It was no secret that weekends were welcomed with open arms by the students of Excalibur Academy, regardless of House, faction, or affiliation. For some, the break offered a chance to catch up on assignments, particularly Professor Serfence's report on Counter-Hexes and Professor Rasputin's essay on the many uses of Calming Draughts, although more than a few students had to resist the temptation to scribble putting Professor Rasputin in a better mood somewhere in the margins and risk having points carved from their Houses in retaliation.
Other professors, such as Professor Duchannes and Professor Eridan, had been considerably more understanding and allowed greater leeway with submission dates given everything the Academy had endured. Professor Ashford had arguably been the most lenient of them all, though even Rowena would insist that had less to do with compassion and more to do with the man being fundamentally allergic to actual work.
While some students used the weekend to catch up on much-needed sleep, others preferred to spend their free time wandering Caerleon, albeit with considerably more caution than before. Gang activity had been steadily increasing throughout the city, and whatever trust many students once placed in the Clock Tower and its operatives had eroded sharply in the aftermath of the Siege.
Those who had been anointed into the Congregation often spent their weekends handling contracts, assignments, and other Clan-related work, with the Hounds of Cú proving particularly busy as demand for security surged across Caerleon. Cú and Údar's reputations alone had brought in more contracts than the Clan could comfortably manage, but their success had also begun feeding a problem Helena had seen coming for some time. What had once been little more than ordinary rivalry between Clans now stood dangerously close to becoming outright resentment, particularly among the smaller and lesser-known groups that found themselves repeatedly passed over in favor of larger, wealthier, and more renowned competitors.
As far as Helena was concerned, that was simply the nature of the Congregation. The strong prevailed, while the weak either adapted, disbanded, or found themselves swallowed by someone stronger. History had already proven that membership in the High Table offered no guarantee of permanence, and more than one Clan that once commanded fear and respect throughout Caerleon had dwindled into little more than a shadow of its former self or disappeared entirely. The Calishans remained perhaps the most glaring example.
Helena sighed as she settled deeper into one of the plush red velvet sofas lining the Ignis common room, resting a wooden clipboard across her lap while she placed her feathered quill against the paper. Nearly a dozen names had been scrawled down the page and subsequently crossed out, each belonging to one of the new students she had spent most of the day escorting to their rooms and guiding through a brief orientation. As Dorm Monitor, that responsibility normally would not have bothered her, but the steady arrival of newcomers several weeks into the school year was unprecedented. Under ordinary circumstances, enrollment would have been settled long before now, but there was very little ordinary about Excalibur after the Siege.
Her amber eyes followed a cluster of new first-years as they wandered through the common room with their mouths hanging open in awe, staring at the dark, obsidian-like volcanic stone lining the Ignis dormitory and the enormous pyre burning at its heart. The enchanted flames twisted upward in a towering spiral toward the opening several stories above, illuminating the chamber like a beacon beneath the night sky, yet despite their appearance, they produced no dangerous heat and would not burn even when touched. Helena rolled her eyes as several first-years cautiously dipped their hands into the fire, only to break into delighted laughter when they discovered they could scoop handfuls of flame into their palms and watch the embers drift harmlessly between their fingers before floating back toward the pyre.
Her attention eventually returned to the clipboard. Plenty of Excalibur's former students, or more accurately their parents, remained hesitant about reenrollment after everything that had happened. Some families had transferred their children to other academies across Avalon, while others had withdrawn them entirely while they decided whether returning to Caerleon was worth the risk.
A handful had eventually changed their minds after personal visits from Headmaster Blaise, who had apparently taken it upon himself to reassure families one by one, while others had traveled from the farthest reaches of Avalon after hearing that Excalibur suddenly had placements available. Regardless of how many students returned or how many new faces appeared in their place, Helena and the other Dorm Monitors were expected to carry on with their duties as usual.
The sound of someone dropping heavily onto the sofa across from her pulled Helena from her thoughts, and she looked up to find Jeanne sprawled against the cushions in her Ignis uniform, her blonde hair slightly disheveled and exhaustion written plainly across her face.
"Lord as my witness, if I have to repeat the Summoning Charm one more time, I think I might actually burst," Jeanne groaned as she rubbed her temple. "I honestly thought magic would be like the stories, with fairies waving their wands and making all their problems disappear. Instead, I get actual studying, endless incantations, and professors who apparently believe sleep is optional. At this rate, I'm going to lose whatever remains of my sanity before I graduate."
Helena chuckled as she rested the clipboard beside her. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Jeanne. You didn't grow up around magic the way I did, and mundane-born students, especially the ones raised completely outside magical society, usually have a much harder time adjusting." She gestured vaguely with one hand. "Just look at Godric. He's gotten a lot better, but when he first arrived, he had trouble with some of the simplest spells."
Jeanne lifted her head and regarded Helena with her amethyst eyes. "Really? Looking at him now, I would've assumed Godric had at least some magical experience before coming here."
"Not according to him. His uncle raised him as a mundane, and there wasn't anything malicious about it because his uncle's mundane himself, or more accurately, a pasquil since he was born into a wizarding family without magic." Helena leaned back and folded her arms loosely. "From what Godric told me, he didn't show any real magical aptitude until he was fifteen. He knows both his parents were wizards, but sometimes magic just skips people."
Her expression softened slightly. "I've got an uncle like that. Nobody in the family ever ostracized or disowned him over it, but whenever everyone gets together, you can still see that disappointment in his eyes."
"You mean like Professor Ryan?" Jeanne asked before giving a small nod. "I can understand that. It must be awful growing up in a family where everyone can do something extraordinary except you."
"Yeah, but what he lacks in magic, he more than makes up for with his brain. I don't think there's anyone more knowledgeable about the history of Avalon than he is." Helena rubbed the back of her head as she considered it. "Well, maybe Professor Lotho, but those two were colleagues back in the Librarium anyway."
Jeanne's brows rose. "The Librarium? As in the Wandering Sea?"
"Yup, though trust me, you do not want to get my uncle started on the Age of the Five Heroes unless you've got several hours to spare. He never stops, especially over the holidays." Helena groaned at the memory. "I swear, he drones on almost as much as Sal does when we—"
Her eyes widened as she abruptly realized what she had been about to say. Helena snapped her gaze back toward Jeanne, heat rushing into her cheeks, only to find the other girl already smiling at her.
"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me," Jeanne said with a quiet chuckle. "Although, honestly, I think you and Salazar should just come clean already. It's not exactly a secret anymore."
