Salazar groaned, his vision swimming as the last of his strength ebbed. The spear slipped from his fingers and clattered against the fractured marble with a sharp clang. The serpents hissed in alarm. A moment later, Bastion rushed across the ruined chamber, catching him just as he collapsed forward.
"Hey—hey, kid!" Bastion called, steadying him. "Stay with me now, don't you dare check out on me."
Salazar gave a breathless chuckle, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. "Aside from Valerian… I can't recall the last time I took such a beating." He coughed again, his words weak but laced with humor. "Not that I mind. Reminds me I'm still mortal."
The white serpent on Bastion's shoulder let out a furious hiss.
Salazar's head lolled slightly, his gaze locking onto the snake. "Forgive me, my dear. It seems I let things get a bit out of hand."
"You're one crazy son of a bitch," Bastion muttered, half-laughing despite the concern in his voice. "But godsdamn… that was one hell of a show." He slung Salazar's arm over his shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you patched up."
"Much obliged, officer," Salazar murmured, then turned to the serpent. "Nirah, rejoin the others. Make yourself scarce."
Nirah hissed again, almost disapprovingly.
"I'll be fine," Salazar assured it with a faint smirk. "I always am."
Nirah gave one last flick of its tongue before slithering down Bastion's arm. He flinched.
"Ugh—seriously," Bastion muttered, shivering. "I swear that thing's going to give me a heart attack someday."
She slithered to the floor and vanished into the shadows, merging with the other serpents as they disappeared into the dark. The spear that lay on the marble rose into the air, split in two, and whirled neatly back into the sheath on Salazar's back.
As they staggered toward the broken doorway, Salazar leaning heavily against him, Bastion gave a low whistle. "Now I've seen everything this damned city had to offer."
"Well," Salazar replied with a tired grin, "have you ever seen a man devour his own head?"
Bastion winced. "No… and I could've gone my whole life without that image, thanks for that."
As they reached the heart of the ruined church, the sharp thump of boots echoed from outside.
Bastion stiffened. "Oh, hell…"
Almost a dozen Norsefire soldiers burst through the shattered doorway, weapons drawn, wands raised. They stopped dead. Just for a moment. Eyes scanning the charred corpses, scorched stone, and the thick haze still clinging to the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.
Then their gazes snapped to Bastion and Salazar.
Bastion tightened his hold on the slumped wizard beside him. He drew his short sword, raising it with one hand while keeping Salazar propped with the other. "Stay with me, kid. This might get ugly."
Salazar didn't respond, but his weight shifted slightly. He knew Bastion couldn't take them all. Not like this. Not while burdened with him. He could see it in the tension in Bastion's stance. The man was a fighter, no doubt. But even the strongest blade could snap when forced to shield another.
"It's over, half-breed," one of the guards barked, stepping forward. "You're surrounded. That big sword of yours won't save you with that brat hanging off your side."
Bastion's eyes narrowed. "Big talk," he growled, "when you need your whole damned crew just to work up the nerve."
He flicked his short sword between them, its humming tip glowing faintly as it tracked each potential target.
"Keep talking, Reinhardt," another sneered, brandishing his blade. "Soon as you drop your guard, we'll carve that whelp in half—then we'll see how much bark you've got left."
Bastion bared his teeth in a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Try me."
Salazar's emerald eyes swept over the guards, meeting each gaze in turn. All of them stared back with the same feral glint. The same twisted hunger to spill blood, to take life with sickening pleasure. He turned to Bastion, his body coiled tight as a drawn bow, then cast his eyes down to the fractured marble beneath his feet, drifting to a close.
Bastion barely had time to react when a guard broke from the edge of his vision, sword raised. The others charged with him in unison, boots pounding against the stone.
But Salazar's eyes snapped open, glowing a fierce, unnatural amber. His pupils had narrowed into serpentine slits.
"Freeze!"
The word echoed through the shattered sanctum like a spell etched into the very stone. A pulse of power burst from Salazar's feet, clearing the dust in a violent ring. Shards of stained glass trembled in their broken frames. Pillars creaked. The rafters groaned.
The charging men choked. Then stopped. Locked mid-stride, mid-breath. Muscles seized. Weapons halted mid-swing. Only their eyes could move, darting in panic, mouths frozen open in half-formed screams.
