The battlefield had quieted at last.
Most of the Norsefire forces now lay broken across the stone. Dead, dying, or fleeing with whatever scraps of courage they had left. The sight of their mighty warcaster reduced to a twisted inferno of fire and mangled steel had been enough to shatter any illusion of victory.
Cries to retreat rang louder than the commands of loyalty or duty, their panic drowning out the threats and promises of vengeance spat by their commanders. Even those commanders, once so resolute, had begun to falter. Realizing too late they stood alone against warriors who would sooner hang them from the ramparts than turn them over to the Tower.
Amid the scorched debris and lingering embers, Isha remained still, her amber eyes locked on Rowena—still cradled in Bran's arms, her body limp, her breath shallow and uneven. She looked hollowed out, as if something far more vital than energy had been taken from her. Bran followed Isha's gaze, studying her expression carefully. There was no mistaking the look on her face. Recognition mixed with fear.
He adjusted his glasses, masking the steel behind his eyes with polished composure. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but laced with a chilling clarity.
"What you just saw," he said, "you know what it was… don't you?"
Isha blinked, jolted from her trance by the weight of his tone. She hesitated, then nodded slowly.
"My mother was an elf of the Woodland Realm," she began. "Before she passed, she used to tell my brother and I stories—fragments of old knowledge passed down from ages long before the Tower. One of them was about the Three Origins of Magic."
She looked down at Rowena, and Rowena, barely conscious, met her eyes.
"And one of those origins was the Mystic Eyes," Isha continued, reverently. "Magic not born of study or spellwork. Not drawn from rituals or ley lines. It was said to be granted—by the Old God of Magic herself. Hecate… and her bloodline."
She paused. Her voice caught slightly.
"But…"
Bran's eyes narrowed behind his lenses. "But?"
Isha exhaled. "Most of those who were born with the Mystic Eyes were hunted to extinction. The Carian Witch Hunts spared no one." She looked toward him, something uncertain in her tone now. "If Rowena possesses them… it means—"
"It means exactly what you think it means," Bran said coolly, cutting her off with a precision that left no room for interpretation. "It is a truth long buried, safeguarded by my grandfather, Winston Ravenclaw. A secret sworn to silence by my family."
He lowered his gaze to Rowena, softening only a fraction. "And that is why House Ravenclaw has taken an unbreakable oath—to protect her. No matter the cost. No matter the enemy."
"But the hunts," Isha murmured, her gaze steady, "they were sanctioned by the Wizarding Council themselves. Hiding her, harboring her, would be considered treason."
Bran didn't flinch. "One of many transgressions committed by the Council," he replied, cold with practiced restraint. "As Grandfather always said, the Council's hands are rarely clean, and their justice rarely pure. But yes, we know. We've always known."
He looked down at Rowena, still resting in his arms, her breathing light but steady. He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek with a tenderness that said far more than words could.
"She may not be my sister by blood," he said softly, "but she is my sister all the same. And there is no one… no one I hold dearer."
Rowena stirred at his touch and smiled faintly, leaning into the warmth of his palm with the trust of someone who knew she was safe.
Isha's breath hitched. Her eyes widened slightly as a memory surged to the surface. Unbidden, but crystal clear.
Arno.
Her older brother's face, smudged with soot and grime, yet always brightened by a tired smile. No matter how raw his hands were from the factory lines, no matter how many nights he went to bed hungry so she could eat, he never once complained. Even in his final moments, he had spoken only of her—of her future, her happiness, her need to live on. No anger. No blame. Just love. And acceptance.
A soft, bittersweet smile crossed her lips. She blinked rapidly, then wiped away the tears threatening to fall.
"You needn't worry," Isha said gently. "My time in this world is drawing to a close. And when I pass to the other side, I'll take your secret with me. No one will ever know."
Bran's expression shifted. Less guarded, more human. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Truly."
Isha gave a small laugh, shaking her head. "Looking at the two of you… I'll admit, I'm envious."
That drew their attention.