"Who? What? Where?" Helena blurted as she immediately looked away. "I-I don't know what you're talking about!"
Jeanne simply continued staring at her.
Helena lasted several seconds before her shoulders slumped and she sighed. "Is it really that obvious?"
"That, and I've lost count of how many times I've caught Salazar sneaking out of your room," Jeanne replied. "He made me swear I wouldn't say anything." She glanced around the common room before leaning forward conspiratorially. "Although, while we're on the subject, you should probably know that Helga started a betting pool on when the two of you are finally going to admit it."
"She did what?!" Helena cried, loud enough that several nearby students turned toward her. She immediately ducked her head, scratching awkwardly at the back of her neck. "By the stars, Sal was right. Hufflepuff really is a damned menace."
She looked back at Jeanne and sighed in defeat. "And yeah, before you ask, it happened during the Siege." Her gaze drifted away as her expression softened into something much more uncertain. "I honestly don't know how it happened. It just... did."
Her cheeks deepened another shade of red. "He... he rescued me when Norsefire arrested me and took me to one of their holding facilities." Helena's expression dimmed as the memory caught up with her. "The man running the place did terrible things to the captives, especially the girls, and I would've been his next victim if Salazar hadn't come for me."
A softer smile gradually returned to her lips as she looked down. "Honestly, knowing he came all that way for me still makes my heart flutter a little. Considering how the two of us usually are with each other, he was probably the last person I ever expected." She bobbed her head with a quiet chuckle. "He can still be an ass sometimes, though. There are days when I can't decide whether I want to kiss him, slap the crap out of him, or kiss him first, and then slap the crap out of him."
Jeanne laughed. "Believe me, I know the feeling. Still, I'm just glad the two of you are happy." Her smile lingered for a moment before fading slightly. "I just wish Godric could feel the same way again."
Helena let out a breath. "Yeah, don't we all? I mean, I love Salazar, Jeanne, and I'm pretty sure he loves me too, but I still remember the way Godric used to look at Raine and the way she looked at him." A rueful laugh escaped her. "I remember being insanely jealous of them because they were so obviously in love. Honestly, those two ruined relationships for half the Academy. I've heard some of the boys complain that their sweethearts keep bringing up Godric and Raine like they're some kind of standard everybody else has to live up to."
"That would be hilarious if it weren't also kind of depressing," Jeanne said with a chuckle, though her gaze soon lowered. "I still hope Godric eventually finds it in himself to love someone again."
Helena shook her head. "I doubt he will. Raine's therian, and therians mate for life. Godric promised himself to her and swore he'd love her the way a therian would." Her expression softened with sadness. "If he meant that literally, then he probably won't ever move on from her."
"But that's..." Jeanne hesitated, struggling with the thought. "That's just tragic."
"Maybe, but it's still Godric's choice," Helena replied. "True, what happened to them was tragic, and from a human perspective we might call that kind of devotion foolish or even a little melodramatic, but therians don't see it that way."
She gestured lightly with one hand. "To them, that bond is sacred. No race in Avalon loves more fiercely than therians do, and there have been plenty who chose to follow their mates into death rather than live without them. They take those bonds incredibly seriously, which is also why crushes can become dangerous among their kind."
Jeanne tilted her head. "How so?"
"Think about what a crush means to us," Helena said. "Most of the time it's cute, mostly harmless, and eventually we get over it. With therians, those feelings can become much more intense if they're allowed to grow unchecked, and if they aren't dealt with properly..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Some of them can break."
Jeanne's expression tightened as she listened.
"I mean really break," Helena continued. "Their minds can fracture under it, especially in cases where mates are forcibly separated, and some eventually regress into a much more animalistic state. That's how Feral Therians happen, when there's so little of the person left that instinct starts swallowing everything else."
"By God," Jeanne murmured, one hand rising to cover her mouth. "Can they be turned back?"
Helena shook her head, though she quickly raised a hand before Jeanne could misunderstand. "Now, don't get me wrong. Therians don't fall apart just because somebody didn't return their feelings. They have animal traits, but they're still rational people. Plenty of them move on, and plenty more just bury the feelings until they fade."
Her expression grew more serious. "The real danger comes when affection turns into obsession, when hope becomes expectation, and expectation eventually turns into delusion. There have been studies on Feral Reversion, but the results are awful. The only therians who consistently recover are those caught in the early stages. A handful have been brought back from the middle or late stages, but even then, the reports say they came back completely different, almost like the person they used to be had been erased and someone else was left behind."
Jeanne could only stare at her, visibly horrified by the implication.
Helena sighed and glanced away. "I haven't told anyone this, not Rowena, not Helga, and definitely not Godric because I'm not that cruel. I might've mentioned it to Sal once, and he agreed with me, but..." She hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with what she was about to say. "Godric deciding to Obliviate Raine may have been the greatest mercy he could've given her."
Jeanne looked at her in disbelief, and Helena noticed immediately.
"I know how horrible that sounds, and I hate myself for even thinking it, but take everything I just told you into account," Helena said. "If Raine had been torn away from Godric while still remembering everything they were to each other, I think it would've destroyed her. Honestly, I'd bet it would've broken her completely, and if she'd gone feral, then the Raine he knew might've disappeared with it." Her words softened as her gaze lowered. "Godric would never have forgiven himself if that happened."
Jeanne remained silent for a moment before slowly exhaling. "When you put it that way, I agree. That's actually horrifying."
"Truth is, I wouldn't wish what happened to Godric and Raine on anyone," Helena said as some of the weight left her expression. "But I'm glad Godric found it in himself to keep moving forward, and more than anything, I'm glad that even at the very end, he still chose to remain true to himself."
Jeanne nodded, sharing the smile. "Heroes usually do."
Her attention shifted a moment later when something beyond Helena caught her eye. A young man had somehow appeared behind the sofa without either of them noticing, leaning casually against the backrest with one arm propped along the top while his cheek rested against his hand. He wore the Ignis uniform, although the golden brooch fastened neatly at the knot of his tie immediately distinguished him from the other students, its ruby-red stone catching the warm light of the common room. His hazel eyes regarded them through a half-lidded gaze, and the amused curve of his mouth suggested he had been listening for some time.
"Oh, please, do not stop on my account," he said as he idly ran his fingers through his black hair. "I found your rather extensive knowledge of therians quite fascinating." His gaze settled on Jeanne, and his smile warmed slightly. "It has been quite some time, Miss D'Arc, and I see you are looking as radiant as ever."