Bastion blinked, sweat trailing down his cheek as he took in the scene.
Salazar's gaze didn't waver. "If you fine gentlemen don't mind," he said, "I'm exhausted, I'm bleeding, and my tolerance for low-born filth has long since expired. Now…"
He drew in a slow breath, then spoke with venomous finality.
"Kill. Each. Other."
The words struck like a gavel.
The men turned on one another, their limbs no longer their own. Faces twisted in terror as blades swung, spells erupted. Screams tore through the air. Blood hit the stone in wet, rhythmic splashes. Some tried to fight the compulsion, sobbing through clenched jaws. Others dropped their weapons and clawed at each other with bare hands. Bones snapped. Skin tore. One by one, they collapsed into the gore, still clawing and choking even as life slipped from them.
Bastion stared, frozen, his blade trembling softly in his hand.
Salazar, however, didn't spare the carnage a second glance.
"Keep walking, officer," he said. "Pay the refuse no mind. They'll see to their own disposal."
With a final glance behind, Bastion sheathed his sword and together they stepped into the daylight, leaving the screams and slaughter behind them.
****
The sounds of war still echoed across the city. Distant cries, the crack of spells, the crumbling groan of stone giving way. The air was thick with the stench of charred timber and scorched tar, arcane residue, burnt grease, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A stench that would haunt Caerleon for months, if not years. It would sink into everything. Clothes, paint, rags, mortar—etch itself into memory and marrow alike. Bastion could already feel it. The badge on his chest felt less like a mark of authority now, and more like the weight of guilt.
He moved quietly down a shadowed alley, Salazar slumped in his arms, barely upright. They kept to the dark, avoiding open streets. No telling how many of Burgess' forces were still scattered throughout the city, but one thing was certain—without Hartshorne, they were leaderless. And Burgess? He wouldn't care. His gaze was fixed solely on the throne of Excalibur. The lives of his men were nothing more than paving stones, laid one corpse at a time.
Bastion glanced down at the boy cradled against him. Salazar's breathing was shallow, his face pale, and his eyes, now emerald again, half-lidded in exhaustion.
"I can feel your eyes on me, officer," Salazar murmured with a faint grin.
Bastion opened his mouth, but Salazar spoke again.
"Before you ask, no offence taken. I imagine you've got more than a few questions after what you just saw."
Bastion stayed silent.
"As I said to Hartshorne… it was a gift. One of many," Salazar continued. "This one, in particular, allows me to command anyone who meets my eyes. Think of it as a perfected Imperius Curse—but worse. No one's immune."
"By the Gods," Bastion muttered. "So, there's no counter to it?"
"Not that I'm aware of," Salazar said, shifting his head slightly to glance up at him. "And even if there was—what makes you think I'd share it with you?"
Bastion gave a tired chuckle. "Touché."
Then a thought hit him. His brow furrowed. "Wait, if you can turn anyone into your damn puppet, why not just make Hartshorne slit his own throat and be done with it?"
Salazar's smirk returned, darker now. "And rob myself of the satisfaction?" he scoffed. "Please. I could've made him prance around like a Yuletide goose, carve his own heart out and present it on a silver tray. But there are some men worth getting your hands dirty for."
His gaze drifted forward again, sharpening. "Men like Hartshorne. Men who've spent their lives cloaked in power, lording it over others with impunity, they need to see the truth. That no amount of title or strength, no Gods above or monsters below, can protect them from the reckoning they deserve. Especially when it comes from someone like me."
"I'd drink to that," Bastion muttered with a crooked smirk. "Sounds like you've buried more than your fair share of bastards and tyrants."
"Oh, you've no idea," Salazar replied, exhaling slowly. "This world is riddled with monsters. Some that wear crowns, others who hide behind robes and smiles. I learned young that good and evil are just costumes we drape over ourselves to feel justified. Every creed, every faith. Each with its own version of what's righteous, what's wicked. Noble heroes. Vile villains. Black and white."
They moved quietly through the alleyway, the echo of their boots scraping against the stones beneath their feet. The bodies strewn across the ground painted a grim, silent testimony—limbs twisted, eyes open and vacant, blood mingling with the filth.
