenty of time to read… at least on the days when Údar and that mangy mutt of hers weren't pounding on my door, attempting to drag me into another game of hurley."
"Aww, how sweet of Údar, wanting to spend time with her lovely fiancé," Helga teased, grinning wide enough to show it was absolutely intentional.
Salazar's expression soured at once. "I have told you once, Hufflepuff, and I shall tell you a thousand more times if I must, it is a betrothal of convenience. Nothing more. Nothing less. And it will never happen. Not even if the Old Gods themselves descended from their thrones and demanded it."
Helga fought a smirk. Jeanne hid a chuckle behind her tankard.
But Salazar's attention shifted, his sharpness softening as his gaze fell on Rowena. The quiet in her posture had been lingering since they sat, and now, up close, it was unmistakable.
"I take it the family gathering didn't unfold as expected," he said gently, "considering you've hardly uttered a word since we returned to Excalibur."
Rowena breathed out, the sound weary but controlled. "Things have been… complicated. Tense, even." Her fingers drummed lightly on the wood. "Since taking the Director's chair, Father's been under tremendous pressure. From the Magus' Association, from both Councils, from every corner of Avalon." Her gaze lowered. "To stabilize the Tower, he's brought nearly the whole family inside. Elevating those with tenure into leadership roles."
She looked up again, her sapphire eyes dimmed by exhaustion. "And as expected, it's gone down poorly. Some of the remaining staff have begun accusing him of nepotism."
"A reasonable deduction," Salazar remarked with a slight shrug. "One can hardly fault them."
"I don't," Rowena admitted softly, "but I understand why he did it. Burgess was allowed to infest the Tower for decades. Some loyalties run deep, and even now, Father doesn't know who he can truly trust." She hesitated, her gaze dropping again. "Which brings me to something else that's been troubling me."
Helga straightened. Jeanne set her tankard down.
"It's Bran," Rowena said at last. "He's been… different lately. And I don't mean in any good way. Ever since Father appointed him Grand Inquisitor."
"Grand… Inquisitor?" Helga echoed, brow climbing. "I don't even know what that is, but it already sounds. Well, terrifying."
Salazar's expression darkened. "Believe me when I say this. There is not a single universe in all existence where the title Inquisitor is ever strapped to someone with good intentions."
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of, Salazar," Rowena said. "The Inquisition isn't just another department. It's a brand-new division of Internal Affairs with a mandate that borders on ruthless. Their sole task is to seek out anyone who pledged themselves to Burgess. Anyone who aided him, profited under him, or carried out his atrocities, and to drag them into the light. And if they resist… the Inquisition is allowed to dispose of them."
She exhaled slowly, as if releasing a weight that had settled on her shoulders for far too long.
"Before our family gathering, Bran had already been to every corner of Avalon," she continued, her fingers tracing the rim of her tankard. "He's been tracking down the remnants of Norsefire, ex-agents who slipped through the cracks after Burgess was executed. And when I finally saw him, truly saw him, I knew immediately that something had changed. He wouldn't talk about his work. Bran never keeps secrets from me, but this time he chose to shut me out completely."
Her sapphire eyes glimmered with a troubled sheen. "He doesn't know I overheard him one night. He was in Father's study, and the two of them were arguing. I've… I've never heard Bran speak like that. His anger didn't feel righteous or dutiful. It felt like something burning through him from the inside out."
Her jaw tightened, the memory clearly unsettling. "The way he talked about the people who served Burgess… it was as if they weren't human to him anymore. As if they were vermin to be exterminated."
She shook her head, the unease in her expression unmistakable.
"It felt personal in a way that frightened me."
Jeanne and Helga exchanged a worried glance, while Salazar eased back in his chair before unfolding his legs. He steepled his fingers, leaned in, and rested his chin upon them as he opened his eyes with a measured calm.
"I suppose," he began, "in a manner of speaking, I can understand how he arrived there." His words drew the attention of all three. "Consider it carefully. Like you, your brother was raised to believe that his family's legacy was one of honor, prestige, and unwavering loyalty. From childhood, he was told that service to the Tower was the highest calling a Ravenclaw could hope to achieve."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"And then," Salazar continued, "he learns that the institution he revered so devoutly ordered him to destroy something good and pure. At their command, he ripped Raine from Godric's arms, erased her memories, and carted her to the far corners of Avalon." He lifted a brow. "Imagine the damage that must have inflicted upon him, especially once the truth began to unravel."
Rowena's breath caught, her eyes widening. Jeanne and Helga's expressions shifted in quiet shock.
