A heavy stillness had blanketed the city of Caerleon as the great chimes of the Excalibur clock tower marked each passing hour. AEGIS had begun the evacuation in earnest, with Langston at the helm. The streets were thick with tension as citizens were ushered underground into the bunkers beneath the city—fathers clutching children, mothers murmuring reassurances, elders gripping canes with knuckles white as bone. Footsteps echoed against cold stone, a steady, nervous rhythm, while dread clung to every breath like a second skin. They all knew what was coming. Death marched toward them—relentless, calculated, and led by a madman convinced that ruin had been visited upon him unjustly. And now, he sought recompense in blood.
At the city gates, Frank and Bastion worked side by side, overseeing barricades and laying out formations. Tactics were drawn and redrawn, hands dirtied with sweat and chalk. Frank's face was carved with grim resolve, every furrow in his brow etched by years spent surviving battlefields soaked in blood and rain. He was no stranger to war. He'd known the taste of mud on his tongue, the weight of comrades falling beside him, the snap of steel through flesh. And though those battles were long past, their ghosts never left him.
Around them, squads manned the walls and frontlines. Some checked their weapons. Others knelt in prayer, their heads bowed low, murmuring desperate pleas to gods old and new. Frank watched them all with a heaviness in his chest. He knew that look in their eyes. He'd worn it himself more times than he cared to remember.
His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he stood before the city gates, the iron portcullis drawn high, the thick wooden doors unbarred. Beyond them lay only darkness. Somewhere beyond that tree line, the wolves were waiting. They would strike at dawn.
"So… this is what it feels like?" Bastion's voice broke the silence. He stepped beside Frank, hand on his hip. "The breath before the storm?"
Frank exhaled a quiet snort. "I've stood in this spot more times than I can count. Looking out into the dark, wondering if this is the night I don't come back." His gaze didn't shift. "But somehow, I always do. My friends? My unit? All gone. But me? I keep coming back."
Bastion glanced over, his mismatched eyes steady.
"When I was your age, I used to think the gods favored me," Frank said softly. "But the older I got, the more it felt like a joke. Their idea of punishment. Let me live long enough to bury everyone else." He paused. "But what happens when the joke's run its course? When they've had their laugh?"
Bastion let out a short breath of amusement, patting the older man on the shoulder. "Whatever happens, I'm not planning on watching you drop dead any time soon." He offered a crooked grin. "If something's going to kill you, it'll be old age. Just like grandpa."
Frank chuckled, the sound gravelly. "Maybe I'll go in my sleep at the ripe age of ninety, eh?" His smile lingered for a moment before fading. "That's a nice thought. Old, grouchy, clackety, surrounded by grandkids whose names I can't remember. Heh, much as I'd like that, it ain't in the stars for me, kid."
Bastion cast a glance over his shoulder at the crowd behind them—faces drawn tight with fear, bodies stiff with exhaustion.
"You think it's enough?" he asked quietly. "A bunch of stragglers from the Tower, students of Excalibur, a few scattered militia, and the rest… farmers, clerks, bakers, potters, carpenters." He exhaled, shaking his head. "They're not soldiers, Frank."
He motioned toward them. "Most of them are either too old to run or too young to know any better. And they're scared. Hell, you can see it plain as day."
Frank scratched his chin, looking them over. "Who's to say, kid?" he said. "But they ain't fighting for medals or glory. They're fighting to live. To hold on to something that matters."
He glanced at Bastion. "Most of 'em would rather die swingin' than be dragged into a ditch with a sack over their head. And that kind of fear? That makes people dangerous."
Bastion shook his head, the weight of it all settling on his shoulders. His gaze drifted back to the dark horizon where silence loomed like a held breath.
"I suppose there's nothing left now but to wait," he murmured. "And hope the gods are listening."
Frank let out a weary exhale.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "We might be meeting them soon enough."
****
Deep within Castle Excalibur, the halls of The Congregation pulsed with life. The floorboards trembled beneath the sheer weight of bodies packed from the arena floor to the highest gallery. Every tier was filled—students of every race, every year, every Clan. Their voices thundered through the chamber, rising in waves that rattled the rafters and shook the very stone.
From where he stood on the upper level, arms folded against the banister, Salazar swept his gaze over the sea of faces. Some, like Údar and Cú with her hounds, he knew well. Fiona and her Dungeon Delvers stood out too. The rest were strangers by face but familiar by name—names passed in whispers through corridors and common rooms, spoken sometimes with reverence, sometimes with wariness.
"There hasn't been a gathering like this in nearly a century," said Helena, stepping up beside him. "No one knows exactly what happened the last time the High Table addressed The Congregation, but from what I've heard, it was something big."