Helena immediately twisted around to face him just as Jeanne's eyes widened. "M-Michael?" she stammered. "What're you doing here?"
Helena looked sharply toward Jeanne. "Wait, Michael, as in Michael Blackthorn?" She grabbed the clipboard from beside her and glanced down at the list, where only one name remained uncrossed, before looking back at him with a frown. "It's almost six. You're late." Her expression shifted again as the larger question finally caught up with her, and she pointed toward him while staring at Jeanne. "More importantly, how in the Gods do you know him?"
Michael chuckled as he straightened from the sofa, brought his hands together, and inclined his head in a courteous bow. "My deepest apologies, Miss Abbot. It would seem my airship encountered some difficulties over Stornoway, and we were forced to continue the remainder of the journey by train." He gave her an apologetic smile. "I would have sent word ahead, but I made the rather embarrassing mistake of neglecting to replace the energy crystals in my communicator. I came here as quickly as I could once I reached the station."
He shifted his attention toward Jeanne. "As for Miss D'Arc, we had the pleasure of meeting by chance in Carcassonne. Charming city, incidentally, and if memory serves, she happened to be traveling with a certain redheaded young man whose temperament was every bit as fiery as his hair." His eyes flicked back toward Helena with a knowing smile. "I believe you may know him as Godric Gryffindor, the Hero of Caerleon. I would be delighted to regale you with the entire story, but I'm afraid I am rather exhausted after such a long journey."
"I'm well acquainted with Godric, thank you very much." Helena rolled her eyes as she rose from the sofa. "Anyway, I'm Helena Abbot, Ignis Dorm Monitor, and you—"
The rest of the introduction died on her tongue as her gaze finally settled on the badge pinned to Michael's chest. He followed her stare downward before looking back at her with an increasingly amused smile.
"I take it from that expression that Headmaster Blaise, and perhaps Lucian as well, neglected to inform you beforehand," Michael said as he tapped the badge, drawing attention to the single word engraved across it: Prefect. "In that case, kindly allow me to introduce myself properly."
He rounded the sofa and came to a stop before her, one hand settling naturally against the hilt of the hussar saber hanging at his side while the other rested behind his back. "Michael Blackthorn, Fifth Year, and as of today, the new Head Prefect of Ignis." He bowed with practiced ease before straightening again. "A pleasure."
Helena and Jeanne could only stare at him, their eyes widening together as the revelation finally sank in. Michael blinked beneath the weight of their silence, and for perhaps the first time since his arrival, his carefully composed expression slipped. He cleared his throat audibly and straightened his robes before offering them a faint, almost awkward smile.
"Well, now that we have that out of the way, I would appreciate it if we could get the orientation underway. Once again, terribly sorry to impose so late in the day." His gaze shifted toward Helena as he continued. "And if you don't mind, I would also like to have a word with the Visionaries at some point. Introductions will hardly be necessary, given that we are already well acquainted." A short laugh escaped him as amusement returned to his expression. "Although I daresay Artoria may be less than pleased to see me."
Helena finally snapped out of her surprise and shook her head. "Don't worry about it. It's all part of the job." She sighed as she lifted the clipboard and quill again. "As for the Visionaries, you might want to give me a little time to prepare them first." Her gaze leveled on him meaningfully. "They're not exactly thrilled about the whole... arrangement, if you get what I mean."
"Perfectly understandable," Michael replied, although the amusement in his face faded into something more measured. "Contrary to whatever impression I am certain most of the student body has formed about the Disciplinary Committee, I can assure you that our only concern is what is best for the Academy."
Helena let out a quiet breath. "Could've fooled me," she muttered under her breath before tilting her head toward the dormitory corridor. "Come on. Let's get you settled in first, and then we can head down to the Great Hall for supper." She glanced back toward Jeanne. "We'll talk more later."
Jeanne nodded, and Michael turned toward her with a courteous smile. "I suppose we shall speak later, then." He placed one hand over his chest and gave her a short bow. "M'Lady."
With that, he and Helena started toward the center of the common room, but they had barely made it several steps before Helena gestured toward the saber at his side with the tip of her quill. "By the way, that sword? You're going to need a permit for it."
"Of course," Michael replied with a knowing grin. "Rules are rules, after all, as are the consequences that follow when one chooses to ignore them."
Helena shot him a sidelong look at that but kept walking, clearly deciding it was not worth asking what exactly he meant. Jeanne remained seated on the sofa as she watched the two of them disappear farther into the dormitory, her thoughts lingering on Michael's sudden arrival and, more importantly, on the last conversation they had shared in Carcassonne. He had told her then that they would see each other again soon, yet she had never imagined he meant here, at Excalibur, much less as Ignis's new Head Prefect. She remained there for a while longer, quietly turning the implications over in her mind before finally rising from the sofa and making her way toward the dormitory entrance.
****
As the sun began to sink over Caerleon, the bells of Excalibur's clock tower rang across the grounds, their deep knell marking the hour for supper in the Great Hall. Some students remained loyal to the Academy's schedule and made their way there without delay, while others chose to spend the evening out in the city, and still more were somewhere beyond Caerleon's walls on assignments, contracts, or other business tied to the Congregation.
Salazar, Rowena, and Helga had already returned to their respective dormitories after supper at East Eden, with Salazar particularly eager for a long, hot bath after what he considered an unnecessarily arduous day. Helga and Rowena had both promised Ruben they would return soon, although Helga had decided not to ask Nell about what Lester had said concerning her master, at least not yet. The confrontation with the Authority had already taken enough out of the girl, and Helga saw little reason to force her through anything else before she was ready. Nell, for her part, seemed to know exactly what Helga was thinking, because throughout the meal she had glanced toward her more than once with the uneasy look of someone waiting for an inevitable question that never came.
Back at Excalibur, the Great Hall remained as lively as ever, with students gathered around their usual tables beneath the cloudy night projected across the enchanted ceiling overhead. Conversation drifted through the chamber in a constant murmur while the scents of roasted meats, fresh bread, rich sauces, and pastries layered with sweet cream and icing mingled together in the warm air. As supper continued behind him, Workner stepped through the towering doors and emerged onto the landing above the grand staircase. He stretched both arms over his head until several joints in his back popped, then stifled a yawn before adjusting his glasses and starting down the corridor.