"We didn't have much, Arno and I. But we had each other. That was enough. Even when the pain was unbearable, when I wanted everything to end, he held me here. He was the only thing tethering me to this world."
She paused. "And now… like every soul who's surrendered themselves to Nemesis, I have to carry the knowledge that I'll never see him again. Not in this life. Not in the next."
Bran bowed his head slightly. "I'm dreadfully sorry… about your brother. I read the file on the Sinclair case. What was done to him was monstrous."
His tone grew colder, sharper.
"Clegane, Kaltz, and every wretch who played a hand in that farce, I hold no sympathy for any of them."
Isha's expression hardened, her amber eyes burning low like coals.
"They've all met their reckoning," she said. "I made sure of that. One by one. They'll have the rest of eternity to dwell on their regrets." Her gaze dropped. "As will I."
"Anyways, what are you doing here?" Rowena asked as she pushed herself upright, her limbs still heavy, though her sapphire eyes had regained some of their fire. "I thought you and Laxus were holding the western line."
"We were," Bran replied, his tone clipped, his expression hardening. "Until we received word that Burgess has infiltrated the castle. I was making my way there."
Rowena's breath hitched at first, but then her eyes settled. "I thought as much."
Bran gave a single sharp nod. "Which is why—"
"I'm coming with you." Rowena rose abruptly, swaying on her feet. Bran reached out instinctively, steadying her with a hand on her arm.
"What?" His voice sharpened, disbelief flashing across his features. "Absolutely not. You've barely got the strength to stand." He gestured to her trembling frame. "You know what those blasted eyes take out of you. If you push yourself any further, you could—"
"Don't try to stop me." Rowena's gaze locked onto his. "I will not sit here while you face him alone. This isn't about pride. This is personal. I need to see him. Look into the eyes of the man who once meant everything to me, and see the monster he's become."
"Rowena, I…" Bran hesitated, words faltering as he saw the raw conviction on her face.
"Bran," she said softly. She reached for his hand, fingers curling tightly around his. "You owe me this. We owe it to ourselves. We face him together, or not at all."
Bran drew in a long breath, his jaw tightening. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a quiet sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head as if conceding to the inevitable.
"Alright," he said at last. "Fine. We do this together."
Rowena smiled, a quiet warmth softening the exhaustion in her features. She stepped forward and gently leaned her head against Bran's chest, the tension in her shoulders easing for just a moment.
"Thank you," she murmured. "I knew you'd understand."
Bran exhaled as he wrapped one arm around her, holding her close with the care of someone terrified to lose her again.
"Just… promise me one thing," he said quietly. "Keep yourself out of harm's way. And whatever happens, never use those eyes again."
She hesitated only briefly, then gave a faint nod against his chest.
Bran turned his gaze toward Isha, who stood a short distance away, her silhouette outlined by the glow of smoldering debris.
"What about you?" he asked. "Will you join us?"
Isha shook her head slowly, her gaze lingering on the ruined carcass of the warcaster. "No. Like I told Asriel, by the time I reach Burgess, I'll be little more than dead weight." Her eyes narrowed. "I'll stay behind. Pick off whatever Norsefire rats crawl out of the cracks until there's nothing left of me to hold a bow."
Rowena stepped back from Bran's embrace and moved toward her. Without warning, she wrapped her arms around the elven girl in a fierce, unguarded hug. Isha stiffened in surprise, her eyes wide.
"I'm sorry, Isha," Rowena whispered. "For everything. And when this is all over. Whatever peace there is to find, wherever you end up, I hope you find it."
For a long moment, Isha said nothing. Then she let herself relax into the embrace, closing her eyes. When she pulled away, her face was calm, but her gaze shimmered with something raw.
She looked into Rowena's eyes, her smile faint but sincere. Then she turned to Bran.
"Take care of her," she said simply.
Bran gave a single nod. "I will."
With that, Isha stepped back, turned on her heel, and walked into the haze of smoke and ash, her bow slung across her back like a fading shadow.
