The hours crept ever closer to dawn, each toll of the clock tower striking like a nail driven deeper into the city's growing dread. The academy stirred with energy—frantic, breathless, electric. The uninitiated remained shuttered behind doors, clinging only to hope and prayer, while The Congregation readied for war. Wands were polished. Blades were honed. Armor was fastened and masks drawn, each bearing the colors and crests of the Clans. Some moved with quiet reluctance. Others brimmed with hunger—for vengeance, for blood. The halls echoed with the shuffle of boots, the clatter of steel, the murmur of battle songs whispered under breath.
For today, just today, all grudges and rivalries were cast aside. There was but one enemy. One name. Lamar Burgess.
Údar and her Hounds strode in full armor, a rare sight, their uniforms gleaming under torchlight. A smirk tugged at her lips, mirrored by the feral gleam in Cú's wild eyes. His spear rested lazily against his shoulder, but the tension in his grip betrayed his eagerness. The rest of the Clan wore the same look—untamed, hungry. They were hunters, and now the leash was off. The Congregation had granted them sanction. So had the Headmaster. For the Hounds, it was open season.
Lucian, Head Prefect, stood still amidst the storm, one hand adjusting his glasses. There was unease in his eyes. On any other day, half of these students would be in detention under his watch. But today, discipline had no meaning. Today, order bowed to necessity. He had opposed the Headmaster's decision. Called it madness, but even he could see it: Blaise Windsor had no more cards left to play.
"You know," came a voice behind him, smooth and needling, "watching that face of yours twist with restrained fury is truly the cherry atop it all."
Lucian turned as his gaze sharpened. "Gabriel."
"Little brother," the Harbinger said in greeting, hands clasped neatly behind his back. "What a sight, isn't it? The Congregation parading through the halls like they own the place. No chains. No curfews. Must be eating you alive."
"Don't get too comfortable," Lucian replied coldly. "This is temporary. When it's over, everything will return to how it was."
Gabriel's lips curled into a smirk, steeped in cruel amusement. "Oh, Lucian… things will return to normal. I've no doubt. Just not the normal you imagine." He shook his head. "It's always fascinated me, how alike we are, and yet so profoundly different."
"I'm nothing like you," Lucian snapped, baring his teeth. "I believe in order. In laws. In the foundation this academy was built upon. You put your faith in a deluded council, a fantasy of authority crafted by those equally as deluded and too arrogant to accept discipline."
"Ever the righteous knight," Gabriel murmured, head tilting. "But we all cling to our own narratives, don't we? You found meaning in the rules of Excalibur. I found mine among the Congregation. And yet, here we both stand, still bound by the same creed—rules, and consequences."
Lucian's gaze narrowed, his grip tightening at his side.
Gabriel's smile deepened. "Lamar Burgess—supposed guardian of those very rules has broken them. And now, he'll suffer the consequences. That's the balance, Lucian. That's what holds it all together. No one escapes it. Not even him."
He turned slightly. "Father always said… 'Every pinch is a chance.' The Congregation, Caerleon, Excalibur—we've all been cornered. But corners breed change. And after today, whether we survive or not, this world will never go back to what it was."
He began to walk away.
"And I, for one…" he glanced back over his shoulder with a wry grin, "can't wait to watch it unravel." With a lazy wave, he added, "Be seeing you, little brother."
Lucian stood motionless, his jaw clenched tight. The soft glow of the corridor lamps flickered across his Prefect badge, but for the first time, it felt dull. Diminished. As though the title he wore with pride now carried no weight at all.
****
Jeanne could feel it in the stones beneath her. A low tremor with every bootstep below, The Congregation rousing to action. War was coming. Again. And though she'd once believed Avalon and Excalibur might be her refuge from the cruelty of her world, hope, she'd learned, was a fragile thing.
She knelt by her bedside, elbows pressed to the sheets, fingers interlocked in prayer. The chamber was quiet, still. Drapes and banners bearing the crimson and gold of Ignis adorned her room. The faint scent of lavender lingered from a vase on the sill. Beyond the window, Caerleon glowed in amber hues under a paling sky. Dawn was near. So too was battle.