The day had been longer than he cared to admit. He had spent hours grading assignments and reviewing reports, only to follow that with drafting charts, routes, and contingency plans for the dungeon delve he intended to run the following week. The exercise had originally been designed for the Third Years, including Godric's class, but after the faculty decided they would repeat the year, Workner had been forced to repurpose the entire lesson for the Fourth Years instead. He slipped his hands into his pockets as he approached the staircase, his steely gray eyes settling on the stone floor while his thoughts wandered through everything that had happened over the past year and how impossibly distant the beginning of it now seemed.
His mind eventually returned to Godric, the boy who had arrived from another world knowing almost nothing about the magical legacy he had inherited. In the span of months, Godric had been drawn into the Congregation, fallen in love with a therian slave named Raine, crossed blades with the Calishans, and found himself pulled into a war against the Clock Tower itself. Then there had been Lamar Burgess, the Reaper of the Reeds, and the final confrontation in which Godric had every reason to choose revenge but instead chose mercy.
Workner let out a quiet chuckle at the bitter irony of it all, still amazed that so much could have happened in such a short span of time. When he had been a student alongside Serfence, Amelia, and Creedy, his years at Excalibur had been nowhere near as eventful, and in hindsight, he was grateful for that. Even with his own involvement in the Congregation, he never could have imagined that Excalibur, Caerleon, and Avalon itself would change so drastically in the wake of Burgess's betrayal.
As Workner reached the foot of the staircase, the castle's front doors opened with a long, heavy creak, the old hinges groaning beneath the weight of the wood as the sound carried across the vast entrance hall. He glanced over his shoulder almost immediately, but before he could make out whoever had entered, something else reached him first. The sharp, metallic scent of blood, unmistakable to any Delver who had spent enough time underground.
A moment later came the steady scrape of boots against weathered stone, and a lone figure stepped into the amber glow cast by the crystal sconces overhead. He wore a long, battered duster over a black shirt, weathered jeans, and scuffed boots that looked as though they had crossed more roads than most travelers saw in a lifetime. A worn Stetson sat low over his brow, while a leather bandolier circled his waist, packed with elongated brass cartridges of the kind Professor Ryan had once explained were called bullets. A firearm rested in a holster at his hip, its grip worn smooth from use.
At first glance, Workner assumed the stranger was older, perhaps some hardened drifter who had wandered through the wrong set of doors, but when the young man raised his head, that assumption immediately fell apart. He could not have been more than sixteen, though the hard lines etched into his face, the exhaustion in his eyes, and the easy way he carried himself made him seem considerably older. The smell of blood clung to him so heavily that Workner soon realized why. Half his duster was soaked through with it, dark drops still falling from the hem and spotting the stone floor as he walked.
Students passing through the hall slowed to stare, some openly wide-eyed while others covered their noses at the smell. The young man either did not notice or simply did not care. His gaze eventually settled on Workner, and after a few more steps, he stopped directly in front of him.
Workner blinked once before turning fully toward him. "Can I... help you?"
The young man reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded sheet of paper that was badly creased and stained with blood along one edge. He unfolded it, glanced down at the writing as though confirming something, then looked back at Workner.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but this here's Excalibur Academy, right?" he asked.
Workner hesitated, taking in the blood, the gun, and the boy standing before him. "Yes?"
"Oh, good." The young man handed him the letter. "See, I was supposed to come by earlier for orientation and all that, but I had a last-minute job that needed finishin'." He looked down at the state of his coat and gave a small, almost apologetic shrug. "Sorry about the mess. Things got a little... well, messy. You know how it is."
Workner accepted the paper cautiously and began reading, only for his confusion to deepen when he realized he was holding an official acceptance letter. His eyes moved over the name, then back to the bloodstained teenager in front of him.
"Wait," he said, looking him up and down again. "You're a student?"
"Right." The young man removed his Stetson and held it loosely at his side. "Name's Logan Deschain, and up until a couple hours ago, I was a bounty hunter." A faint grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. "One of yours mentioned y'all were acceptin' new students, and I figured I'd been outta school long enough."
Workner could only stare at him, his eyes moving slowly from the blood-soaked duster to the firearm at Logan's hip and then back to the boy's face. After several increasingly uncomfortable seconds, Logan cleared his throat and shifted his weight.
"I'd reckon I'm a little too late to get sorted tonight, so tell you what," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward the entrance. "I'ma go find myself a room somewhere in town, then I'll be back bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow mornin'. Sound good?"
"Um... right," Workner finally managed, adjusting his glasses as though the gesture might help him recover some of his composure. "I'm sorry, where are my manners?" He extended a hand. "Professor Workner. I teach Dungeon Studies."
Logan raised an eyebrow, then pulled off one glove before taking the professor's hand. "Dungeon Studies, huh? That makes you a Delver, don't it?"
Workner immediately noticed how rough Logan's palm was, callused from hard use and deeply tanned from what he could only assume were long months spent under the open sky. "Yes, and it's a profession I've always been rather proud of," he replied with a small chuckle.
"In any case, you're quite right. It's a little late for any proper orientation, and most of the staff have already settled in for the evening. Besides, it is the weekend, and Headmaster Blaise is currently away on errands." He sighed and muttered under his breath, "Or another sabbatical. Gods only know where he's sauntered off to this time."
Logan slipped his glove back on and gave him a nod. "Well, nice makin' your acquaintance, Professor. Reckon I'll be seein' you tomorrow."
With that, he turned and started back toward the doors, while Workner remained where he was, still trying to make sense of the fact that Excalibur had apparently just admitted a sixteen-year-old bounty hunter covered in someone else's blood. He had only just begun to turn away when a familiar crystalline chime sounded through the entrance hall, stopping him cold.
"Well, best we start lookin' for a place to rest our heads for the night, Nariko," Logan said as he continued walking.
Another soft chime answered him.
"Yeah, I'm thinkin' the same thing. That Azian-lookin' place with all those cat therians seemed real cozy."
Workner spun around so quickly that his glasses near leapt from his face, and his eyes widened at the sight of a tiny humanoid figure drifting beside Logan's shoulder. Delicate wings fluttered behind her in a blur of light, casting a faint glow around her as she moved through the air with effortless grace.
"By Gil-Galad!" Workner exclaimed.
Both Logan and Nariko turned at once, and Workner hurried toward them so quickly that Logan instinctively leaned back and brought one hand halfway toward his holster before realizing the professor was not charging him in anger.
"A faerie!" Workner blurted, his usual composure completely gone as he stared at Nariko with open astonishment. "An actual faerie! By the Gods, it's been years since I've seen one up close!"