"We're told to live with honor. Be good, be kind, and the heavens will reward us," Salazar went on, a bitter chuckle escaping him. "Fairy tales, all of it. The cruel thrive. The righteous suffer. And yet the masses cling to these illusions like children to their blankets, praying some divine hand will save them from the rot they refuse to confront."
He paused, his voice tightening.
"There was someone very dear to me who believed in that nonsense. Believed there was goodness in all people. It cost them everything." His jaw clenched. "That was the day I stopped believing in salvation. Stopped believing in good. All that remained is evil, and on your side."
Bastion glanced at him, his brow furrowed. "That's a hell of a bleak way to look at the world."
Salazar shrugged. "Perhaps. Doesn't make it any less true."
A beat passed before Bastion gave a quiet chuckle. "You know, what you just said… doesn't sound too far off from what my grandpa used to say."
Salazar raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Do enlighten me."
"He used to say that good's just a matter of perspective," Bastion replied. "One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. One man's king, another's tyrant." He shifted Salazar's weight over his shoulder, adjusting his grip as they trudged down another narrow alley. "Even before Burgess, the Tower had a nasty habit of poking their noses where they didn't belong. Always convinced they were heroes. Liberators. More often than not, they just made things worse."
Salazar scoffed. "As do all who fancy themselves saviors."
"Exactly," Bastion muttered. "They'd storm in, tear a place apart in the name of justice, topple whoever's in charge, then piss off back to their high towers while the locals are left picking up the mess." He let out a sharp breath. "My grandpa hated that. Fought tooth and nail with the higher-ups over those kinds of decisions. Walked a razor's edge between insubordination and legend—but no one had the guts to lock up the Overdeath."
A fond smile tugged at his lips. "I admired him. Most folks in the Tower did. But even he couldn't escape the truth. Sometimes it's not the people, but the system. Still, the people suffer all the same. And like you, he learned something the hard way."
Salazar tilted his head, curious. "And what, pray tell, was that?"
"That no matter what you do, no matter how righteous you think you are… you'll always be the villain in someone's story." Bastion glanced over. "And that's okay. So long as you're still the hero to the ones who matter."
Salazar gave a soft laugh. "Your grandfather sounds like a wise man."
Bastion snorted. "Wise might be pushin' it. Stubborn, scary, loud as hell? Absolutely. But… I'll take it."
They pressed forward, boots scraping through grime. The air shifted—voices echoed from the end of the alley. They tensed for a moment, cautious, until the tones grew clearer.
Young voices. Familiar ones.
Students.
A quiet breath of relief left them both.
"Oh, and one more thing, officer," Salazar said suddenly.
Bastion scowled. "Seriously, can we knock it off with the 'officer' crap? I've got a name. It's Bastion."
Salazar chuckled. "Fair enough, Bastion. Then allow me to ask a favor: keep what you've seen to yourself. The world would be far better off if Salazar Slytherin remained little more than a student, and not the serpent whispering, death incarnate."
Bastion gave him a knowing grin. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me."
****
Just a stone's throw from the castle gates, the remnants of Norsefire had carved a bloody path to Caerleon's heart. They'd breached the barricades, overwhelmed AEGIS, battered through the Clans, and outlasted the local militia—not with finesse, but with sheer numbers and brutal attrition. Most of them were scattered now, others dead or long fled, but the ones who remained were the worst of the lot: hardened zealots marching on Excalibur with blood in their eyes.
And still, Burgess was nowhere to be seen. Whispers said he'd taken a separate squad into the city. Hartshorne had gone silent. No contact. Most assumed the worst.
A sudden roar of combat shattered the air, reverberating through the stone buildings.
Then came the tank.
A towering figure ploughed through the chaos, crashing through the frontlines like a living battering ram. Clad head-to-toe in thick, silver-dulled plate lined with streaks of gold, he looked more war machine than man. His armor wasn't just for show—layered and reinforced, each step sent tremors through the ground. He carried no weapon, only a pair of monstrous gauntlets plated in steel, the size of small anvils.
AEGIS and Clan fighters surged toward him, swords swinging, spells flashing.
But nothing worked.