Rowena turned back to Bran. Their eyes met, and without a word, they exchanged a single, resolute nod. Then they ran, side by side toward the castle. Toward the reckoning that awaited them within.
As the sound of Bran and Rowena's footsteps faded into the distance behind her, Isha remained still. The battlefield had gone quiet again, save for the crackle of distant flames and the occasional moan of the dying. In that silence, she allowed a single tear to fall—just one.
What they had… that bond, that love, that shared history. It was something she would have given anything to touch again. She would have traded every tomorrow for a single yesterday in Arno's arms, for one more night curled against him as he sang softly, his voice the only warmth in a world so cold and cruel. Even now, knowing that the monsters who had taken him from her had met their end in fire and agony, the satisfaction was hollow. No measure of vengeance could fill the void he left behind.
She had relished their pain. She still did. And she would again.
But no amount of blood, no depth of retribution, could ever bring back the love they shared. The safety. The light. The fragile moments that had made her want to live at all.
Her expression hardened.
She had traded all of it the moment she sold her soul for power. When she let vengeance consume her, when she accepted that nothing awaited her but the dark embrace of Tartarus. And she had made peace with that.
Or so she thought.
Her boots crunched to a halt. Something caught her eye. A body slumped near the wreckage, one of the Norsefire guards. His throat had been torn open. His lifeless eyes locked in a silent scream. Judging by the insignia stitched across his charred uniform, he'd been a man of rank. But it wasn't his face that held her attention—it was the crumpled, bloodstained brown envelope jutting from his front pocket. A red seal, half-smeared and almost hidden beneath gore, marked it with urgency.
Isha knelt, her fingers closing around the envelope. She slid it free. Tearing it open, she unfolded the letter inside, her eyes scanning the inked lines quickly—then again, slower.
Her breath caught.
Her amber eyes narrowed, the paper trembling slightly in her grip.
"So…" she muttered, "that spineless little bastard does have a Plan C."
The letter ignited in her hand with a snap of heat, flames consuming the parchment in seconds. She watched as the blackened fragments fluttered to the ground in flakes of ash.
Her lips curled into a snarl.
"We'll see about that."
****
Somewhere along the southern edge of the city, near the once-bustling shopping district now reduced to rubble and ruin, Quibble braced himself against the wooden rafters of a hastily constructed barricade. The goblin was in a wretched state. Filthy, reeking, and barely recognizable beneath the layers of grime that clung to his skin like a second coat. The stench rolling off him was so putrid it made his own stomach churn, and the irony wasn't lost on him.
He had once prided himself on being civilized, a cut above the crude savagery of his kin. He'd sworn never to wallow in filth, never to live as they did, and he had long since disavowed any connection to the barbaric tribes that called themselves family. But months trapped in his beloved bookstore, with dwindling food, no clean water, and not so much as a change of clothes, had worn that pride thin. Starvation and desperation stripped away more than dignity—they carved at sanity.
And now, of all things, Norsefire vermin were trying to break in.
Quibble cast a frantic glance around the dim interior of his shop, his gaze sweeping across the stacks of books that towered like monoliths in every corner, every crevice. Tomes, scrolls, grimoires—thousands of them, meticulously collected over decades. Some were rare, others irreplaceable. There were titles no longer in print, volumes salvaged from long-forgotten libraries, and ancient manuscripts whose ink was older than most cities.
He snarled under his breath, his jagged, shark-like teeth bared in fury. Let them come for him—he could handle that. But if they laid even a single finger on his books.
They had tried before. More than once, Norsefire thugs had attempted to torch his store, and each time the wards he'd inscribed. Carefully, painstakingly, with ink mixed from powdered obsidian and dragon's breath, had held. But those protections were weakening, and he knew it. Too many wards had burned themselves out. Too many spells had been stretched thin. And this time, they weren't using fire.