Salazar didn't turn. His eyes remained fixed on the crowd. "Well, considering we stand on the brink of obliteration," he said, a faint smirk curling his lips, "I'd say we're due for something equally historic."
Helena cast him a glance, curious. "You sound like you've been expecting this."
"I have," he replied. "From the moment Asriel Valerian stepped onto the board, the game shifted. I knew then the dominos would fall. What surprises me is how perfectly they've aligned."
She raised an eyebrow. "You mean to say you actually foresaw Headmaster Blaise would come crawling to the Congregation for help?"
"Crawling is such a demeaning way of putting it," Salazar said with a dry chuckle. "But yes. The moment Burgess secured his grip on the Tower, it became inevitable. He's had decades to seed loyalty in the shadows. Even now, with the truth laid bare, there will be those who stand by him."
His expression darkened, the grin fading. "And when that loyalty fractures the Tower, when the righteous few are scattered and overwhelmed, our illustrious Headmaster will be left with only one option."
Helena's eyes widened as the truth sank in. "You don't mean—"
"Oh, but I do." Salazar's smirk returned, colder now. "With Caerleon vulnerable and Excalibur exposed, the man has no choice but to turn to the one force still intact. Still united." He gestured to the thunderous crowd around him. "An army. Already here, already armed, and just waiting to be unleashed."
Helena rubbed her chin, brows furrowed in thought. "I can accept the logic of mutual survival. After all, the Congregation only endures so long as Excalibur and Caerleon stand." She turned to face him fully, her expression unreadable. "But do you think the High Table will demand recompense for their aid?"
Salazar's smirk returned, sharper now, like a blade slipping from its sheath. "My dear Helena, I'd wager my wand on it."
His eyes scanned the swelling mass of students gathered in the arena. "If I know ambition, the High Table will not see this as mere service. No, they'll see it as opportunity. A chance to extend their reach beyond these halls. To let their influence bleed into every crevice of Avalon, until all that breathes does so under their shadow."
Helena's brow arched. "And what makes you so certain?"
Salazar glanced at her, that same smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Because it's precisely what I would do."
There was a beat of silence between them before he added. "If the High Table and the Congregation rise to defend Caerleon, and should we survive what's coming—then Excalibur will not be the victor. It will be the debtor. The city, the Academy… they'll owe the Table everything." He tilted his head. "And debts, Helena, are the first bricks in the foundation of dominion."
Salazar's emerald eyes lifted to the floor above as the Chairs emerged from the shadows, stepping into the light. The faces of Arthur, Artoria, and Genji came into view—distinct, composed, and watchful—while the remaining members lingered just out of reach, veiled in gloom, like predators biding their time.
Artoria moved to the forefront, as expected. The High Table had long regarded her as their de facto leader, given how she and her brother commanded the largest and most disciplined clan within the Congregation. Her poise, her unyielding sense of honor, the way she carried herself like a blade drawn for justice—it was all so very predictable.
Yet Salazar's gaze was not fixed on her.
It was Arthur Pendragon who held his interest.
The dashing young man with the golden hair and those keen, sapphire-blue eyes—eyes that sparkled with wit, with calculation. There was charm in him, yes, but also hunger. Not the kind that screamed, but whispered. Subtle. Patient.
No, Salazar thought to himself, ambition did not reside in the sister—the strait-laced warrior bound by duty and legacy. It festered, quietly and elegantly, in the brother.
And Salazar knew better than most: it is always the quiet ones who reshape empires.
Artoria's hand rested on the blood-red hilt at her side, fingers poised, composed, yet coiled with silent resolve. Her gaze swept over the mass of gathered clans. When she spoke, her voice rang clear, firm with the cadence of royalty.
"Members of the Congregation. Brothers-in-arms. Comrades, old and new."
She allowed the silence to settle a moment, her eyes scanning the crowd, meeting faces with a cool, unwavering stare.
"You have been summoned not in triumph, nor celebration—but to answer a threat. One that looms over Caerleon, over Excalibur… and by extension, over us all." She paused. "We now stand at the edge of annihilation."
She closed her eyes for a breath, her free hand curling into a fist at her side.
"You will unite—or you will fall. Each of us is bound to this hour. This single fate. This one doom."
A tremor rippled through the crowd—a low murmur, rising and folding in on itself. Some voices hushed and reverent, others harsh, discordant in foreign tongues. Salazar's jaw tightened, his arms folded stiff across his chest. Helena glanced sideways, concern knitting her brow as she caught the tension in him.