She whispered softly as she recited the words. The gospel passed down to her by the pious and faithful of her village. She prayed for her fellow students, for the people of Caerleon, for courage, for mercy. And finally, she prayed that evil would be met with swift judgment. That God Himself would see fit to strike it down.
Jeanne had always been the quiet one. Even as a child, the others had whispered about her, called her odd, avoided her in the streets. The boys never glanced her way, not unless with cruelty or jest, and she had long since made peace with that. For she'd had her faith. Faith that the Lord would deliver her from the cruelty of men, and perhaps someday lead her somewhere she might belong.
Excalibur had become that place. Not merely a sanctuary, but a life. A purpose. Friends. Meaning. And as selfish as it was to admit, she could not bear to lose it. Not to a man like Lamar Burgess.
There would be no compromise. No mercy. A man like him did not deserve it. Jeanne knew the scriptures well. She knew what it meant when evil had taken root so deep it no longer flinched at sin. No man of God would bathe in blood and call it justice. No man of honor would march thousands to their deaths and feel no shame. Such a man had long since sold his soul—and perhaps, she thought, Lamar Burgess was not a man at all, but the devil made flesh.
She rose slowly, smoothing her robes, her sapphire eyes sharper than before. She wasn't Godric, fierce and bold. Wasn't Salazar, cunning and lethal. Nor was she clever like Rowena, or steady like Helga. But she would not cower behind a door while the wolves came howling. No, she would meet them head on. With her wand in hand and her faith in her heart.
Even if she should fall, she would do so beside her friends. As one of them.
Jeanne slipped her wand into the fold of her robe, turned to the door, and placed her hand on the handle. She looked back once, quietly. Then, drawing a breath, she opened the door and stepped outside.
The door clicked shut behind her.
****
Serfence tugged the final glove into place, flexing his fingers until the leather hugged them snug. His uniform was as dark as midnight, silver accents glinting beneath the dim light. A black cloak draped over his shoulders — the same one he'd worn since the day he was named Executioner. Every inch of it pristine. Every seam precise. It was the attire of a man who had grown far too used to seeing the world in binaries: order and chaos, justice and sin.
His gaze settled on the mirror. He traced the line of polished buttons, the creases folded with military perfection, down to the glossy boots below. There had been a time when he wore black simply out of preference. Amelia used to tease him for it. Said he dressed like a coroner, or worse, a vampire. But it had only ever been a color. A style. A choice. Never a destiny.
Now, it was him.
The Black—more than a moniker. It was a legend. A warning. A name that turned Guilds away from jobs. That made warlords call off contracts. A name that froze the blood of any soul unfortunate enough to be marked for death by the Tower.
He narrowed his eyes at his reflection. Once, he might've laughed at the man he had become. But that man. The one who laughed, who dreamed, had died with Amelia. Or perhaps long before. There had been another life, distant now, where he'd shared a tankard and a promise with her, with Workner and Creedy. Dungeon Delvers, the four of them. Young. Foolish. Hopeful. Even he had smiled back then—not out of politeness or irony, but a real smile, the kind that reached the eyes.
Now it was gone. All of it. The dreams, the warmth, the laughter.
He let out a breath and reached for the porcelain mask, its pale surface gleaming in the half-light. His fingers hesitated.
That mask had hidden him for years—a blade in the dark, a silent arbiter of death. He had once believed in the justice he dealt. That those he killed deserved their fate. But time had eroded that faith. The smoke had cleared, and the truth lay bare: many of those targets weren't criminals or traitors… just liabilities. Loose ends Lamar Burgess needed tied off. How many innocents had he buried in the name of justice?
His jaw clenched. His hand pulled away.
No more masks. No more shadows. Not tonight. Not ever.
When he stepped into the hall, it was no longer as Serfence the Black. It was as Edward Serfence, professor of Excalibur. Outside, Workner waited, draped in his dungeon-delver gear: leather brown and silver, his weapon slung across his back. Beside him stood Ryan, lounging casually against the wall, cigarette between his lips, dressed in a navy three-piece suit. A square, four feet, iron-clad case rested across his back.