The pink faerie was so startled by Workner's sudden enthusiasm that her ruby-red eyes widened and she immediately zipped behind Logan's Stetson, peeking cautiously around the brim while her delicate wings fluttered with nervous little bursts of light.
"How curious," Workner murmured as he leaned closer, one hand rising to his chin while he studied the visibly unsettled fae. "She looks nothing like the faeries I've encountered before. Then again, I've never known the True Fae to wander this far from Eryn Lasgalen." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully before his expression brightened. "If I had to wager, I'd say she belongs to the Lótë Tribe. They're said to be among the most beautiful of the Fae." His grin widened with almost boyish excitement. "Oh, this is fascinating."
He caught himself a moment later, however, and his expression abruptly shifted. "But wait..."
His silver eyes dropped toward Logan. "Why is a Fae traveling with you? They don't normally form bonds with mortals." Workner suddenly leaned in so close that Logan nearly jumped backward. "In fact, the Fae generally don't bond at all. They ensnare. Did you offer her your soul by any chance, or perhaps perform some sort of forbidden ritual that bound the two of you together?"
His excitement returned full force as his grin widened again. "Gods, this is extraordinary. I'd love the opportunity to study both of you more closely and—"
"Whoa, whoa, Professor, hold your horses there," Logan interrupted, raising both hands as he leaned away from the increasingly animated man. He glanced upward toward the brim of his hat, and although he could not see Nariko directly, the frantic flutter of her wings told him she was getting more uncomfortable by the second. "Look, that's a whole mess of questions I ain't got answers for, and it's gettin' late. We're plum tuckered out, so how 'bout we circle back around to this tomorrow?"
He took another cautious step toward the doors, then gave Workner a wary look. "Or never."
Before Workner could answer, Logan turned and bolted through the entrance with Nariko clinging close behind him.
"Wait!" Workner cried as he immediately gave chase. "Don't go! I still have questions!"
A sharp, alarmed chime sounded beside Logan as he sprinted across the courtyard with the professor not far behind. He risked a glance over his shoulder, saw Workner still pursuing them with entirely too much enthusiasm, and quickened his pace.
"You know, Nariko," Logan said between breaths, "I'm startin' to have second thoughts about this school myself."
****
The Bureau of the Authority stood in the heart of Caerleon, humming with its usual activity as the morning sunlight crept across bare concrete walls whose cold shades of gray seemed to mirror the uniforms of the Agents moving steadily in and out of the brutalist structure. Even at such an early hour, the squeak of polished soles and the measured tap of footsteps echoed constantly through the lobby, occasionally interrupted by the rattle of chains or the pleading cries of slaves being hauled into custody. There was nothing subtle about the spectacle, nor was there meant to be. Every shackled prisoner dragged through those doors served as a warning to any slave accompanying their master that morning, a living reminder of what awaited anyone foolish enough to defy the Ius Servitium.
Among those in Avalon who regarded the Authority with contempt, there was a certain bitter irony in the gray its Agents wore with such pride. For an organization supposedly draped in shades of gray, its enforcers tended to see the world in nothing but black and white, dividing everyone neatly between those who obeyed the law and those who needed to be broken by it. Others claimed the color represented something much simpler, hopelessness, the one state every slave was eventually expected to accept. To them, the collar around their neck was not merely a restraint but a promise of what their future would be, a fate that could pass just as easily to their children and then to the generations that followed.
Several floors above the noise of the lobby, the atmosphere inside the Captain's office was considerably quieter, though no less oppressive. A middle-aged man sat rigidly before a broad oaken desk, sweat darkening the collar and back of his gray uniform while his eyes repeatedly darted toward the Azian man leaning against the nearby wall. Serizawa watched him with his arms folded and his narrow eyes reduced to amused slits, apparently content to let the silence do its work.
Across the desk sat the man known throughout the Authority simply as the King.
Commander Hector Khan occupied a tall leather chair with the ease of someone entirely comfortable making others wait. For nearly ten minutes, he had barely acknowledged the man seated before him, his attention remaining fixed on the parchment beneath his hand as the scratch of his quill filled the room alongside the slow, heavy ticking of a mechanical clock resting on the cabinet behind him. Every so often, Hector paused only long enough to dip the nib into an inkwell before continuing, leaving his visitor to sit beneath the weight of his own nerves.
Eventually, the silence became too much.
"Um, begging your pardon, Commander," the man began cautiously, "but I'm not entirely sure why I'm—"
A sharp hush escaped Hector's lips as he raised one gloved finger without looking up.
The man immediately fell silent.
Hector finished the sentence he had been writing, placed the quill neatly beside the parchment, and only then lifted his head. His dark eyes settled on the man across from him as he rested both elbows against the desk and brought his fingers together beneath his chin.
"Mister Price," Hector said, calm and impeccably measured, "how long have you been with the Authority, if you don't mind my asking?"
Price's eyes widened slightly before he swallowed. "About a decade or so, sir. Mostly Administration. I've never really been a field—"
"I asked how long you had served, Mister Price, not for your life story," Hector interrupted, leaning back into his chair with a faint look of impatience. "Now, given your tenure within the Administratum, I assume you are reasonably familiar with the Ius Servitium. Perhaps not to the extent one might expect from a barrister, naturally, but certainly well enough to understand the regulations governing your own conduct."
Price swallowed again. "Yes, of course, s-sir, but I don't understand what this has to do with—"
"Then I assume you are also familiar with Section Thirty-Two, Paragraph Forty-Seven, Subsection Twelve of the Code of Ethics governing the Burra Auctoritas," Hector continued, cutting him off once more as his eyes narrowed. Whatever remained of Price's confusion disappeared almost immediately. "Do correct me if my recollection has failed me, but that particular provision concerns clear instances of corruption, does it not?" Hector allowed a short pause before adding, "Along with the consequences attached to such conduct."
He reached for a folder resting at the edge of his desk, opened it, and tossed it across the polished wood. It slid to a stop directly in front of Price like an accusation waiting to be read. Inside were written statements, transaction records, and several black-and-white photographs showing Price in the company of an older, portly man whose presence clearly required no explanation. The color drained from Price's face as his eyes moved from one page to the next.
"Compliments from my..." Hector paused, appearing to search for a suitably restrained description before the faintest trace of disdain touched his expression. "Acquaintances at the Tower. More precisely, the Inquisition." He tilted his head as Price stared down at the evidence before him. "It would appear you've been quite the busy bee, haven't you?"
"I-I don't know what you're trying to imply!" Price stammered, his eyes darting between Hector and the open folder in front of him. "Surely this isn't what it looks like. There has to be some kind of mistake!"