Artoria's voice cut through the hum like steel on stone.
"By now, you all know what comes for us." Her tone sharpened. "An army of traitors, led by the very man once hailed as savior. Lamar Burgess. A man cloaked in lies, who manipulated the fall of Dah'Tan."
She drew a breath, her eyes narrowing.
"My brother and I moved in shadow and silence to unmask the monster beneath the crown," she said. "And now that monster marches on us, cloaked in fire, bearing death at his heels."
She thrust her hand forward, her words like thunder.
"The beast waits just beyond our walls—fangs bared, breath hot with hatred. It craves our ruin. It hungers for our surrender. It demands our destruction."
She paused, her gaze sweeping the sea of faces yet again.
"But I say this to you now—we shall not yield. We will not flee. We will not bow."
She reached for her sword. The sound of steel drawn from its sheath echoed across the chamber—sharp, clear, a call to arms. She held it high. The blade glinted silver in the light, its edges kissed with runes that glowed a deep, burning red.
"By Clarent—the Sword of Peace," she declared, "the blade of King Uther Pendragon, my forebear. First King of Camelot. One of the Five Heroes. Founder of this very academy."
She took a step forward, her words rising, fierce and commanding.
"I call upon your courage. I summon your honor. And above all, I bid you stand."
She raised the sword toward the vaulted ceiling.
"Stand together. Stand unshaken. And show the wolves, show the darkness itself—that we choose to die on our feet… rather than live on our knees!"
The Congregation erupted.
Fists shot skyward. Feet pounded the wooden floors in thunderous rhythm. Their voices rose in unison, shaking the very rafters of the hall. It was not merely applause—it was a battle cry. Arthur allowed himself a smile, ever the showman, while beside him Genji remained still, his hand resting calmly on the hilt of his katana. His eyes watched, quiet and unreadable.
Above them, Salazar lowered his arms to his sides, a faint smile creeping across his lips.
This was it.
With that single speech, the High Table had sunk its claws deep—not just into Caerleon, but into Excalibur itself. Whatever ambitions had long simmered beneath the surface, checked only by Headmaster Blaise's authority, were now unshackled. The Congregation would move. And when it did, the shape of Avalon would change with it.
Part of him thrilled at the thought. He knew the pull of ambition well. How far would their reach extend? How deep would their roots run once planted in the city's soil?
But another part of him remained wary. The High Table answered to no council, no crown, no ministry. They were bound only by the Old Laws, and Salazar had learned that laws meant nothing to those who stood above them. Lamar Burgess had proven that.
A quiet touch pulled him from his thoughts.
Helena's hand slipped into his. No words were spoken, none needed. Their fingers entwined in the silence, grounding each other amidst the storm that was coming.
****
Godric stood amidst the quiet chaos of his room, surrounded by clutter and disarray. Dirty laundry lay forgotten in corners, parchment scraps scattered across the floor, and books. Some closed, others left gaping open—collected dust on shelves that once brimmed with care. The version of himself that once maintained order and discipline had vanished long ago, buried beneath the weight of loss.
The bed, once a sanctuary, now served only as a place to rest his head. For months, sleep no longer brought comfort—it was punishment. Dreams lured him with illusions of what could have been, only to rip them away, forcing him back into the cold stillness of morning. The ache of sorrow had dulled, but not disappeared. It had simply gone quiet.
His crimson eyes settled on the bracers and light armor tossed atop a chair, worn and neglected. The same ones he'd donned against Volg, the Calishans, and in countless duels after within the Congregation. Their straps were frayed, leather faded and split from repeated blows. He had stopped wearing them, intending to have them repaired eventually. But that had been wishful thinking. Too much time had passed, and now it was too late.
He shrugged. Maybe a sword was all he needed now.
A knock pulled him from his thoughts. He turned, eyes narrowing slightly. At this hour, he wasn't expecting anyone. No friend. No professor. He moved to the door, hand on the knob, and slowly opened it—
Empty.
The hallway beyond was still, the shadows long. Not a whisper of footsteps, not a hint of breath. He stepped forward, peering both ways, but the corridor was vacant. Puzzled, he was about to shut the door when something caught his eye.
A box.
Short but wide, polished to a soft sheen, sitting squarely at his doorstep. Godric knelt, lifted it carefully, and brought it inside, the weight of the wood firm in his hands. He placed it on the bed and unlatched the golden clasp with a soft click.
As he opened the lid, his breath caught in his throat.
His eyes widened.
He stared down at the contents. Stunned not by what it was, but by what it meant.