Ryan took a final puff before letting the cigarette fall. He crushed it underfoot. "Well damn," he said, smirking. "You clean up nice."
"I could say the same," Serfence replied, half-lidded as always.
Workner chuckled. "Been a long time since I've seen your face with that uniform, old friend. I take it you plan to face them as yourself."
"I left the Tower years ago," Serfence said quietly, his hand curling into a fist. "Tonight, I leave all of it behind."
Workner nodded, smiling. "And you're all the better for it."
Ryan clapped his hands and turned on his heel. "Now, I don't know about you two, but I ain't marching to war on an empty stomach." He threw a thumb over his shoulder. "I need coffee. Maybe a fat stack of pancakes. If I'm going out, I'm going out full and happy."
Serfence rolled his eyes. "That man really needs to sort his priorities."
Workner grinned. "Still… it reminds me of back then. Just us."
A rare, quiet smile tugged at Serfence's lips. "So, it does."
Workner fell in step behind Ryan. "And if I'm honest," he called back, "I don't entirely disagree with the man."
Serfence gave a faint shrug and followed them into the fading quiet.
****
At the threshold of the grand foyer, Salazar stood with arms folded, emerald eyes fixed on the fading darkness beyond the castle doors. The sky was beginning to pale, streaks of faint gold chasing the remnants of night. A cool wind brushed against his face, stirring the green-tinted strands in his black hair.
The students passing behind him on their way to the Great Hall couldn't help but double-take, pausing to eye his attire with murmured curiosity. Not that Salazar minded. Attention was expected. The armor had been left outside his door hours ago. Carbon black, sleek and form-fitting, with gloves, bracers, and boots to match. A black hoodie and cargo trousers, trimmed in green accents that pulsed faintly under the hall's lights.
An emerald scarf draped loosely around his neck, its ends swaying with each movement. But what pleased him most was the sigil emblazoned across his back: a serpent poised to strike, its threads shimmering with quiet menace. His twin spears, crossed and holstered along his spine, completed the look.
There was a feeling in his gut. Familiar. A quiet pressure. Not fear, not quite dread—but a sense of inevitability. The same sensation he'd felt before facing Volg and the Calishans, when they stood for Raine's freedom. But this was different. The stakes weren't measured in wins or losses. This time, death wasn't an outcome on the table. It was a likely guest at the door.
And Lamar Burgess was coming.
Salazar had no illusions about the man. He wouldn't take prisoners. Not now. Not after everything. Petty, vindictive, consumed by grievance. Burgess wouldn't care who stood in his path. He wanted blood, and like every entitled child with a tantrum, he would bathe in it if no one stopped him.
"Never thought I'd find myself back here again," came a voice behind him.
Salazar turned, already recognizing the presence behind him. Rowena stepped up beside him, arms at her sides, her gaze fixed on the horizon. For a moment, he did a double take. His eyes widened as he registered the familiar silhouette. She was wearing the exact same gear. The armor, the hooded jacket, the boots. The only difference lay in the sapphire-blue accents that adorned her attire, including the matching scarf wrapped around her neck, its ends fluttering in the morning breeze. Her jet-black hair was pulled back neatly, tied with a ribbon of the same deep blue. Emblazoned across her back was the emblem of a raven, its wings outstretched and talons poised to strike.
"At the edge of battle," she said softly. "That strange silence before the chaos. It feels familiar… but not quite the same."
Salazar arched an eyebrow but let the moment pass, mirroring her silence. "How?"
"Back then it was Volg," Rowena said, gaze distant. "I didn't know him. He was just a name. Just another arrogant fool who needed humbling. I stood with Godric because it was right. Because I trusted him."
"But now…" she continued, "now it's different. This isn't a stranger coming to tear down our gates. It's a man I once trusted. A man I—" She paused, searching for the words. "A man I knew intimately. Or thought I did."
Salazar said nothing, but his eyes stayed on her.