Hector chuckled, though there was no humor in it, only a coldness that sent an involuntary shiver down Price's spine. "I know you have grown accustomed to playing coy, Mister Price, and I imagine it has served you reasonably well until now." His expression hardened as he leaned forward. "But if there is one thing I despise more than corruption itself, it is the assumption that I can be played the fool."
He rested one forearm against the desk and regarded Price with open contempt. "We know everything. More importantly, I know everything. I know about the arrangement you maintained with the late Lord Meachum, who was duly executed by the Inquisition, and I know about the handful of other Entitled who were involved before they found themselves six feet underground as well."
Hector raised a finger before Price could interrupt. "Now, let me be perfectly clear. I care very little for the Entitled. In fact, I have never hidden how repulsive, bloated, and thoroughly abhorrent I find most of those nobles, and I would be the first to admit that a certain degree of quid pro quo has gone unchallenged over the years." He made a small gesture with one hand. "That is the nature of the business, unpleasant though it may be."
The faint amusement disappeared from his face. "What I will not tolerate, however, is the abduction and enslavement of people outside legally assigned territories, followed by forged documentation designed to make the entire operation disappear on paper. You and I may have no love, concern, or even the slightest shred of compassion for the enslaved, Mister Price, but I will not stomach seeing the laws I uphold, the laws this institution is built upon, twisted into something that harms the very people they are supposed to protect from unlawful seizure."
A dry laugh escaped him. "Yes, I am well aware of how hypocritical that sounds. An oxymoron, perhaps, but nevertheless, the distinction exists, whether either of us finds it comfortable or not."
Price had begun trembling visibly by then, his hands tightening around the arms of his chair.
"And even then, I might have been willing to show some measure of leniency if you had been intimidated, threatened, blackmailed, or forced into participating," Hector continued. "We are all human, after all, and take it from me when I say that fear is an exceptionally powerful motivator."
His gaze sharpened. "But that is not what happened here. You did not merely accept what was offered to you. You participated willingly, and by every account, you enjoyed yourself while doing it. Like a pig stumbling upon a field of truffles, you gorged yourself on every privilege, every bribe, and every opportunity placed before you until you forgot there was ever supposed to be a line you could not cross."
His words dropped lower, losing what little warmth it had possessed. "You have disgraced this institution, Mister Price. You have disgraced the office entrusted to you, and worst of all, you have disgraced the badge you were permitted to wear."
Hector glanced toward Serizawa and gave a single nod. Serizawa responded by lifting one hand and snapping his fingers, whereupon the office doors opened and several Authority Agents entered in quick succession. Price twisted in his chair to look over his shoulder, and whatever color remained in his face vanished when he realized why they were there.
"The consequences are quite clear," Hector said as he settled back into his chair. "You have not only forfeited your position within the Authority, but your freedom along with it."
"Wait, wait, please!" Price cried as he lurched to his feet, raising both hands while the Agents closed in around him. Panic cracked through his words as he looked desperately toward Hector. "I'll give you everything! Names, accounts, records, anything you want!"
The Agents seized Price by both arms before he could retreat, and panic immediately overrode whatever composure he had left. "Let go of me!" he shouted as he thrashed against their grip. "This is unprecedented! This is outrageous! I have rights, damn you! I'm entitled to due process, and you can't just—"
His protest died the moment one of the Agents reached inside his coat and withdrew an obsidian collar. The polished black surface caught the overhead light with a dull gleam, and faint runes shimmered along its length as the locking mechanism opened with a soft mechanical click.
Price's irises shrank at the sight of it, and every trace of indignation vanished beneath naked terror. "No," he gasped before he broke into a scream. "No, anything but that! Stop! Please, I'll do anything! Anything you want, just don't put that thing on me!"
He fought harder, twisting desperately against the Agents restraining him, but they held him firmly as the collar was brought around his neck and snapped shut. The runes flared to life as the lock sealed, and by the time the glow faded, tears were already running freely down Price's face.
"Do not worry, Mister Price," Hector said as he rose from his chair and calmly adjusted the cuffs of his gloves. "I am not entirely without mercy. You will be permitted to say your final goodbyes to your family before we take you downstairs for processing." He allowed just enough silence for Price to look up at him before continuing with chilling precision. "And by processing, I do, of course, mean Inustus, a punishment the Authority reserves specifically for deceitful vermin who somehow manage to worm their way into this glorious institution and mistake our tolerance for weakness."
A faint smile touched Hector's lips. "I will admit, there is something remarkably satisfying about the scent of burning flesh and the screams that come with it. It has always had a way of putting me in a better mood."
Price's knees nearly gave out beneath him. "No, you can't do that!" he cried, his breathing turning ragged as he struggled to remain upright between the Agents. "D-Do you have any idea what they'll do to me if they find out who I am?"
Hector rounded the desk and approached until he stood directly in front of him. "That you are former Authority?" A thin smile carved itself across his face. "Oh, I rather hope they do." His gaze drifted briefly toward the collar before returning to Price's terrified expression. "An outcast among the enslaved, stripped of rank, privilege, and protection. A lion relieved of its fangs and thrown amongst the very sheep it once hunted." He let out a quiet, amused breath. "I confess, I struggle to imagine a more poetic conclusion to your career."
Price's fear twisted suddenly into rage. "You bastard!" he snarled, straining against the men holding him. "I hope you burn in hell for this, Khan! I hope that sick obsession you have with the Authority destroys you someday! I hope you lose everything you give a damn about because of it!"
"Perhaps," Hector replied, leaning closer. "There may well come a day when my sword lies shattered and my body with it, when I am finally brought low and forced to look upon the ruin of everything I built by my own hand." His gaze never left Price's as a faint, humorless smile touched his lips. "But that day is not today."
Hector lifted his head and looked down at the broken man before him with an expression almost devoid of sympathy. "I sincerely doubt our paths will ever cross again, Mister Price, but wherever you happen to end up, whether it is the mines, the salvage yards, or, more deplorably, as little more than a sack of flesh meant to satisfy someone else's vilest appetites, I want you to spend whatever remains of your life contemplating a single question." He tilted his head slightly, allowing the silence to settle. "Was it worth it?"
He straightened again and gave the Agents a small nod. They immediately began dragging Price toward the doors, and whatever remained of his rage collapsed into desperate, ragged sobbing as his boots scraped across the floor. "No! Please, no!" he screamed, twisting around for one final look at Hector before the doors began to close behind him. "Nooooo!"