****
Godric moved through the halls of Excalibur, the stone walls bathed in the amber glow of crystal sconces. The great clock tower tolled above, its solemn chimes marking the witching hour. The sound echoed faintly across the corridors—melancholic, weighty.
The contents of the box now adorned him.
It was unlike anything he had ever worn. Armor forged in shadow and fire, polished to a mirror sheen yet dark as obsidian. Sleek, contoured, and unmistakably advanced, it bore striking similarities to the gear of AEGIS Guardians, but this was something more. Lighter than leather, stronger than dragonhide, it moved with him like a second skin.
A fitted hoodie jacket and tactical cargo trousers. Black threaded with faintly glowing crimson lines—wrapped his frame, fastened by narrow belts and clasps made of a strange, coarse material that felt thin to the touch, yet endured like steel. Matching gloves, reinforced bracers, and armored boots completed the ensemble. The entire set pulsed with quiet power, not just protection but purpose. A crimson scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, its long ends trailing down to his knees, fluttering faintly with every step like twin streaks of fire.
But it was the emblem that caught his eye. The silhouette of a lion, embroidered in red down the back of the jacket. Bold, regal, fierce. Not a sigil he recognized, not from any house or known guild. Yet something about it felt… right. As though it had always been his, waiting to find him. His sword now rested across his back, sheathed in royal blue trimmed with gold, its presence grounding him like a promise. He didn't know who had made this, or why. But in that moment, none of it mattered.
He had faced Volg and the Calishans in worn leathers and frayed straps, and still he stood victorious. Another battle waited just beyond the coming dawn—this time darker, far greater in scale. But now, he was ready.
He could feel it. That familiar burn—an old storm rekindled. Rage churned beneath the surface, tangled with doubt and fear, but pulsing strongest of all was fury. The same fury that had seized him before the Bellum Inter Duos. But something had changed since then.
Back then, Volg's defeat had been his only goal. Raine's freedom had been his light in the dark.
Now, there was no light.
Raine was gone. Torn from him by laws cloaked in tradition, passed down by a man who had twisted justice to suit his own ends. A man who wore betrayal like a second skin. A man who had made himself judge, jury, and executioner of everything Godric had held sacred.
His crimson eyes narrowed, his expression slack but unmistakably dark. Passing students caught a glimpse and quickly diverted their paths. Prefects on patrol glanced his way but held their tongues. They knew better.
His boots struck the stone with purpose, the echo trailing like the beat of a war drum. Raine would never have approved of the thoughts that now possessed him. The violence, the thirst, the wrath. She would've stopped him if she could. Urged him toward mercy, toward forgiveness.
But Raine wasn't here.
And without her, none of it mattered.
What mattered now was what he wanted.
And what he wanted. What he needed, was Lamar Burgess dead.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. When dawn broke over Caerleon and the wolves of Norsefire came battering down the gates, he would be waiting. And when the sun set, when the smoke cleared and the last echoes of battle faded into silence, Burgess would lie dead at his feet.
Godric swore it.
And this time, nothing. No oath, no law, no plea—would stop him.
****
In the dim solitude of the teachers' quarters, the bitter scent of tobacco and stale bourbon lingered like ghosts in the air. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling as Ryan sat at his desk, a cigarette resting between his lips. His hands moved with mechanical precision, reassembling a handgun piece by piece—clicks and snaps falling into place like a ritual. Once complete, he drew the slide back, aimed across the room, and pulled the trigger with an audible click.
The desk before him was a patchwork of iron and brass. Automatic rifles, shotguns, spare magazines, and loose shells lay scattered under the amber glow of the desk lamp. A graveyard of tools, each one a memory. Each one a weight.
He inhaled deeply, the taste of smoke and metal thick on his tongue. It had been years since he'd prepared for war. But it never really left him. The scent of gun oil, the weight of ammunition between his fingers, the rhythmic slap of rounds loading into a mag—it was all muscle memory. For others, it was routine. For him, it was doctrine. A dark faith he'd been baptized into far too young.
Ryan had been ten when the devil himself pulled him from that piss-stained orphanage. Promised him purpose. A higher calling. What followed was a childhood carved into a weapon. While other kids got their letters to Hogwarts, he learned how to shoot a man between the eyes in the dark. He wasn't trained for spells or duels—he was groomed to kill. Sent across borders to hunt dark wizards under the orders of The Darkwatch, an organization that played God with the names it deemed unfit to live.
He once believed in their cause. Still did.
He crushed the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. Its tray stained with weeks of ash and resignation. Then, with a soft metallic clack, he slid a full magazine into the pistol and racked the slide. The sound was oddly comforting. Familiar. Like a wand to a wizard. The gun fit in his hand like it belonged there—and in some twisted way, it always had.