"I've seen his true face," Rowena went on, "and it sickened me. The lies. The deceit. The cruelty he kept hidden. And yet…" her words faltered just briefly, "I still remember the man he pretended to be. The one who smiled. The one who made me feel safe. And that's what makes it hurt so much more."
She shook her head, her scarf whipping lightly over her shoulder.
Salazar's eyes softened slightly. "Grief cuts deeper when it's carved by your own hand. We choose to believe in people, even when we shouldn't."
Rowena gave a small, bitter smile. "And sometimes, even the most brilliant among us choose wrong."
"I won't pretend to understand your grandfather's reasoning," Salazar said at last, eyes narrowing. "Why he allowed that demon to remain a constant presence in your lives... I'll never know."
He paused, jaw tightening.
"Well… perhaps I do. At least a little," he admitted. "Maybe, in some quiet corner of his mind, he still clung to the illusion that the face Burgess wore was just that—a mask. Not the reflection of what truly festered beneath." A bitter scoff escaped him. "Pity it wasn't."
"You're right," Rowena replied softly. "And when this is over, my family and I will have that reckoning. A long, painful discussion. About what we were, what we allowed, and what we intend to become."
Salazar gave a nod. "The Tower is in ruins," he said. "What's been revealed to Avalon... it won't survive it. Not in spirit, nor structure. And your family name, the Ravenclaws—may well find itself dragged into the wreckage. Disgraced by association."
"I'm aware," she said, a glint of sorrow in her eyes. "But we Ravenclaws have always faced hardship. Darkness. Doubt. We endure it, not because we're immune to shame, but because we refuse to let it define us. We'll rise again. I believe that."
"Ever the optimist," Salazar muttered with a faint grin. "But yes… I've no doubt."
He drew in a breath, the hint of amusement tugging at his lips.
Rowena tilted her head. "What is it?"
"Just something I once said." He chuckled dryly. "After everything that happened with Raine... and Godric. I hated the Tower. Truly. That hatred burned like poison in my veins. I wanted it brought down. I wanted justice... vengeance. Something." His emerald eyes glinted with memory. "I remember saying, half in jest, that if the Tower were ever to fall, I'd like to be there to see it burn."
He looked to her.
"And now, I won't just witness it. I'll help bring it down."
Rowena's eyes widened for a moment before she let out a soft chuckle. "Well then, I suppose I'll go down in history as the first Ravenclaw to help raze the very institution our name once upheld."
Salazar gave a sly grin. "That you will. And while I'll happily raise a glass to the Tower's ruin, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't wary."
"Wary?" Rowena tilted her head. "Of what, exactly?"
He crossed his arms. "History has a nasty habit of repeating itself. When something powerful falls, it leaves behind a void—and voids rarely stay empty for long. Someone always rushes in to fill the gap, whether they're better or worse."
Rowena's smile faded, her gaze sharpening slightly. "I suppose that does make sense. But who, then? Who's powerful or foolish enough to try and take the Tower's place?"
Salazar's grin widened. "Oh, I've a few contenders in mind. The Atlas Institute's been flexing its ambition of late. Money, infrastructure, ideology— they've got it all. Then there's the Crown Theocracy of Mithra. Sanctism, after all, is one of the most popular religions in Avalon. Pious lot. Ruthless beneath all that holy drivel." He paused. "And of course… the Congregation."
Rowena blinked. "You can't be serious."
"Sadly, not a jest," Salazar replied, his tone dry as ever. "You may scoff, but somewhere deep down, you feel it too. This isn't just a battle for survival. If the Congregation pulls this off. If they win—they'll do more than earn respect. They'll inherit legitimacy."
Rowena shook her head. "The Congregation is a student body. A glorified club. A place for games and rivalries. Nothing more."
"Perhaps once," Salazar said. "But let's not forget. It was founded by the Five. And knowing them, they likely never intended it to remain child's play forever." His voice dropped slightly. "Industrialization. Expansion. Influence. You'd be a fool not to see the seeds already planted."