Spells fizzled on impact. Blades struck with dull, useless clangs. He swatted them aside like flies, every punch tossing men like rag dolls, some crashing into walls, others hurled screaming into the air.
"Fall back!" one of the AEGIS guards shouted in terror. "It's him! It's Iron Hand Geddes!"
From behind him, more Norsefire troops poured into the street. As they spread out, the armored man reached up and pulled off his helmet. He looked no older than his mid-thirties. Buzzed black hair, rough jaw, cocky smirk carved across his face like a knife wound.
"Is this it?" he jeered. "Is this the best you lot can throw at me?"
He let out a scoffing laugh. "I came 'ere for a proper fight, and all I've had is nappies 'n pensioners. You wanna defend yer precious little city, you best do better'n that."
A young soldier charged him with a blade drawn—stupidly brave.
Geddes turned and slammed his gauntlet across the lad's face with a meaty crack.
The poor sod flew like a cannonball, crashing through a storefront window in a rain of wood and glass.
"See that?" Geddes roared, arms spread wide, eyes gleaming with the thrill of it. "Pansies! All of ya!"
****
A Norsefire guard crashed through a stone wall, bricks bursting outward and scattering across the ground. With a sharp yank, a chain recoiled, clinking violently as the war hammer snapped back into the waiting grip of a young man.
Marcus clenched his teeth, muscles taut, and with a roar, drove his hammer into another charging guard. The steel head struck with brutal force, snapping the man's jaw and launching him into the air. He landed spine-first on the crumpled roof of a burned-out car, shattering the glass as the vehicle caved in beneath him.
"Come then!" Marcus bellowed. "Face me, and I'll send you to the pits of Hel myself!"
"Do you have to keep taunting them?" Derek muttered, back pressed to his friend's shoulder as he adjusted his now-cracked glasses. "You do realize they hit harder every time you shout something dramatic, right?"
His wand snapped up, forming a shimmering arcane barrier as bolts of magic slammed into it. Sparks scattered from the impact, but the shield held firm. With a swift circular gesture, Derek redirected the absorbed energy, spinning on his heel and flinging it back at them.
"Stupefy!"
The bolt struck one guard clean in the head, dropping him in a heap.
"Extruditor!"
A flash of green burst from his wand. The gust struck another soldier square in the chest, launching him backwards into a wall with a sickening crunch.
Marcus laughed, swinging his hammer into another foe who came at him with a raised blade. The head of the hammer crashed against the guard's sword with a dull clang. Marcus shoved forward, forcing the man off balance, then spun his weapon and drove it into his kneecap.
The guard screamed, his leg bending at a sickening angle.
Marcus didn't give him the chance to recover. He brought the hammer around again, smashing it into the side of the man's head. The body dropped like dead weight.
Drawing a breath, Marcus grinned. "Seems Ravenclaw's been drilling some actual combat sense into that head of yours, bróðir."
Derek deflected several more spells with quick, precise wandwork. "I won't deny it. She's frighteningly competent—almost inhumanly so. But I suppose that's to be expected of a Ravenclaw."
"When you two are quite finished mucking about," came a voice behind them, cool and cutting, "perhaps we can focus on the battle at hand."
Both boys turned as Nerida stepped back-to-back with them, her wand sweeping in elegant arcs. Each motion was fluid, almost dance-like, yet every strike was precise. Spells from the advancing Norsefire battalion slammed against her magical wards and dissipated harmlessly.
She scoffed. "Pathetic. Low-born filth, the lot of them. Whoever trained these wretches ought to be drawn and quartered for incompetence."
With a flick of her wrist, she traced a sigil in the air. A blue glow sparked at the tip of her wand, and with a sharp upward thrust, a streak of lightning burst skyward. It split midair, fracturing into bolts that struck several guards at once. Screams echoed as they convulsed and dropped, smoking.
Nerida smirked, flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder. "It'll take more than mongrel dogs to bring down a Vulchanova."
Derek gave her a flat look. "I swear, the only thing bigger than her mouth is her ego."
"I'd argue her hair gives it a fair run," Marcus added dryly.
Marcus's eyes snapped upward just as something massive hurtled through the air toward them—a flaming wreck of a car, spinning violently as fire roared from its frame.