The Watch had taken squibs like him—orphans, strays, bastards nobody wanted—and turned them into instruments of silent war. Ghosts with names wiped clean, buried in mission files and deniability. He'd survived where others hadn't. A miracle, maybe. More likely, a punishment. He'd walked away eventually, left the graves and ghosts behind, thinking he'd finally clawed his way out.
But now? Now he was back.
Back in the mire, back in the smoke, back in the fire. Blaise had brought him here. Dragged him out of retirement and dropped him into a world that reeked of old blood and broken promises. And here he was, once again armed to the teeth, prepping for a war not of his making.
But it wasn't just another mission this time.
This was different.
This was about the school. About the students. About children who didn't deserve to suffer under the heel of a madman who couldn't accept defeat without razing the world in return. Lamar Burgess wasn't unique—just another tyrant in a long line of tyrants. Men drunk on power, hiding behind law and legacy. Ryan had met their kind before, and buried most of them. The world was littered with their bones.
He pressed the side of the pistol to his temple—not out of despair, but memory. The cold of steel grounded him. A reminder of what he was forged into, and what he had become.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing.
This wasn't about redemption. That ship had sailed long ago.
This was about putting monsters down.
And if Blaise had hauled him back into the fight, then by God, he'd make it count. No more dossiers. No more cold kills under the cover of night. This time, they were coming through the front door.
Ryan smirked to himself and reached for another magazine.
"Let 'em come," he muttered. "I could use the target practice."
****
Mayor Ramonda stood before the tall windows of her quarters. Her gaze fixed upon the city she had devoted her life to. Her hands rested behind her back, the weight in her chest growing heavier with each passing minute. Outside, the last shadows of night clung to the rooftops, and soon, dawn would break over Caerleon—along with the arrival of traitors bent on bleeding her city dry.
Her jaw clenched at the thought of Lamar Burgess. The architect of this chaos. She remembered the precise moment the teacup slipped from her hand, crashing to the floor as the footage played. His crimes laid bare in sickening clarity, tea and china scattered like the pieces of her shattered trust.
And then, the memory of their final encounter. The smugness on his face as he stripped her of office with all the pomp and venom of a coup. Sentenced her to her quarters—like some fragile relic to be tucked away while he paved a road of ruin in her name.
A soft knock echoed. The door creaked open. She turned, just enough to see Headmaster Blaise step in, his robes catching the dull amber glow of the lamplight.
"Come to keep an old woman company on the eve of destruction, Blaise?" she asked dryly.
"Hardly destruction," Blaise replied, closing the door behind him. "More like keeping an old friend company." He stepped forward. "I take it sleep continues to elude you?"
Ramonda returned her eyes to the window. "Hard to rest easy when the end scratches at your doorstep."
Blaise came to stand beside her.
"So," she said quietly, "it's truly come to this."
He nodded. "I'm afraid so. I had hoped. Prayed, even—that reason might yet win out. That the man I once called friend would pull back from the brink. But it seems I placed faith in a man who never truly valued reason at all."
Ramonda gave a low chuckle. "As I said, ever the hopeful frog, blind to the scorpion on his back."
Blaise allowed himself a small smile. "Perhaps."
His face grew more somber. "Burgess will come—for the city, for Excalibur, for every soul who stands in his way. And he will not stop until the world kneels before the altar of his imagined injustice."
He adjusted his glasses. "But what he'll find here is no sacrifice, no willing lamb. No frightened leaders kneeling before him. What he'll earn is pain, and blood, and regret. I'll see to that personally."
Ramonda turned to him, eyes glinting with dry amusement. "There he is."
Blaise arched a brow. "Pardon?"
"The man Avalon once called the Flame of the West," she said with a faint smile. "I feared he'd been snuffed out. When you traded your staff for scrolls, I was stunned. Your name still carries weight, yes—but it was your title that sent shivers down the backs of men."
Blaise's eyes widened at the name, a flicker of shadow passing over his features. "By the Gods… that is a name I'd thought long buried." His voice dropped, quiet and heavy. "Forgotten—left to rot in the ash where it belongs."
Ramonda let out a quiet, knowing chuckle. "Not for lack of trying, mind you. I daresay not even Burgess. Arrogant as he is, knows full well who you truly are." She turned slightly. "After all, I doubt he's the type to dig through decades upon decades of classified archives, especially when they concern men he'd rather pretend never existed."
She then cast him a sidelong glance. "But I digress, the world was a different place then. An age of tyrants and wretches, of war and famine. It seemed every time one opened the paper, it was only to read of ruin."