Rowena lifted a hand in protest, but no words came.
"And once the smoke clears," Salazar continued, "who do you think Caerleon will turn to for protection? The Tower? After everything that's been exposed? After the lies, the blood, the betrayal?"
She hesitated. "If the Congregation stood alone against Burgess…"
"They'll be heroes," Salazar said. "And heroes become leaders. Cities will look to them. Then perhaps nations." He turned to her, brow raised. "And it all starts here. Today."
"I never considered that," Rowena admitted.
"Well, my dear Rowena," Salazar said, smirking once again, "for someone who lives in the library, you might do well to start reading more than books. People are stories too. And their ambitions often turn out to be the most dangerous kind."
Salazar leaned in slightly, his eyes half-lidded with mischief. "And by the way… rather fond of the new look. Tell me, did we happen to shop at the same tailor, or are you simply copying my impeccable taste?"
Rowena arched an eyebrow. "Oh, come on, Salazar, don't play coy," she said, rolling her eyes. "With your flair for theatrics, I know this has your fingerprints all over it. Mine was left outside my door."
Salazar blinked, momentarily thrown off. His expression slackened, genuine confusion flickering across his face.
"I… didn't," he said at last. "Mine was delivered the same way."
Rowena froze. "Then… who in Hecate's name did?"
"Thought I might find you two here."
Both Salazar and Rowena turned as Godric approached, his boots striking firm against the stone, his battle gear catching the amber lights from the wall lamps. Salazar's own brow lifted in amusement. Rowena's eyes widened, if only slightly. Godric was dressed nearly identically. Crimson eyes scanned the two of them, confusion flaring as he came to a halt. His gaze darted between their outfits, then down to his own.
"Alright… how—where did—" Godric gestured between them. "What in Charlemagne's name is this?"
Salazar's brow lifted, a flicker of amusement tugging at his lips. "Judging by your reaction, I'll take it you weren't the one behind this either." He glanced at Rowena. "And I highly doubt this is Helga's handiwork. She can barely stitch a sock, let alone tailor full combat attire. Not to mention, she isn't swimming in Platas enough to have commissioned something of this level."
He folded his arms. "Which leads me to believe… someone out there's taken an interest in our little band." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Seems our so-called Clan has a benefactor in the shadows."
Rowena let out a sigh, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Salazar, we're not a Clan. Not officially, anyway." Her gaze lingered on his smirk for a moment before drifting toward the others passing by. "And without a sigil or colors to mark it, it's just armor. Functional, maybe even symbolic—but nothing more." She shook her head. "Let's not turn this into something it isn't."
"Honestly, Rowena," Salazar drawled, "do you still plan to cling to that stubborn idealism? I understood it before. Ravenclaws and your reverence for rules. But after all that's happened?" He tilted his head. "After seeing how those same laws were twisted by a lunatic with no right to enforce them?"
Rowena opened her mouth, but the words refused to come. Salazar was right.
"I understand your love for your family," Salazar continued, "and your need to honor the legacy that shaped you. But sometimes, Rowena, we must break from the path laid before us. Forge one of our own. And given all that's happened… I believe they'd understand."
She said nothing, her gaze dropping to the stone beneath their feet. Before the silence could grow, the sound of approaching footsteps turned their attention. Helena and Jeanne crossed the foyer, clad in their Ignis uniforms, each bearing light armor strapped over their torsos, arms, and legs. Helena's Overseer badge caught the faint amber light, gleaming against the darkness.
"Godric. Rowena. Salazar," Helena greeted, then paused, eyeing them with a raised brow. "Okay… did you all coordinate outfits or is this some strange coincidence?"
"Honestly, I've no idea," Godric said, arms loosely crossed as he glanced down at his gear. "Someone left them outside our doors. No note, no message—just the armor. Salazar thinks we've got a secret benefactor."
"Is that so?" Helena stepped in, her brows raised with interest. "Well, whoever it is must have quite the purse." She ran her fingers along the sleeve of Godric's jacket, feeling the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. "This material… it's not just expensive—it's military-grade." Her tone sharpened with curiosity as she stepped in a little closer, eyes narrowing on the stitching at his shoulder.