The crashes came again. Louder, heavier. He could feel the vibration in the floorboards, hear the groan of splintering wood. A battering ram. Primitive, but effective. They meant to break through by force. And he knew, deep down, it was only a matter of time before the barricade gave way.
Quibble's claws tightened around the hilt of the old dagger strapped to his belt. It was ornamental, ceremonial even. Never meant to see real combat. But if this was the end, then at least he'd die defending the only thing in this wretched world that had ever meant anything to him.
His books.
His sanctuary.
His life.
Then it came.
The sound split the air like living lightning. A moment later, a thunderclap followed, not of weather, but force. An explosion of compressed air that sent dust and debris hurtling across the storefront. Wind whipped through the alley like the first breath of a storm, and then came the screams. The clash of steel. The crunch of blades shattered to splinters. Cries of pain. Bones snapping. Bodies hitting the ground in thudding, lifeless rhythm. A sickening gargle. Then—silence.
Quibble stood frozen, a single brow twitching upward. Slowly, he turned toward the barricade, stepping closer to the sliver of light leaking through one of the cracks. He peered out through the narrow opening, the world outside momentarily painted in the soft glow of the fading sunlight.
The Norsefire soldiers were gone. More accurately, scattered. Their bodies littered the cobblestones in pieces, blood pooling beneath shattered armor and limbs twisted at grotesque angles. Some still twitched, choking on their own breath. Most did not.
And in the center of it all, he saw him.
A lone figure, black-haired and cloaked in soot-streaked black armor, stood amidst the ruin. Embroidered on the back of his coat was the tribal sigil of a lion, stitched in crimson thread. A crimson scarf, now bloodied and torn around his neck. But Quibble's eyes weren't drawn to the sigil. It was the sword that told him everything.
He shoved a stack of fallen books aside, tore loose a plank from the barricade, and squeezed through the narrow gap until he stood, blinking, in the street.
"Godric?" Quibble called out, a cautious smile breaking across his grimy face.
The figure turned.
The smile vanished.
Gone was the boy who had stood here months ago. The one who swore he'd face injustice with the edge of his sword, his heart burning bright with the fierce, unyielding fire of the Ignis flames. What remained now stood before him with hollow cheeks, dark circles beneath lifeless eyes, and a silence that felt colder than the grave. Rage burned behind those crimson irises.
A nearby groan caught both their attention. One of the guards, barely alive, began to crawl. He reached for Godric's leg with a bloodied hand, trying to pull himself forward.
Godric looked down.
Without hesitation, he twirled his sword once and brought it down across the man's jaw with a sickening crunch. The guard's head snapped to the side, his cry cut short by a splatter of blood on stone.
Godric didn't even look at him again.
"Hey, Quibble," he said, finally acknowledging the goblin. His greeting was flat, devoid of warmth.
Quibble swallowed hard. "Lad… what in the hells happened to you?" he asked softly. "You haven't come by in ages. I—"
"What hasn't happened?" Godric muttered, swiping the blood off the blade.
Quibble hesitated, his face falling. "I heard… I know about Raine. I'm sorry. I truly am. She was… she was something special."
Godric looked away. "I've heard enough apologies to last me a lifetime."
He turned back, his eyes meeting Quibble's—burning, not with grief, but bitterness.
"She's gone. Burgess and the Tower made sure of that. And I won't rest until the man's head is in the dirt. But you…" His gaze sharpened. "You didn't do a damned thing to help, did you?"
Quibble stiffened, his shoulders slumping almost immediately. "Is… is that what you think?" he said quietly, amber eyes filled with regret. "Lad, I told Workner the truth. Times were hard. Money was tight. I was barely scraping by, just trying to keep the shop from falling apart. I would have helped, truly… you know I would."
"Save it," Godric said. "I've heard that line too. Everyone would have, but no one did."
He stepped forward, and Quibble instinctively backed up until his shoulders touched the barricade.
"No one in this whole damned city would lift a finger for Raine. A Chainling, as they so loved to call her. Too afraid that helping a former slave might stain their precious reputations. Easier, wasn't it? To act like people like her don't even exist."