Before the office door could close, another Agent slipped through the narrowing gap. His face was still badly bruised despite the healing spells that had repaired most of the damage, with one eye swollen nearly shut and several dark marks lingering across his jaw and cheek. Lester glanced back over his shoulder at Price as the disgraced administrator was dragged away, a smug little smile tugging at his mouth while he sauntered farther into the room with both hands buried in his pockets. The moment Hector saw him, however, whatever faint amusement had remained in his expression vanished, while Serizawa's grin only grew sharper from his place against the wall.
"Heh, so Price finally screwed himself, huh?" Lester said, sounding far too pleased with the situation. "Told him he was gonna get caught eventually." He looked toward Hector and barely seemed to notice the change in the Commander's face. "So, what the hell do you want, Muddy? Keep it short, 'cause I've got places to be and things to—"
Hector moved before he could finish, crossing the space between them in a blur and seizing Lester by the back of the neck before slamming him face-first into the desk. The impact sent papers, ornaments, and framed photographs scattering in every direction, while the inkwell tipped onto its side and spilled a dark pool of ink across the parchment Hector had been working on moments before. Lester barely managed a startled curse before Hector wrenched his head sideways, clamped one hand over his jaw, and forced his mouth open. With the other, he snatched the letter opener from its stand and pressed the sharpened point against Lester's tongue.
"I have tolerated you for far longer than you deserve, Djangles, and by the Gods, I have wanted your head more times than I care to count," Hector hissed, his face twisted with a fury so controlled that it was almost worse than shouting. "In fact, I suspect taking it would bring me almost as much satisfaction as watching a runaway slave dragged off to Tartarus. You have been a thorn in my side, a stain on this institution, and somehow, through what I can only assume is the favor of some vile thing lurking beyond the fabric of creation, you have continued stumbling through one consequence after another without ever truly paying for any of them."
He leaned closer, forcing Lester's cheek harder against the desk while the man's one open eye shifted nervously toward him. "That ends today. Do you have any idea what you did?" Hector pressed the letter opener more firmly against his tongue, close enough to make Lester freeze. "More importantly, do you have any idea what you could have done? We may despise the Sanctuary Laws, but here in Caerleon, we are still required to obey them. You did not simply violate them, you did it in East Eden, in front of Ruben of all people, the one orc in this city who knows the Authority inside and out, with a barrister at his side who has spent years making herself one of the greatest thorns in our collective backside."
His teeth bared slightly. "You have just handed them enough ammunition to bury half this Bureau if they decide to pursue it."
Hector shoved him down harder until the desk gave a strained creak beneath their combined weight, drawing a pained grunt from Lester. "And that is before we even address the fact that you were there at the personal request!" He dropped into a low snarl. "I have just sent one of our own to the markets for misplaced loyalty, so what in the Gods' names makes you think I would hesitate to do the same to you?!"
Lester tried to choke out a response, but Hector tightened his grip around his jaw and pressed the blade more deliberately against his tongue, cutting off whatever excuse he had been about to make. "Now listen to me very carefully, Mister Djangles, and yes, I said Mister," Hector said. "I will not dignify you by acknowledging your rank. As far as I am concerned, you never deserved it, and the fact that someone saw fit to grant it to you leaves a particularly foul taste in my mouth, but I digress."
His eyes narrowed. "I will not repeat myself. You are under my command, and you have exhausted what little patience I had left for your particular brand of stupidity. If you step out of line again, or if you so much as indulge one of those vile little impulses rattling around inside that demented head of yours, I will cut out your tongue and feed it to my dogs."
His expression remained cold. "Command may protect your position, but it does not protect every part of you, and you would do well to remember that."
Only then did Hector draw the letter opener away, seize Lester by the back of his collar, and haul him upright before shoving him hard enough to send him stumbling several steps from the desk. Lester immediately brought a hand to his mouth and checked his tongue with his fingers, then lifted his head and shot Hector a glare as his face twisted with barely contained rage. His mouth opened as though he were about to fire back, but the quiet scrape of steel sliding partway from a sheath cut through the office before he could make a sound.
Lester glanced over his shoulder toward Serizawa and found the Azian man still leaning against the wall, one hand resting casually near the short blade at his hip. Serizawa's thumb had eased the weapon just far enough from its sheath for a thin line of steel to catch the light, while his narrow eyes had opened slightly, revealing the cold silver beneath them. The warning required no explanation.
"Now, if you don't mind, kindly remove yourself from my presence," Hector said as he calmly set the letter opener back upon the desk. "And while you are at it, I suggest you pray that whatever venture you choose to pursue next does not end with you sharing Mister Price's fate." He tilted his chin toward the door. "Get lost."
Lester scoffed, but whatever response had been forming died behind clenched teeth. He shoved both hands back into his pockets, turned on his heel, and stormed toward the exit before wrenching the door open and disappearing into the corridor. A moment later, the door slammed shut behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.
Hector let out a deep, ragged breath and tossed the letter opener onto the desk, where it clattered against the polished wood before coming to rest beside the spilled ink. He leaned his hip against the edge, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose as the tension finally began to leave his shoulders.
"May the Gods have mercy on me," he murmured. "I've been coming home so tightly wound lately that the children have started noticing." He drew another breath and released it more slowly. "Worse still, so has Vistra."
"Such is the burden of leadership," Serizawa said as he pushed away from the wall and approached him. The usual amusement in his expression had softened into something far more sincere. "If I may speak freely, Commander, and I mean not as an Agent of the Authority, but as your friend."
Hector opened his eyes and looked toward him, but said nothing.
"I know your reasons, and you and I have been in this together for a very long time," Serizawa continued. "But secrets between people who love each other have a nasty habit of becoming the very thing that tears them apart." He gestured lightly with one hand. "I know you and Vistra love one another, truly and deeply, which is why I have to ask whether it might finally be time to tell her." His gaze settled firmly on Hector. "About all of this. About who, and what you really are."
Hector straightened slightly, his expression tightening. "I wish I could, Kamo. More than anything, you know that." He looked away for a moment before continuing. "But I fear that whatever Vistra and I have built together would not survive the truth."
Serizawa gave a slow nod. "If that's the choice you've made, then I'll respect it. Just remember that no secret stays buried forever, my friend." His expression remained gentle. "Sooner or later, she'll uncover it, whether you're ready or not. I can only hope that what the two of you share is strong enough to survive whatever comes after."