She folded her arms. "And then… there was you. Whispers of your name carried further than any headline. Some spoke of you as if you were a savior, others as if you were a ghost story meant to keep generals awake at night."
She held his gaze, calm and unflinching. "They said an entire army turned on its heels at the mere mention of your name. I thought it absurd at the time—idle myth, meant to thrill or frighten depending on who was telling it." Her smile, faint but genuine, touched the corner of her lips. "But years later, when I became Mayor, I learned the truth for myself."
"Those stories weren't just whispers passed through taverns or campfires. They were records. Classified, redacted, buried—and yet, still very much alive. Not tales. Warnings." Ramonda's brow lifted slightly. "That the man named Blaise Windsor was every bit the force of nature they claimed him to be."
Blaise exhaled, his gaze drifting to the glistening surface of the lake beyond the glass. "That was another life, Angela. Another man. One I swore never to become again." His words softened. "I made a promise to someone I loved very dearly that I would lay that part of me to rest."
Ramonda studied him, her tone edged with restrained frustration. "Perhaps you did make your peace with it. But you can't deny the strength you once wielded—that quiet force of presence that kept rabid wolves like Burgess in their dens. Which is why it vexes me to no end that you turned down your seat on the Wizarding Council. He'd never have dared make a move while you still held the summit."
Blaise's expression darkened. "The world, as I've come to understand, cannot be ruled by fear. Fear is a leash—and leashes always snap. Every despot who's imagined fear alone could bind a kingdom together has met a similar fate: shackled, disgraced and relieved of their heads."
Blaise closed his eyes for a moment. "And I speak not as one parroting the wisdom of others, but as a man who has lived it. Between those I once called friends, and those who now count me among their enemies."
Ramonda scoffed lightly, though a knowing smile tugged at her lips. "Honestly, Blaise, you really must choose better company. Everyone you once called a friend seems to end up a maniacal dictator—or worse."
He returned the smile, weary but genuine. "Then I can only hope you don't follow suit."
"I make no such promises," Ramonda said, her eyes drifting once more to the city below. "But for now, let's take comfort in the fact that our friendship at least remains intact."
"For that, dear Angela, I wholeheartedly agree."
A soft stillness settled between them, the distant sounds of the city muted by the weight of what loomed ahead.
"Oh, and for the record," Ramonda added, a sly look in her eye, "I haven't entirely abandoned the idea of naming Professor Ashford my new Sheriff."
Blaise sighed with mock exasperation. "And that, I'm afraid, might very well be a step too far."
****
The wooden planks creaked beneath his boots, each step echoing with a rhythm he knew too well as Godric made his way toward the pavilion at the heart of the lake. Overhead, the stars shimmered faintly, casting a muted glow across the water's obsidian surface. There was no moon. Only darkness and memory. His crimson eyes fixed on the small structure ahead. It had been months since he'd last set foot there.
It was their place.
Where he had first taught Raine to read. Where they had found peace amidst chaos. Where their laughter once drifted like music across the still water. Where promises were made—to love, to protect, to endure. And where, in the end, he had let her go.
Godric's jaw tensed. For the longest time, he couldn't bear to look at it. That final night haunted him still, like a blade twisting in his chest. Bran's spell. The way her eyes faded into confusion, then absence. His own cries echoing into the cold, unfeeling night. He'd imagined razing the pavilion to splinters, letting flame consume the memories it held. And yet, some small, fragile part of him clung to it. It was one of the few pieces of her he had left.
He would have stayed away. Should have. But not tonight.
Tonight, he had to return. To the place where it had all begun. Where he had known joy, sorrow, and love. Where the mask he now wore had first been forged—the ink-stained hair, the soot-black streaks across his eyes. The mark of Nemesis. The signature of the vow he had taken.
His rage had honed the blade. His grief had tempered it. And now, at the edge of war, like Asriel Valerian and his comrades, Godric too would have his vengeance.
No more hesitation. No more sorrow. Only fire.
The soft lapping of waves tapped gently against the pavilion's edge, a rhythmic hush that filled the silence of the lake. Godric stepped onto the wooden boards, the scent of damp wood and faint spring air brushing past him. But he halted almost at once.
There was someone already there.
A shape sat quietly in the darkness, outlined by the faint starlight. Not quite human—that much he could tell from the ears. Instinctively, he drew his wand and gave a small flick. A soft whoomph echoed as the bonfire at the center of the pavilion bloomed to life, casting a warm amber glow outward.
The figure startled, springing to her feet. Wide eyes met his across the firelight. Long rabbit ears fell low with the motion.