His tone dropped, heavier now.
"After everything you told me. About the way they treated you here, just for being a goblin, I thought you, of all people, would've been different."
Quibble's eyes widened. "Godric… please understand. It was never meant to be like this. I wanted to help you. I wanted to help her."
Godric didn't blink. "Your good intentions are noted, Quibble, but no number of well-meaning words will bring her back to me." His gaze darkened. "And no number of good intentions will ever undo what's already been done."
Behind him, the sound of boots on stone echoed. More Norsefire guards, turning the corner, weapons drawn and eyes wide with panic. Godric turned his head, watching them approach. Then, with quiet disgust, he looked back at Quibble one last time.
"You know, I could've let them burn your shop to the ground—with you in it. But I didn't."
He started walking toward the oncoming platoon, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. "That's the difference between us. You may think I'm being unfair, and maybe I am. But I stopped caring what this city thinks a long-damned time ago."
He paused, his voice rising just enough to carry.
"And when Caerleon is free. If there's anything left of it, I want them all to remember exactly who saved them. The boy from the boonies who begged for the love of his life. Who pleaded for mercy, for a chance, for a sliver of respite. The same one they turned their backs on, out of nothing but pride, prejudice, and cowardice."
He looked over his shoulder. "The Lion of Ignis will bleed for a city that never once bled for him. Let that be what they remember. Let it haunt them—for the rest of their miserable, worthless lives."
Then he faced the oncoming enemy, stepping toward them without hesitation.
"Now get back inside," he said to Quibble without turning. "And stay there."
Quibble watched him go, his gaze more wounded than afraid. Despite the venom laced through Godric's words, the goblin couldn't bring himself to take offense. He had learned long ago not to hold grief against those who carried it like a blade. And Godric, he was still carrying it. Every word, every breath, was soaked in pain.
Workner had spoken of the boy often. Over pints of ale, between long silences. The regrets weighed heavy on him, but not nearly as heavy as they did on Godric. And Quibble knew well enough how deeply Therians loved, and like the boy, and how utterly that love could hollow them out when it was lost. Whatever light had once burned in the boy's eyes had been swallowed by something darker, something colder.
With a quiet sigh, Quibble gave him one last look. Less of farewell, more of silent mourning, before turning back to his ruined shop. He slipped inside and began sealing the entrance once more, bracing the barricade with weary, trembling hands.
Not out of fear.
But because there was nothing else left to do.
****
Godric's bootsteps echoed across the broken street as he advanced. The platoon of Norsefire guards had already broken into a charge. Wands raised, swords drawn, spears leveled with deadly precision. But Godric's gaze never wavered. His eyes burned beneath the falling ash as a single step forward triggered something deep within.
Circuits of brilliant gold ignited across his skin, crawling down his face, tracing his arms, coiling around his body like living script. Lightning crackled in the air, sparking in arcs from his fingertips to the cobblestones. A low hum built in his chest, resonating outward. Dust stirred at his feet. Shards of shattered stone lifted into the air. Time slowed.
The world fell into silence, every motion sluggish. Every footfall, every swing of a blade, like drowning in molasses. The golden current surged into the hilt of his sword, lighting the weapon in violent pulses of voltaic energy.
Then, he moved.
His first strike crashed down on a charging guard, the blow slamming the man face-first into the stone with such force that the ground split beneath him. His body hung, frozen mid-collapse, suspended in the slowed passage of time.
Godric pivoted. His sword arced across the face of the next attacker. The helmet folded in on itself, the mask cracked in half, and blood exploded across the wall behind him as the man's body flew like a broken doll into the masonry.
He didn't stop.
He moved like a storm. A force of nature barely held in check. Blade met bone, and bone gave way. Limbs snapped like brittle twigs. Spines shattered. Arms were crushed mid-swing, blades sent clattering as if made of glass. Blood sprayed in great arcs, painting the cobblestones and broken walls. Though the blade was magically dulled, it mattered little—what it lacked in edge, it made up in sheer, brutal force.