Hector lowered his gaze and remained silent for a moment before nodding. "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it." He looked back toward Serizawa, and a rare smile slowly appeared on his face. "We both will." His expression softened further. "It is good to know that even when the world seems determined to stand against us, you remain the one soul who continues to stand beside me. For that, you have my gratitude, Kamo, more than I could ever hope to repay."
Serizawa chuckled as the weight between them finally eased. "You can start by buying me a round of sake. I heard there's a quaint little place somewhere in the city run by cat therians from Azia."
Hector's expression shifted almost immediately. "Yes, I'm aware of it." He gave a slight shrug. "Unfortunately, the establishment has become rather closely associated with an incident involving an old friend." His mouth tightened faintly. "Although perhaps friend is a word I should use rather generously, considering how he feels about me now."
Serizawa tilted his head. "Bastion Reinhardt?"
"Hm."
"You mentioned him before," Serizawa said. "Something about the two of you growing up together."
"I suppose you could say that." Hector folded his arms and looked toward the floor, his expression growing more distant. "It was a different time, and I was a very different man." He let out a quiet breath. "Life could scarcely have pulled the two of us in more opposite directions if it had tried, but the past is the past, and I have made peace with mine."
Serizawa lifted one hand in concession. "To each their own, I suppose. In that case, perhaps not sake." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I could certainly go for a cup of tea, though. I heard the café downstairs makes a pretty good chai."
Hector gave him a flat stare. "Just because I look the way I do does not mean I indulge in everything associated with my heritage, Kamo, any more than I immediately associate sushi and onigiri with you."
He pushed himself away from the desk and started toward the door, with Serizawa falling into step behind him.
"But you do enjoy chai, don't you?" Serizawa asked.
Hector continued walking for several seconds without answering.
"Yes."
Serizawa broke into laughter as Hector opened the door, and the two of them stepped out of the office together.
****
The door to Godric's room slammed open with a heavy thud as he stumbled inside, dragging in a long, exhausted breath before kicking it shut behind him and dropping his bag onto the floor. Everything looked exactly as he had left it on the day Mereoleona had quite literally abducted him and hauled him halfway across Avalon against his will. Half-finished sheets of parchment still covered his desk, several textbooks remained open beside them, and a list of Counter-Curses sat unfinished where he had abandoned one of Professor Serfence's many assignments.
Amber light from the crystal sconces washed the room in a soft glow, while the smoldering fire in the hearth spread warmth through the black volcanic stone and held back the chill of the autumn night beyond the windows. A full moon should have been hanging over Excalibur, though dark clouds had rolled across the sky only minutes earlier and swallowed most of its light.
Godric unclipped the scabbard from his waist and tossed it onto the bed before throwing himself down beside it, his body sinking into the mattress with an audible puff. Hours aboard an airship after hours more of drills, sparring, and increasingly insane training exercises with the Vermillion siblings the day before, he was finally home.
Unfortunately, whatever peace he hoped to enjoy would not last long, since Mereoleona had already announced that she intended to relocate to Caerleon within the next week once she finished sorting matters out with the Captain of the Crownsguard. Fuego had responded by remarking that Ser Clarus, the Lord Commander, might finally lose whatever remained of his hairline once he heard the news.
Godric rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling while flexing the fingers of one hand, both arms still wrapped in bandages almost to the elbows. He had only spent a short time training with the Vermillions, and although he had returned with considerably more burns than he had left with, he had learned more about Calidus from its actual practitioners than he could ever have picked up from scrolls or half-understood instructions buried in old books.
Even the scholars from the Wandering Sea had seemed impressed, although most of them appeared far more interested in studying Vis Vitalis than in the boy who had somehow repurposed Calidus through a sword. Godric could hardly blame them, and with another tired breath, he covered his eyes with one hand.
Never in his life had he expected to catch the attention of a noble house, much less one of Avalon's Imperial Families. First there had been the royal house of Camelot, and now the Vermillions had somehow decided he was worth dragging into their affairs as well. Godric let out a quiet laugh at the absurdity of it all, especially when he remembered that he had not even seen his friends since returning. Knowing Salazar, Rowena, Helga, Helena, and Jeanne, they were probably dying to hear every detail about his latest misadventures with the woman half of Avalon called the Uncrowned Undefeated Lioness.
When Godric lowered his hand, however, the humor disappeared from his face. A boy was standing over him. For several seconds, neither of them moved. Godric's crimson eyes widened while the stranger stared down at him in what appeared to be a Ventus uniform, and then, to Godric's complete bewilderment, the boy's face split into an enormous smile.
"By the Gods, you can see me!" he exclaimed. "You can actually see me!"
Godric screamed and lurched off the bed so quickly that he nearly tripped over his own feet, scrambling backward while the other boy rounded the bed toward him. "You've no idea how bloody lonely it's been!" the stranger cried, sounding far more relieved than threatening.
"Who the hell are you?!" Godric blurted, pointing at him as he continued backing away. "I didn't hear you come in, so how in Charlemagne did you get into my room?!"
"That hardly matters right now," the boy replied, bringing both hands to his face with barely contained excitement. "What matters is that You. Can. See. Me. Oh, praise be to the Gods, I finally have someone I can talk to!"
Godric's gaze darted toward the bed and landed on his sword. He lunged for the scabbard, tore the blade free in one motion, and turned with the steel leveled directly at the stranger. "I don't know who you are or what you want, but you need to get out of my room right now. Leave without causing trouble and I won't report you. The last thing I want is to hurt you."
The boy blinked once before an amused smile crept across his face. "Oh, mate," he said as he stepped closer, "you may find that a bit difficult."
That was when Godric noticed something he should have noticed immediately. There had been no sound when the boy moved. His shoes made no contact with the stone floor, and there was no shift of weight beneath him, no scrape, no tap, nothing at all. Outside, the clouds finally parted enough for moonlight to spill through the windows, and the pale glow passed straight through the boy's body.
Godric's breath caught. The stranger became translucent beneath the moonlight, his form thinning at the edges like drifting smoke while an eerie azure tint shimmered through him. Godric felt the blood drain from his face as the truth settled in, and the sword in his hand suddenly seemed considerably less useful than it had a moment earlier.
The boy, meanwhile, looked almost pleased by Godric's horrified expression. "Well, seeing as we've established that, how about we start with the basics?" He gave a small, casual bow. "Garrety. Matthew Garrety."
He straightened with a grin and gestured toward his translucent body.
"And as you can probably tell, I'm very much a ghost of my former self."