"Move!" he shouted, grabbing the back of Nerida's robes and yanking her out of harm's way. She hit the ground with a startled cry as Marcus stepped forward, hammer in hand, bracing himself.
The burning wreckage bore down on them, mere feet away.
Derek leapt ahead of Marcus, wand already raised. "Arresto Momentum!"
A burst of blue light surged from his wand, wrapping around the car mid-air. The wreckage slowed instantly, its deadly velocity halted as it drifted downward in sluggish descent.
Marcus didn't wait. He surged past Derek with a roar, lifting his hammer high and bringing it down in a crushing arc. Steel met steel with a thunderous crack, sending the wreck spiraling away. It crashed through a nearby storefront in a storm of glass and brick, rolling to a broken halt.
Panting, Marcus lowered his hammer, lavender dreadlocks falling into his eyes as he locked his gaze ahead.
And there he was—the source of the throw.
A hulking figure advanced through the haze, each step heavy. Towering, broad-shouldered, clad in thick, plated armor that gleamed with dull silver and streaks of scorched gold.
Derek's jaw slackened. "What in the name of the nine hells is that thing?" He pushed his cracked glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Is that… a cave troll?"
"I wish it were a troll," Marcus muttered, resting his hammer across his shoulders. "At least a troll can be put down with a bit of effort. That thing's no troll."
Nerida scrambled to her feet, storming up to him, face flushed with indignation. "You uncivilized brute!" she hissed. "You dare lay hands on me? One does not manhandle a lady like common refuse! Apologize. Now."
Marcus didn't even glance at her.
"For the love of all that's holy and sane—Nerida, shut your bloody gob!" Derek snapped, eyes fixed on the hulking figure approaching through the smoke. "We've got bigger problems."
Nerida turned, catching sight of the armored behemoth striding their way. Her haughty scowl faltered, replaced by a strained smile. "Well. That's… interesting."
More Norsefire troops spilled into the street behind the giant, fanning out around him. Chaos unfolded across the block—AEGIS officers and militia members hurled themselves at the man, only to be swatted aside like ragdolls. Their bodies crashed into walls and skidded across pavement. Spells cracked against his armor and fizzled out as if they'd struck a tank.
Still, he came, each step a thud against the cobbled street.
He stopped just short of them, towering overhead, gauntlets flexing with a dull metallic grind. His smirk stretched, sharp and unhinged.
"Well, what do we 'ave 'ere?" he said. "More of Excalibur's little whelps lookin' to get their necks wrung?"
His eyes drifted to the burning wreckage inside the storefront, flames rising high. He chuckled low in his throat. "I take it back. That were somethin'—smashin' work, truly. Maybe you lot've got a bit o' bite left in you, eh?"
He rolled his shoulders, gauntlets clinking. "Let's see how long it lasts."
"Where I'm from, it's customary for warriors to introduce themselves," Marcus said, squaring his shoulders. His words were steady, but the slight arch of his brow betrayed a flicker of unease. "I am Marcus Sigrid Skjoldr, son of Jarl Játr the Strong—Hammer of the Isles."
"Ohhh, a Skellige brat, eh?" the man sneered, eyeing him with a crooked grin. "Don't see many of your lot beyond the fog. Brave of you to wander this far from mummy's hearth."
He cracked his neck, then raised one of his massive gauntlets. Blood dripped from the knuckles, bits of flesh and hair still clinging to the steel. He flexed his fingers with a wet squelch. "Name's Sergeant Barton Geddes. That's what me mates call me, anyway. Rest of the world knows me as the Iron Hand." He gave the gauntlet a little wave. "Not hard to guess why."
"Charming," Derek muttered. "Just another slab of meat on Burgess' leash. Honestly, the lack of variety in your kind is exhausting."
Geddes' eyes snapped to him, and the grin twisted wider, darker.
"And you look real sweet in them trousers," he said. He leaned in just a hair, his breath foul. "I like the wiry ones. They scream pretty when you bend 'em good and proper." He clicked his tongue. "Might just keep you."
The color drained from Derek's face. He stumbled back, disgust and fear flashing behind his glasses.
Before anyone could speak, Nerida cut in.
"Big, slow, stupid, and vile," she said with a smirk, wand casually spinning between her fingers. "You'd think the bar couldn't get any lower, and yet—here you are."