Skulls caved beneath his strikes. Teeth exploded from jaws, skittering across the ground like scattered marbles. Every parried blade shattered upon contact. Spells fizzled in the air as he swept his sword through them, the backlash rebounding into their casters with bone-breaking force. A flick of his wrist sent one guard's wand spinning from his hand. Another flick snapped his wrist, and a third crushed his throat.
Godric moved through them with terrifying precision, not realizing that only seconds were passing in real time. The screams, the cries of pain, the gurgled gasps. It all blurred together in a symphony of carnage. He felt nothing. Thought nothing. Every movement demanded blood. Every swing demanded punishment.
They weren't men anymore.
Not to him.
They were vermin, as Salazar had once called them. Pretenders in armor. Worthless beasts draped in the skin of order. He had spent months inside the Congregation, carving his way through Clans that justified their horrors with scripture, stature and bloodlines. The slaves were their playthings, and Godric's declaration of protection had been a hindrance. Each and every one of them paid for their lust for savagery with suffering, Godric saw to that personally. Every face blurred into the next, and slowly, inevitably, students became symbols, names became statistics, and people became pests.
Another guard came for him, blade slashing low. Godric ducked beneath it, bringing his sword across the man's knee. The kneecap shattered with a sickening pop, sending the soldier screaming to the ground. Godric flipped him with a twist of his arm, then brought his sword down in a controlled arc across his jaw. Bone crunched, teeth flew, and the man went limp.
Then came more. An entire line of reinforcements.
Godric turned to face them, eyes hollow, furious.
With a sharp breath, he slashed his blade through the air.
A shockwave burst from the strike. Raw force erupting outward. The blast tore through the street, brick exploding from nearby buildings, windows shattering into glittering dust. The guards were thrown off their feet, flung backward like ragdolls, their weapons spinning through the air. They slammed into the ground in a hail of dust, debris, and shattered stone, limbs flailing before crumpling into silence.
Godric stood amid the wreckage. His sword humming with residual energy, golden light still glowing faintly beneath his skin.
Then it came. A sudden shift in the air. A guard lunged from Godric's blind spot, spear raised high, ready to run him through. Godric's gaze snapped toward him, sword still mid-motion.
But before the spear could strike, a black blur cut through the chaos.
Steel flashed.
There was a hiss of pressure, then a grotesque snap as the guard was cleaved clean down the center. His spear shattered in his hands. His body split in two in a geyser of blood that painted the stone in streaks of red. The halves collapsed with a wet thud.
And standing in the crimson mist, blade lowered and eyes cold, was Asriel Valerian.
Their gazes met across the wreckage—crimson locking with amber.
Godric's eyes settled on the figure before him: clad in black armor trimmed in ash-grey steel, a cloak draped from his shoulders like a shroud, and in his grasp, the obsidian claymore. Its surface veined with glowing streams of molten fire.
"You're a hard man to miss, Gryffindor," Asriel said dryly. "All I had to do was follow the trail of bodies and the sound of screaming."
Godric's eyes narrowed.
Asriel took a moment, surveying the carnage around them with a practiced eye. "So," he said, "I take it you've chosen a side."
Godric inhaled slowly, his grip tightening around his sword hilt. "I don't care how strong he is. I don't care about his influence, his title, or the legacy that shields him." He raised his gaze. "I've seen what comes next. Lamar Burgess won't live to see tomorrow."
A smirk played at the corner of Asriel's mouth. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Shouts echoed from both ends of the alley. Norsefire guards began pouring in from the side streets, eyes wide in recognition—and fear. Some raised their weapons, others hesitated.
"Burgess is in the castle," Asriel said without looking away, his claymore spinning once in his grip, the edge slicing the air with a sharp trill. "And I'm on my way to finish what I started."
He turned slightly. "Can I count on your blade?"
Godric stepped beside him, back-to-back, his sword humming softly with residual voltage. "Without question."