She traced a faint emblem woven just above the seam. "This symbol… it's not just decorative. It's a mark. Like a signature or trademark. I've seen it before, I'm certain of it, but I can't quite remember where."
Godric's eyes moved to their armor. "Anyways, it looks like you two came prepared as well."
"It's a bit uncomfortable, to be honest," Jeanne admitted, tugging at the straps on her shoulder. "Helena said the Congregation had some extras, but it doesn't fit right. And I've never… I've never been in a battle before."
"Then you're not alone," Salazar said lightly. "New ground for most of us, I'd wager."
Helena folded her arms, her expression unreadable. "It's surreal, isn't it? In all the centuries since Excalibur's founding, the Congregation has never been called to war. Not like this." Her eyes drifted toward the procession of students beyond the courtyard—armored, cloaked, their Clan colors rippling like banners in the wind. "Salazar's right. After today, nothing will be the same. Not for the Congregation, not for Caerleon, and not for Avalon."
Jeanne's voice was quiet. "I just hope… when the sun sets on all this, we're still standing. That we can all come home together." She smiled sadly. "I know it's foolish, but I still hope."
Rowena glanced among them, noticing the empty space. "Has… has anyone seen Helga?"
A hush fell. Helena shook her head, her features somber. "No. Lucian mentioned she wasn't in her room. No one's seen her since yesterday."
Rowena took in a breath, held it, then slowly exhaled. "She'll be alright. She might seem fragile, but Helga's stronger than any of us give her credit for. She always has been."
"I hope you're right," Godric said, stepping forward. His gaze turned toward the castle's front gates, the soft light of early morning cresting on the horizon. "But for now, we've got a war to fight… and a city to save." His eyes narrowed, the crimson within them flaring with resolve. He raised a fist in front of him. "When this day ends, they'll bleed for what they've done."
Salazar stepped to his side. "Are you certain, old friend… about Burgess?"
Godric's gaze flicked toward him, but he said nothing. Only looked forward once more, his eyes falling to the ground, jaw set.
Salazar nodded and set a hand firmly on Godric's shoulder. "Whatever you choose… I'll stand with you. No matter what comes." His gaze flicked toward Rowena, a familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. "After all, that's what Clans do."
"For the last time—no mark, no emblem, it's just armor, not a—"
Rowena's protest broke off as Jeanne stepped closer, her eyes narrowing at a faint outline on Godric's right sleeve. A patch, just slightly loose at the edge. With a curious frown, she reached out and peeled it back. The fabric gave with a soft tear—not of damage, but of design. A hush fell over the group as she pulled it away, revealing what lay beneath.
Rowena's breath hitched. Salazar's smirk faltered. The others went still.
Etched into the sleeve, vivid and unmistakable, was the emblem Helga had sketched so long ago—a crest quartered by the lion, snake, badger, and raven, each in red, green, yellow, and blue. Beneath it, in golden thread, shimmered the words: Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus.
And stitched just above it, bold and proud: Marauders.
"By the Gods…" Salazar muttered, reaching for his own arm and tearing away the patch. The same sigil greeted him, gleaming in the light.
Rowena hesitated, eyes wide in disbelief. Then, with a quiet groan, she tore her patch free as well. Her face drained of color.
"Oh, by Hecate, just kill me," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose as if warding off a headache. "Please."
"The… Marauders?" Jeanne asked softly, tilting her head.
Helena grinned. "Looks like you've all picked a name after all."
"Helena, don't start," Rowena warned.
"We did," Godric murmured, gaze distant. "Together. Back when Raine was still with us." He paused. "But this… whoever left these… how could they possibly have known?"
"In all honesty, I've no idea, and I care even less," Salazar said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Just remind me to shake the bloke's hand if we ever cross paths."
"This isn't something to brush off, Salazar," Rowena replied sharply. "Godric's right—someone's been watching us. Possibly tracking our movements for Gods knows how long."