Geddes' smile vanished. His eyes narrowed into dark slits, full of bitter hate.
"If I wanted lip from a painted-up guttersnipe, I'd pay for it," he spat, eyes flicking her up and down. "Women these days—wave their arses around like they run the place. 'Cept when they're on their knees, beggin' for a man to do the real work."
He hocked and spat at her feet. The glob struck stone with a thick splat, flecking her boot. Nerida's nose wrinkled in revulsion.
"Never liked your kind," Geddes growled. "Not even me own mum. May the old bird rot in the same hole she spawned me in."
"And of course, a sexist pig," Nerida snapped, baring her teeth. "The perfect garnish on a maggot-infested cake baked by a troll." She raised her wand, its tip glowing cold blue. "No matter. You'll fall like all the others."
Geddes chuckled darkly, taking a slow step forward. "Oh? I like birds like you." His smirk widened, eyes gleaming with cruel delight. "So much more fun when I snap your pretty little wings—"
His gauntlet suddenly cocked back.
Nerida's eyes went wide.
With a roar, Geddes launched a thunderous punch forward.
The strike met steel.
Marcus had stepped in, war hammer raised. The gauntlet crashed into the haft, and the sheer force buckled his stance. Cracks spiderwebbed beneath his boots. He held, jaw clenched tight, arms trembling under the weight.
"Your fight's with me, Sergeant," Marcus growled.
Geddes rolled his shoulders. "Oh well. I'm flexible."
The backhand came fast. Too fast.
The blow struck Marcus across the ribs, launching him like a ragdoll. He smashed through a storefront door in a rain of wood and glass, vanishing into the dark.
"Marcus!" Derek cried out, snapping his wand up. "Depulso!"
The spell struck Geddes square in the face, snapping his head back slightly.
Then, slowly, Geddes looked forward again—unfazed. His grin returned, wider than before.
"Really?" he sneered. "That all you got, sweetheart?"
He lunged.
"Protego!" Derek shouted, conjuring a glowing shield just in time.
But it wasn't enough.
Geddes' gauntlet crashed straight through the barrier. Light shattered like glass, and his fist connected with Derek's gut. The boy flew backwards, skidding across the pavement. He tumbled to a stop, coughing violently, blood dripping from his lips.
Nerida's breath caught in her throat.
Her eyes locked on Derek. Writhing, gasping for air. Then turned back to the looming brute, his gauntlets dripping with blood and satisfaction.
"Your move, little birdie," Geddes jeered, spreading his arms mockingly.
Nerida's smirk was razor-thin. "Confringo!"
A jet of flame burst from her wand, roaring toward his face. But Geddes was quicker. He raised one massive gauntlet, the fire splashing harmlessly across its metal plating, fizzling into embers.
Geddes tilted his head, the flames dancing in his bloodshot eyes. "Typical bird. Always goin' for the face. Always gotta hurt a man where it stings." He scoffed, baring his teeth in a jagged grin. "That's why I can't stand women. Petty, spiteful little vipers—always jabberin', always twistin' the knife and callin' it virtue. Just like me ma." His eyes narrowed. "Taught me early the only good bird's the one that don't squawk no more."
Nerida smirked, wand steady at her side.
"Aww," she cooed, mockingly gentle. "Poor little boy's got mummy issues. Did you come here to talk it out?" She tilted her head, eyes flashing. "Or are you here to fight?"
With a grunt, he charged.
His fist rocketed toward her like a wrecking ball. Nerida twisted, just barely slipping under it as it smashed into the cobbled street, pulverizing stone and sending shards flying. She rolled, sprang up, wand snapping toward him.
Spells slammed into Geddes' chest and shoulders but he kept moving, shrugging them off with a laugh. Each stomp of his boots left cracks in the ground. His fists came like cannonballs, smashing through carts, benches, and whatever else stood in his path.
"Stand still, little bird!" he roared, slamming a punch into a lamp post, crumpling it like paper. "I'll make it quick!"
A bellow tore through the chaos.
Marcus, blood trickling from his temple, roared as he charged in from behind. His war hammer came down hard, striking Geddes across the back of the head with a brutal crunch.