"And it doesn't end there," Salazar continued. "He later discovers that Asriel Valerien. His dearest friend, practically a brother in all but blood, surrendered his very soul to Nemesis simply to right the sins of a man so vile, so grotesquely ambitious, that he orchestrated the deaths of thousands without hesitation or remorse." He let the words hang for a breath. "A man who not only butchered Asriel's beloved, but sent him to die for it as though he were little more than a disposable pawn."
Salazar's gaze sharpened, emerald eyes cutting through the low light. "The same man you grew up calling family. The very same monster who ordered both you and Bran butchered the moment you ceased to be useful to him."
Rowena swallowed, her gaze falling.
"So imagine," Salazar said, "the moment when every stone in his foundation crumbled. The leadership he admired revealed as corrupt, the institution he loved exposed as a lie, and the people he cherished hurt beyond measure." He drew a slow breath. "Between Raine, Asriel, and yourself, I highly doubt even the noblest of men could emerge unscathed."
He leaned back, the faintest shadow moving through his expression.
"And unfortunately for all of us," Salazar concluded, his tone dipping into something almost mournful, "Bran did not. The fall shattered something deep within him, and whatever remains has hardened into rage." He let the thought breathe for a moment. "Pure, untampered rage—and when a man is betrayed by the very ideals that shaped him, what else is left to guide him except retribution? Cruel, swift, and utterly without mercy."
"You're wrong, Salazar," Rowena said, her voice rising more sharply than she intended. "I've known Bran my whole life. He would never—"
"Perhaps," Salazar interjected gently but firmly, raising a gloved hand. "But then again, wasn't that what we all insisted about Godric not too long ago?"
Rowena's lips parted, her eyes widening as the words landed with quiet force.
"We've all seen what becomes of a man when hatred finally sinks its claws in," Salazar went on, his gaze drifting to the swirling froth inside his tankard. "What he can be driven to do… and what he must carry afterwards. And that is what troubles me most about Bran. He's treading the very same path Godric once walked, but with one crucial, terrifying difference." He lifted his eyes. "He's doing it with the full weight of the law behind him."
"And when raw rage begins to harden into vindication. When justice begins to curdle into zealotry… a man can start to believe that every cruelty he commits is righteous. That every atrocity is owed. And once he reaches that point, once the line between retribution and obsession disappears—" Salazar exhaled slowly. "It never ends well for anyone."
His gaze shifted to Helga. "Case in point, the former disgraced Captain of Norsefire, Astrea Vikander."
The moment the name left his lips, Helga's jaw tightened, the cheer in her posture fading as if someone had quietly snuffed out a lantern beside her.
A hush settled over the table, the earlier warmth ebbing away as Helga slowly lowered her half-eaten chicken leg onto her plate, her appetite dimming beneath the weight of their conversation. The four exchanged uneasy glances, but before anyone could speak, the tavern's din swelled again. Boots scraping against floorboards, laughter rolling from distant corners, the clatter of tankards meeting wood.
Their eyes lifted as Godric stepped through the tavern doors, weaving between crowded tables and bustling tavern hands with the familiar ease of someone accustomed to cutting through chaos. His bag hung over one shoulder, and though he carried it with practiced familiarity, its weight dragged ever so slightly, speaking to whatever he had hauled from the Guildhall.
"And speak of the devil," Salazar drawled, a faint grin hooked at the corner of his mouth. Yet the moment Godric reached their table and slid into the empty chair. Its legs scraping against the wooden floor, the grin faltered. The firelight caught the shadows carved into Godric's expression, the tension simmering beneath the surface.
"Something the matter, dear friend?" Salazar asked.
Godric blinked, startled from whatever thought still gripped him. "Oh." He shook his head, though the attempt at nonchalance fell flat. "It's… nothing." He unclasped the flap of his leather bag and withdrew several heavy pouches, dropping them onto the table. The clinking within revealed their contents immediately. "Split evenly. One hundred platas each. That's contract number four in the books."
Helga lit up, practically leaping across the table to seize her pouch. She peeled it open and let out a low whistle. "Now this is a proper haul. I'm telling you now, the moment we're back in Caerleon, I'm hitting the Pixie Pantry hard. I mean, hard."
Jeanne opened her own pouch with more restraint, her brow furrowing instead of lifting in delight.
"Ah—this feels like too much. I shouldn't be taking an even cut. You all did the heavy lifting. I just… talked to people."
"Don't sell yourself short, Jeanne," Godric said, offering her a small, genuine smile. "We wouldn't have found that caravan without you. You're part of this team, same as the rest of us. So keep it. You earned it."