"With the reputation you've built in the Congregation, there's no telling who it might be," Helena said, stepping forward. "But if I were to wager a guess… I'd say you've caught the attention of someone from the Hellfire Club. Someone big."
The name hit the air like a spark. Rowena, Salazar, Godric, and Jeanne all glanced at one another, brows rising in quiet alarm.
"Still," Helena continued, her tone softening, "this isn't the time to chase ghosts. We can deal with whoever's behind this once we return." She paused, a flicker of doubt crossing her features. "If we return."
"We will," Godric said firmly, his eyes narrowing with quiet resolve.
Rowena stepped beside him. "Then let's not waste another minute."
And together, the five walked forward, shoulder to shoulder into the pale light of morning. The courtyard echoed with the quiet thud of their steps. Beyond the gates, the wolves were already stirring, but they would not falter. They would not cower. They would not fall.
Excalibur would remember this day.
Caerleon would remember this day.
And soon… all of Avalon would know what it meant to rise.
****
Bastion's eyes were fixed on the horizon. The grey of dawn was bleeding into pale gold, the last stars swallowed by morning light. He took a long breath, his greatsword a familiar weight on his back, before turning his gaze toward the battalions gathered before him—men and women of every race, armed not with the confidence of trained soldiers, but with the quiet resolve of those who had everything to lose.
At the front stood Frank, jaw tight, shoulders squared. Bastion gave him a nudge with his elbow, forcing a scowl out of the older man. He jerked his chin toward the crowd. Frank gave a half-shake of his head but Bastion's look said enough. With a sigh, Frank stepped forward and took off his gloves.
"You're expecting a speech," he said. "So let me warn you now—you might be disappointed."
He took a moment to pace slowly in front of them, his boots crunching on gravel. "I'm not a man of words. I never was. I've lived in the shadows of men louder, bolder, and greater than me. And for thirty-seven years, that was fine. I led men into battle, sure. But not for myself. For the orders. For the crown. For someone else's glory."
He stopped walking and looked over them.
"But not today. Today, I stand as no one's lieutenant. I stand as myself."
He raised a hand, motioning to the skies. "I could speak of the Gods, but they don't walk these streets. I could preach about honor, but you're here. That says enough."
Frank's voice dropped, tightening with conviction. "What you need to know is this. When that sun breaks over this city, we will be marching into hell. And the man who brought that hell to our gates? He won't stop. Not until every voice is silenced. Every home reduced to ash. Every life snuffed out like it meant nothing."
He took a breath, gaze sweeping across the faces before him.
"I see the fear in your eyes. You think that makes you weak? No. It makes you human. It means you know what you're fighting for."
He gestured to the gates behind him.
"You've got families in this city. Friends. Children. Lovers. You know what's on the line. And while I can't promise you'll walk away from this… I can promise you this. If today is the day you fall, you will fall fighting for something that matters."
"We fight for different reasons. The Gods. Honor. Freedom. Revenge. Whatever it is, I do not care, so long as you fight!"
The crowd stirred. A few cheers broke the stillness, spreading like sparks.
"When the sun sets, when the fires burn out, and the blood is washed from these streets—Avalon will remember. That when the world demanded we kneel… we stood."
He raised his fist high.
"And we will stand! We will fight. We will show Lamar Burgess and his coward's army that we do not break, we do not bend. This city is not his to take. We will not offer our necks in surrender, and we are not cattle to be led to slaughter!"
Frank struck his chest with a clenched fist. "We meet them with steel in our hands, and fire in our hearts. Let them come!" He turned back to the gate, then to the crowd, letting the silence stretch. "And should I die this day. Should I fall… then by the Gods, it shall be as one of you!"
The cheers erupted, deafening and fierce.
Bastion smiled, just a little, because for the first time in a long while, it didn't feel like they were marching to their end. It felt like they were marching toward something worth saving.
"Hell of a speech, old man," Bastion said, arms folded. "Gramps would've been proud."