Asriel turned toward the guards approaching from behind, eyes burning. "Then let's make this quick."
They moved in perfect sync. Two phantoms carved from shadow and flame, breaking into a charge as the enemy surged toward them, blades drawn, hearts set, and blood demanded.
****
Burgess wheezed, dragging his weight up the last few steps to yet another landing. He had long lost track of how many floors he'd climbed, or how many prefects and students he had taken down on the way. But he could feel it—he was close. The headmaster's office was just ahead.
Sweat slicked his brow as he leaned back, spine cracking with the movement. He winced, cursing under his breath. Not just at the ache in his bones, but at everything: the siege, the incompetence of the men he'd once trusted, the Tower's fall from grace, and most of all, the slow decay of his own body. Once, the mere whisper of his name had been enough to command silence and fear. Now? He was breathless on a stairwell, hunted and hated, clinging to scraps of the dread he once inspired.
"Wretched little ingrates," he muttered. "They'd never have dared raise a wand to me if I hadn't spent the last decade chained to a desk."
He was once Director of the Tower, keeper of order, slayer of monsters in the dark. Now they called him traitor. Let them. He would not let that elven bastard have the satisfaction of seeing him crawl. Nor would he gift the Council the luxury of scapegoating him. They were as filthy as he, and he'd drag them all down with him.
A flash of light ripped the air beside him.
Burgess spun, wand raised. A spell flew. A crackling burst. Only to dissolve the moment it touched the invisible shield. A shadow lunged. A staff whistled through the air toward his head.
Burgess ducked, rolled, came up on one knee.
A click.
"Protego!" he barked.
Gunfire rang out. The bullets pinged against his shield, shells clattering onto the carpet.
"Expello!"
The shield detonated forward with a violent shockwave, knocking a weapon from mid-air. A brutal pick axe-bladed scythe fused to a high-tension cable. It snapped back to the waiting hand of Professor Workner, who stood his ground, glasses slightly askew, eyes burning with fury.
Burgess stumbled to his feet, panting as his wand darted between threats. Three figures now stood before him, closing in. His eyes narrowed on Serfence, staff twirling in one hand, wand glowing faintly in the other. To the side, a weapon, carbon-black, custom, was leveled square at his temple.
"Oh, Edward," Burgess sneered. "And here I thought ambushes were beneath you."
Serfence's lips curled. "Didn't want to disappoint. Though I'll admit—it's fitting. A coward like you deserves to be cornered."
"It's over, Burgess," Workner said. "Your soldiers are either dead, fled, or wishing they had. Drop your wand. Surrender."
Burgess gave a slow, mocking smile. "Professor Workner. Still rooting around in tombs and trenches, I see. I've heard whispers—you've earned yourself quite the name in the lower circles." His smile soured. "But I'd rather be torn limb from limb than surrender to a delver like you."
"Keep flapping your crusty old mouth," Ryan growled, pistol steady in his hand, "and I swear I'll carve it into a goddamn canoe."
Burgess turned to him, brow raised. "Ah. Professor Ashford. Or should I say… Nosferatu?" Ryan didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened. "You've caused quite a stir, haven't you? A tragic former assassin clinging to whatever scraps of humanity he can cobble together. It's charming, in its way."
He raised his chin. "But let's not pretend. I know what you are. And I assure you—whatever gifts you've inherited, you are hopelessly outmatched."
Serfence stepped forward, wand pulsing with a sickly green glow. "Big words, Lamar," he said coolly, "for a man who's outnumbered and out of time."
He spun his staff in a lazy arc, then stilled it, pointed directly at Burgess's heart.
"So, as my colleague rather bluntly suggested—drop the wand," he ordered. "Or I'll remind you precisely what the Tower trained me to do. And believe me... I've never needed more than one spell to finish the job."
"Just one thing," Ryan cut in, drawing their attention as he tilted his head toward the stairway. "Where the hell do you think you're going? The Headmaster's office?" He gave a sardonic smirk. "Hate to break it to you, but the Big B ain't in. And the place? Locked tighter than a nun's ass on judgment day."