Geddes staggered forward but didn't fall. He pivoted sharply, snatching Marcus out of the air by the head. The boy thrashed, his war cry muffled by the crushing grip. He swung his hammer in desperation, but Geddes caught his arm mid-motion.
There was a sickening crack.
Marcus screamed as his arm twisted unnaturally, the hammer slipping from his grasp and clattering to the ground. Geddes slowly straightened, releasing the mangled limb. He reached back, fingers brushing the back of his skull where Marcus had struck. When he looked at his hand, it glistened red.
He smirked. "I'll admit," he said, "that tickled."
Then his hand clamped down over Marcus' face like a vice.
Without a word, Geddes slammed the boy down—once,twice,three times—into the stone. The ground cracked beneath each blow. On the final strike, Marcus went limp, eyes rolling back.
"Now stay down," Geddes growled.
A volley of spells struck his back. He turned, eyes narrowing at Derek. Bloodied, barely upright, wand still trembling in his grip.
Geddes sighed, as if disappointed.
Then, with a flick of his arm, he hurled Marcus' unconscious body straight at him.
The two collided midair as both boys slammed into a wall with a sickening crunch before crumpling to the ground in a heap. Derek choked on a gasp, blood staining his lips, before he too went still.
"Now that's over and done with..." Geddes muttered, jerking back as a bolt of lightning cracked past his cheek. "How's about I put you down nice and quiet?" His grin stretched wide as his eyes locked onto Nerida.
She was already moving, wand flashing as a volley of spells ripped through the air. For a man built like a siege tower, Geddes moved with uncanny speed, weaving between the blasts. Nerida's wand thrummed with power as she stepped back, then thrust it forward. "Fragor!"
An eruption caught him square in the shoulder—he didn't even flinch.
"Fragor!" she shouted again.
This time, Geddes kicked up a nearby car door and used it as a makeshift shield. The explosion tore through the metal, flames licking the edges. He spun and flung it like a discus.
Nerida's wand whipped down. "Diffindo!" A razor-thin arc of magic shot forward, cleaving the flaming slab in half mid-air.
Geddes was already on her, his gauntlet swinging low in a brutal uppercut.
"Protego..." She summoned a glowing barrier just in time. Lightning coiled along its surface as the blow connected, and for a moment it held. Then, with a roar, Geddes powered through.
"… Maxima!" she cried, summoning layers of shimmering shields one atop the other.
Geddes bellowed and smashed through all of them, his fist finally slamming into her gut.
Nerida's breath hitched as the air fled her lungs. Her eyes went wide, spit flying from her mouth as the blow lifted her off her feet and hurled her across the street. She crashed hard into the pavement and rolled until she lay crumpled in the dirt, curling inwards with a low, broken groan.
Geddes inhaled deeply and leaned back, stretching his neck with a pop. "Gotta hand it to ya," he drawled, cracking his knuckles. "Ain't had a bird give me this much trouble in ages."
He stalked toward her, boots crunching over broken glass and stone. Nerida glared up at him, eyes burning with loathing even as she clutched her bruised abdomen, every breath a knife in her ribs.
He chuckled, low and ugly. "Y'know… now that I'm lookin' at ya proper, you ain't half bad on the eyes." His grin stretched wider, yellow teeth bared. "Reckon once Burgess brings that pretty castle of yours crashin' down, I'll take ya home. Strap you to a rack, let me dogs have a go. After all..." He loomed over her, raising his gauntleted fist. "… a bitch's a bitch, no matter how high she holds her chin."
He pulled back for the final blow. "Nighty night, little birdie."
Nerida shut her eyes.
The ground split beneath her. But the pain never came.
Instead—silence.
She cracked her eyes open, and gasped.
A figure stood between them, a girl clad in black with golden accents from collar to boots. A yellow scarf fluttered gently at her neck, its ends dancing in the smoke. A stylized badger was etched across her back, a Clan insignia unfamiliar to Nerida marked her shoulder.
Geddes stood frozen, his massive fist caught mid-swing in the girl's golden gauntlet. Her arm didn't budge. Her amber eyes stared up at him, calm, piercing. Auburn hair braided tight, wrapped like a crown around her head.
"What the hell…" Geddes muttered.
Nerida's lips parted in disbelief.
"H-Hufflepuff?"