Jeanne's cheeks warmed with color at that, her fingers curling around the pouch.
But before the moment could settle, Godric's gaze shifted back to Rowena and Salazar, their solemn expressions stark against the revelry filling the tavern around them. His eyebrows knitted.
"What's with the faces?" he asked. "You look like someone's about to read a eulogy."
"We were…" Salazar flicked a glance toward Rowena before returning his attention to Godric. "Discussing some rather somber matters. Summer complications, Tower politics, and the Ravenclaw household… nothing that can't wait." He steepled his fingers. "What does concern me is whatever has you looking like you're ready to take orange-haired bastard's head clean off his shoulders."
Godric's expression dimmed, the energy he'd carried into the tavern dissipating as though someone had drawn a curtain across his face. He shrugged once, though the motion carried none of his usual ease. "I found out the contract was put forward by the Authority."
The effect was immediate. Every pair of eyes around the table widened, the air tightening as if someone had snuffed the warmth from the hearth.
"T–The Authority?" Jeanne breathed. Her fingers twitched around her tankard as memories flickered across her face. Bastion in the streets of Caerleon, the elf Gorras bleeding out into the shattered cobblestones, the sickening crack of bone. "You mean… the Slaver's Guild?"
Godric nodded. "And that's not all." His gaze sharpened. "While I was getting the paperwork sorted, I ran into one of their own. From how Jarrod described him… he's not just some foot soldier. The man's high-ranking. His name is Commander Khan."
Rowena froze as if the name had struck her across the face. "Wait, did you just say Khan? As in Hector Khan?"
Three pairs of eyes turned to her in unison. Salazar leaned in, eyebrow raised. "Someone you know?"
She shook her head, but unease clung to her expression. "Not… personally. Only by reputation. You all know how deeply my family is entrenched in the Tower, and the Tower has never been on friendly terms with the Authority."
Helga snorted. "That's the understatement of the century. Bastion hates their guts. The man straight out demolished a whole fleet of them the first time we met him and looked awesome doing it."
Rowena pressed on. "Right. Well. I've heard both Laxus and Bran mention the Authority's so-called Winning Hand." She looked toward Godric, whose crimson eyes narrowed. "It's similar to how the Tower once had its greats. Grandfather, Wilhelm, even…" she hesitated, "…Burgess. Each generation, the Authority chooses five agents who stand at the pinnacle of their ranks. Their most powerful operatives."
She swallowed, the color draining from her cheeks.
"Hector Khan," she said quietly, "is one of them."
Salazar scoffed, folding his arms as a dry, incredulous smile tugged at his mouth. "Embellishing much? I find it difficult to believe the Authority has anyone who could stand shoulder to shoulder with the old heroes of the Tower, not when they've spent decades growing fat and complacent on the misery of the enslaved." He let out a low, dark chuckle. "What I saw in Caerleon was more than enough evidence of what they truly are."
But Rowena did twitch at the humor. Her expression remained grave. Her sapphire eyes fixed on him with a weight that made his smirk fade by degrees.
"If we were speaking of any other agent," she began quietly, "I'd agree with you outright. But Hector… he's different." She hesitated, the pause stretched with unease. "Laxus has dealt with the Authority more than any of us, given his work. You all know how brash he is. How he never yields, never steps back from a fight, never lets another man intimidate him." Her fingers tapped once against the tankard as if searching for steadiness. "But when he spoke of Hector… even Laxus sounded cautious. Almost reluctant."
That alone made the table grow still.
"And that doesn't even begin to cover what Hector has done throughout his tenure," Rowena continued. "From everything I've heard, he's the man they send when there's an insurgency the Authority wants erased, not quelled. Erased." She drew a breath. "I'm certain you've all heard, at least in passing, of the Slave Rebellion of Holstein."
Salazar nodded once. "In passing, yes."
"Raine mentioned it to me once," Godric added.
"Well," Rowena began, "it wasn't some petty skirmish, if that's what you're imagining. It was nearly three hundred insurgents strong. Men and women of every race, armed to the teeth. Swords, spears, reinforced armor, everything they could get their hands on. A proper fighting force, not a scattered riot."
The air tightened as they absorbed her tone.
"And guess who ended it." Her gaze swept across them. "Singlehandedly."
Jeanne's hand flew to her mouth as her eyes widened. "You don't mean—"
Rowena nodded, her expression sinking with the weight of the truth.
"Dead to the last man," she said softly. "Not a single one stood a chance. Among the Authority, and among those who know the stories whispered behind closed doors, they don't simply call him Commander." She paused. "They call him King Khan."