"Shana?" Godric blinked, surprise flickering in his expression. "What are you doing out here alone?"
The young therian girl relaxed the moment she saw his face. "Oh—Godric. I didn't mean to intrude," she said quickly, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her tunic.
"No, don't worry." His expression softened. "It's late—and cold. I was just a little concerned."
She shook her head, stepping closer to the fire. "I'm alright. Just… hard to sleep with everything going on," she murmured. Her gaze fell as her ears drooped once more. One hand shifted instinctively to rest against her midsection—noticeably rounder than the last time he'd seen her.
Godric felt the ache rise in his chest, a quiet pang of sorrow cutting through the armor he wore around his heart. He remembered it clear as day. The cruelty she had endured at the hands of monsters who called themselves boys. Monsters he bled in the heard of The Congregation. The same monsters slain by one far darker and deadlier.
"Well," he said gently, lowering himself onto one of the wooden benches, "I came here hoping to be alone, but… truth be told, I think we could both do with a little company."
He offered a faint smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sit with me?"
Shana hesitated for only a moment, then gave a small nod and settled down next to him, the firelight dancing behind them.
"So…" Godric cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "How's the… uh…" He gestured vaguely, his hand making an awkward circle in the air around his abs.
Shana raised an eyebrow, then let out a quiet chuckle. "How amusing. The brave Lion of Ignis, tripping over his own tongue."
His face flushed. "I mean… I just—look, it's not that I'm afraid to ask. I just don't want to bring up anything you'd rather forget."
Her smile faded into something gentler. She glanced down, fingers absently brushing the metal collar still clasped around her neck. "It happened, Godric," she said softly. "Whether I want it to or not. Pretending otherwise won't make it untrue."
He looked at her, silent.
Shana exhaled, gathering her thoughts. "Rabbit therians… we've always been a bit more—how shall I put it—fertile than most other kin. Shorter cycles, more frequent ones. It's just how we are." Her tone turned matter-of-fact, even as a quiet weight lingered beneath it. "Our homeland's a hard place. Storms, beasts, sickness. Most of us don't make it far. It's always been that way."
She gave a short, dry laugh. "It's not unusual for a family to lose three or four little ones before the year's end. You learn not to get too attached." Her smile faltered. "But we survived. Because for every one we lose, we welcome two more. That's how we've always endured."
Godric's face tightened. "Blimey… that's grim."
"That's life," she said with a shrug. "Or at least it was. I suppose I always knew. When it… when it happened, I tried to tell myself maybe I'd been spared. Maybe the Gods would be kind." She looked away, sniffling, blinking hard. "But mercy's a rare thing, isn't it?"
Godric leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "I'm sorry."
Shana gave a faint nod, the firelight flickering across her face. "So am I."
Her hand drifted back to her stomach, resting there with a quiet tenderness. "Doctor Adani's been helping me," she said. "Routine checks, healing charms… that sort of thing. She's been kind."
She paused, then managed a small smile. "Last week, she cast a spell and we found out it's a boy." The smile lingered for only a heartbeat before fading into something more fragile.
"She then ran another one," Shana went on. "Using a lock of Cardin's hair. She… she'd taken it after his… autopsy. I suppose she suspected even then." Her eyes dropped. "It's his."
Godric's breath caught. The words hung heavy between them, their weight pressing into the stillness.
"Shana…" he said at last.
Shana let out a breath that was half a chuckle, half a sob. "To think… the only thing left of that bastard is growing inside me." She wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. "I'll never truly be free of him, will I? No matter what I do, I'll always carry that—this link. That he and I… brought a child into the world." Her voice cracked. "A child I never wanted."
She shook her head, guilt beginning to surface. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be unloading this on you. Not after everything you've done for me. And besides… what I've been through doesn't even begin to compare to what you've lost."
Godric leaned in, his expression firm but gentle. "No. Don't do that," he said. "Don't downplay it. Don't soften it just because I've known pain too."
She looked at him, startled by the steel in his tone.
"What happened to you," he continued, "was vile. Unforgivable. No one should ever have to carry what you're carrying—body or soul. And you're allowed to be angry. To feel wronged. Hurt. You have every right, Shana. And there's not a soul in this world who has the right to think less of you for it."
Her turquoise eyes shimmered, and for a moment, silence hung between them—heavy but not unkind. Then, she smiled, small and wistful.
"I can see why Raine loved you," she said softly.
Godric blinked, caught off guard.
"The others—the slaves, especially Sophia," she added, "they told me. Said they'd never seen two people so deeply in love. So… complete." A quiet laugh escaped her lips. "I won't lie. I was jealous. To us therians, choosing a mate—it's everything. It's sacred. They say we love harder than anyone, and we stay loyal to the end."