Frank chuckled, tugging his gloves back on. "He shouldn't be. I borrowed half of it from his old field speeches." He gave a half-shrug. "Truth is, I'd be lucky to be a fraction of the man Wilhelm Reinhardt was. Maybe then… we'd have a real shot."
"You really need to grow a spine," Bastion muttered with a smirk. He paused. "For what it's worth… I think you're every bit the man he was."
Frank glanced over, lips twitching into a tired smile before he gave a nod and turned, likely off to sweep the perimeter one last time.
Bastion was about to head the opposite way when he heard soft clapping behind him. He turned. Salazar stood there, composed as ever, arms behind his back, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
"Quite the rousing performance," Salazar said. "I dare say you've given them hope. And in times like these, that's no small feat."
"Slytherin, right?" Bastion gave him a quick once-over, noting the outfit. "That's some look you've got there. I'd be jealous if I wasn't worried about getting skewered in it."
Salazar let out a quiet chuckle. "A gift," he said lightly, "from an admirer who clearly has a flair for the dramatic."
"Well, tell 'em I'd like one too," Bastion said with a grin. He glanced around. "Anyway, any reason you're out here alone? Thought you lot always moved as a pack."
Salazar gave a small smile. "We agreed it would be more effective to divide our efforts. The city's too large, too fragile, to leave any corner unwatched." He glanced toward the skyline. "Caerleon will need every hand it can get."
Bastion gave a half-shrug. "Yeah… can't argue with that."
Salazar's gaze shifted to the gathered battalions. His expression sobered.
"I'd like to say we're ready for what's coming… but we both know that's wishful thinking." He paused. "Moons ago, their greatest concern was passing exams. Now they're bracing to fight for their lives against a man who once ran the very institution meant to protect them."
"Yeah. Not exactly the graduation gift anyone expected," Bastion said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Truthfully? Once this is all over, I don't know what the hell's goanna be left. The Tower's ashes don't exactly make for a great foundation."
Salazar folded his arms, eyes narrowing slightly. "It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest. Trust, after all, is far more difficult to rebuild than stone or steel." He tilted his head. "Still… so long as people like you keep standing, I've no doubt the world will right itself again. Slowly. But it will."
Bastion let out a short breath, smiling faintly. "That's kind of you to say." He offered a nod. "Watch yourself out there, yeah? And if you ever need my blade, just give a shout."
Salazar returned the nod with a quiet smile. "I shall hold you to that."
Without another word, they parted—each turning into the fading morning mist, minds fixed on the battle to come.
****
The first rays of dawn broke through the shroud of clouds, streaking the sky in brilliant gold and ember, as if the heavens themselves had been set ablaze. Light crept across the city like a tide, casting the last of the shadows into retreat. On another day, it might have marked the promise of renewal—a morning for dreams to rise and take flight.
But not today.
Today, the light did not bring hope. It merely illuminated the dread.
Beneath the streets, in the sheltering tunnels, families clung to one another. Mothers clutching their children, fathers whispering empty reassurances, the elderly staring in silence. Though stone and steel stood between them and the chaos above, they knew what was coming. And somewhere deep inside, a quiet truth settled in: if those sworn to defend them faltered, this sunrise could be their last.
Across the city, the battered remnants of AEGIS and loyalists of the true Tower held their ground. Barricades of twisted metal and scorched wood lined the streets—makeshift walls cobbled together with shattered furniture, upturned vehicles, and anything else they could find. Behind them, soldiers gripped their weapons with white-knuckled hands. Some whispered prayers. Others cursed under their breath.
All of them waited—haunted by the same gnawing fear.
High above it all, perched on the edge of a rooftop overlooking the main road into the city, sat Asriel. His blade rested against his shoulder, its edge catching the morning light. Hunched forward, cloaked in shadow, he watched as the horizon blazed with gold. His amber eyes, dimmed by grief and sharpened by rage, flickered to life once more.
He had been here before. Too many times.
This moment. The stillness before the gates of Hell were thrown open was etched into his soul. A breath drawn before damnation came screaming through.
His gaze narrowed as the wind tugged at his coat.
"And so it begins," Asriel murmured. "War."