"By Bacchus' Butterbeer… and he's one of five?" Helga breathed, sinking back into her chair as if the weight of the revelation had pushed her deeper into the worn cushions. "And here I was thinking Geddes was as strong as they come."
"Well, my dear Helga," Salazar drawled, lifting his tankard with a languid flourish before taking a slow sip, "as the old saying goes—there is always, most regrettably, a bigger fish."
Rowena's attention drifted to Godric. His gaze had dropped to the table, crimson eyes tight with simmering thought. The faint creak of leather whispering beneath the noise of the tavern as his gloved fingers curled into a fist.
"Godric?" she asked quietly.
He raised his head, and the firelight caught on the edge of something colder behind his eyes. "Hector said something to me before he left," he murmured. "That the Guild now has their eyes on me."
"The Guild?" Salazar echoed, his brows arching. "I suppose that's to be expected after our little encounter with Dryfus."
Godric gave a single, tense nod. "And that's not all. He also said our blades might cross one day." A breath left him slowly, though everything about him seemed to coil tighter. "And truth be told… I believe him."
A hush fell over the table.
"Because as long as people are suffering under the Authority's heel." His eyes hardened, burning hot and cold all at once. "I'll cut down anyone wearing that uniform. Any of them."
He leaned back slightly, a chill of conviction settling over his words.
"And if that path puts me face to face with Hector Khan himself…" He exhaled, the sound steady, unshakeable. "Then so be it. All of Avalon can call me Kingslayer."
"Oh, already planning to collect your next title, are you?" Salazar drawled with a smirk, the edge of amusement curling through his words. "And I must say, it does sound wonderfully fearsome."
"Salazar, please." Rowena sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose before turning a far more pointed look toward Godric. "And as for you, absolutely not. We've just crawled out of one war. The last thing any of us need is for you to start another with the Authority."
She leaned in. "As revolting as they are. As grotesque as the Slaver's Guild is as a whole, they're still very much a legitimate institution, and until they receive the same treatment Norsefire did, you would be the one fighting from the losing side."
Her gaze hardened, cutting through whatever defiance he still carried.
"And need I remind you, Godric Gryffindor. You're not invincible. The Sword of Damocles is gone, and with it, all the borrowed power that carried you through that final battle." She held his stare, unwilling to look away. "You try something like that again, and this time… you may not be coming back."
Godric rolled his eyes, already bracing for another lecture. "Rowena, I know, alright? You don't have to—"
"My apologies. Is this a terrible time?"
The voice, prim, proper, gravelly, and carrying the kind of dignity that could straighten a crooked spine—cut neatly across their bickering. All four heads turned toward its source.
An older man stood beside their table, tall yet almost reed-slender, his posture rigid with an elegance that felt carved rather than learned. His white hair had thinned but been combed back with meticulous care, revealing a face lined with deep, severe wrinkles, all pulled together in an expression as stony as carved granite. He wore an immaculate tuxedo, the fabric impossibly clean for a tavern full of roaring patrons and sloshing tankards. Gold buttons glinted under the firelight, each etched with an insignia none of them recognized. Pale blue eyes regarded them with effortless poise, as though he had stepped out of an estate parlor rather than a raucous drinking hall.
"Kindly pardon the intrusion," he said, bowing his head with a practiced grace. "My name is Ramsley. I would simply like a word." His gaze shifted across the table before settling with calm precision. "Which one amongst you happens to be Miss D'Arc?"
Jeanne froze for a moment, glancing around as though expecting someone else to rise. When no one did, she stood, timid yet composed. "That… would be me."
Ramsley nodded, reaching into his coat with deliberate formality. From its inner pocket he withdrew a lavender-colored envelope, the paper thick and scented faintly of lilac. He presented it with both hands, bowing ever so slightly as Jeanne accepted it. A wax seal. Dark lavender, pressed with a coat of arms none of them recognized, caught the light.
"My Ladyship humbly seeks an audience with you," he said. "To discuss certain matters pertaining to your… house." His pause was slight but meaningful. "More precisely, your claim to it."
Jeanne blinked, utterly lost. "House? Claim?" She frowned. "I—I don't have anything like that."
Ramsley allowed himself the smallest, most courteous of smiles. "Evidently, you do, young Miss, though the fault lies not with you." His hands folded neatly behind his back. "I speak as the Master of the house that bears your name. Or rather…" A breath, elegant and measured. "House D'Arc."
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then, all at once, every pair of eyes around the table widened.
"Ehhhhhhhhh?!"