Godric chuckled, the sound easing some of the tension. "Oh, I know. I once caught her growling at a group of girls who came over asking for an autograph."
Shana laughed softly at that, the pain easing just slightly in the shared memory. Godric's expression dimmed, the weight of memory settling behind his eyes. He reached beneath his shirt and drew out a delicate pendant shaped like a snowflake, its crystal facets catching the firelight. The soft shimmer danced across Shana's face, drawing her gaze.
"That's… that's beautiful," she whispered in awe.
"She gave this to me," Godric said. "Said it once belonged to her mother—an heirloom passed down from Shin Hati herself. One of the Five Heroes." He smiled, not without sorrow. "She gave it as a symbol of her love. Her devotion. To me… to the one she chose as her mate."
Godric clicked it open. Inside, a tiny animated photograph flickered to life. It was him and Raine, arms wrapped around each other, smiling, sharing a kiss. For a moment, Godric allowed himself to smile.
"It happened right here," he said quietly. "This is where I told her I'd love her for all time. Where I held her close and…" He hesitated, then snapped the pendant shut with a soft click, as though the act of saying more physically hurt him. He drew in a sharp breath.
"They took her from me," he said, bitter, trembling under the strain. "Burgess. The Tower. They hid behind the law—the very law written by a blood-soaked tyrant who slaughtered thousands just to sit in a gilded chair." His jaw clenched, teeth grinding. "For months I've carried this pain, dragging it behind me like a curse. I begged the Gods to end it. To end me. Anything to be free of this grief. While the devil who stole her sits above it all, dictating life to those beneath him."
He tucked the locket back beneath his shirt, fingers briefly lingering on it before letting it go.
"But no more," he said. "By tomorrow, I take back what's mine. One way or another."
Shana turned to him, her rabbit ears rising slightly. "W–what do you mean?"
"I'm going to kill him," Godric said without hesitation. "Lamar Burgess. I'm going to end him. Even if it costs me my life, that man won't see another sunrise."
Her ears dropped, shoulders tense. "I see..." Her gaze fell to the wooden planks beneath them. "I know I have no right to question you. I've dreamed of vengeance too—for what Cardin and the others did to me. Sometimes I still wake up wanting it." She hesitated, then looked back at him. "But… is that truly what you want?"
Godric turned toward her, brows drawing together. "What?"
"Is that what your heart wants, Godric?" she asked again, quietly. "Because killing him won't bring Raine back. Just like nothing will undo what happened to me."
"I know that," he said quickly. "I'm not deluding myself. This isn't about getting her back. It's about justice. It's about making him pay."
Shana nodded faintly. "Maybe so. But… is it worth everything?"
Godric faltered. "Yes… no—" He dragged a hand through his dark hair. "I-I… I don't know. I really don't."
"When they told me how you fought for Raine," Shana began softly, "how you stood against the Calishans and the boy who took her—I'll admit, I thought they were exaggerating. A tale to lift our spirits. A bit of hope passed among the slaves." She gave a quiet chuckle. "Stories tend to grow with every retelling."
Her gaze drifted toward him. "But then I heard what you did to Cardin. How you stood before the Midnighters, not because anyone told you to… but because you chose to. You sought justice—not out of duty, but because your heart demanded it. Maybe that justice was born of grief, or hate, but still, you stood."
She inhaled, slow and steady. "We haven't known each other long, but I know what kind of man risks everything for a slave. Who puts his own freedom on the line for love. That kind of man… can't be anything less than brave, and honorable." A faint smile ghosted her lips. "And a man Raine loved with all her heart… wouldn't strike down his enemy out of rage. Not even one as vile as Burgess."
Godric didn't know what to say. Her words disarmed him. Left him still.
Shana closed her eyes, then leaned gently against him, the soft fur of her ears brushing his cheek. He felt the warmth of her presence.
"I know it's selfish," she murmured, "but… can I ask you something?"
Godric blinked. "Of course."
She looked up at him, her turquoise eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Just for tonight… could you pretend I'm Raine?" She trembled. "And you—my mate?"
He hesitated. His chest tightened. There was sorrow in her voice he couldn't ignore, and something unspoken passed between them. An understanding of loss too great for words. Without another thought, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her close.
"Just until the sun rises," he said gently.
Shana smiled through her tears and closed her eyes. "Thank you, Godric. If Raine were here… I know she'd say the same as me: that whatever path you choose, we'll both believe in you."
They sat in silence, the soft lapping of the lake against the wood beneath them the only sound that remained.