Burgess arched a brow at the remark, then let out a low chuckle. "He doesn't know… does he?"
The subtle shift in Serfence and Workner's expressions said enough.
"Oh, by the Gods," Burgess laughed, bitter and amused all at once. "They've kept you in the dark, haven't they? You're either woefully uninformed… or simply not trusted enough to be in their little inner circle. Judging by how insufferable you are, I'd wager the former."
Ryan glanced between them. "Alright, someone wanna clue me in what the hell he's talking about?"
Serfence exhaled sharply, eyes still fixed on Burgess. "Inside the Headmaster's office… there's an artifact. A failsafe, of sorts."
"It grants its wielder control over all of Excalibur Castle," Workner added, his tone grim. "In the entire history of the Academy, it's only ever been used once."
"Hold up—you're telling me there's a goddamned doomsday switch built into this place?" Ryan's brow creased in disbelief. "Oh, that's just beautiful. So why the hell hasn't Big B pulled the trigger already? Could've saved us the whole damn nightmare."
Serfence's gaze darkened. "Because it doesn't discriminate. It obliterates anything it perceives as a threat—be it intruders… or the city itself."
Ryan's face dropped. "Jesus Christ… it'd wipe out all of Caerleon."
Burgess gave a mock-applaud. "Bravo. Very good, Professor Ashford. Not many know of it, but Blaise always was too trusting. He should've kept his mouth shut."
Workner dropped into a low stance, grip tightening around the haft of his weapon. "You'll be dead long before you set foot in that office, Burgess."
Burgess let out a breathless chuckle as he slowly slid his wand back into his coat. "Well then… I was saving this for Windsor, but I suppose I've restrained myself long enough." His gaze shifted to Serfence and lingered. Long enough for the warning to register in the man's eyes. "Shall we have this dance, Edward?"
He moved.
Burgess surged forward with blistering speed—faster than a man of his age should have been capable of. Workner barely reacted. Ryan's pistol began to lift, but it was already too late.
The Director's hand reached back, seizing the rectangular case mounted to his back. With a sharp grind of internal gears, the case unfolded mid-motion, metal plates clicking and rotating in rapid succession. Serfence fired off a barrage of spells. Sparks ignited the corridor as Burgess twirled the half-unfurled weapon in a smooth arc, intercepting the attacks. The case lengthened into a staff. Sleek, five feet long—and from one end, a curved blade snapped outward like the talon of a hawk.
Serfence grit his teeth and swung his own staff—but the blow never landed.
With a shriek of steel, Burgess's weapon cleaved clean through the enchanted wood, slicing Serfence's staff in two. The sapphire core clattered against the stone, the gold casing spinning across the floor. Burgess drove the butt of his staff into Serfence's stomach with brutal force, doubling him over with a choked gasp. Before he could collapse, Burgess seized the back of his head and slammed his face into the stone railing of the staircase.
"Edward!" Workner roared, charging in.
The two collided in a crash of steel and fury. Blades scraped. Sparks flew. Workner's weapon came down hard, but Burgess parried cleanly and countered with a kick that knocked the breath from Workner's chest. Another spin, another strike. This time to the ribs, sent him sprawling onto the ground.
Ryan raised his pistol and fired. The shots rang through the corridor. Each one deflected in a burst of light and ringing metal as Burgess spun his weapon like a shield. Empty shells hit the carpet. Ryan slammed a fresh magazine into place and resumed firing, but not a single round pierced Burgess's guard.
The hallway fell silent save for their labored breathing. Serfence struggled to rise, blood dripping from his broken nose. Workner lay groaning, arm cradled to his side. Ryan stood frozen, pistol trained, mind racing.
Then the weapon in Burgess's hands shifted once more.
The blade curled forward, lengthening, the entire construct unfolding like a dark flower. Luminous circuits traced along the inner curve, glowing with a ghostly pulse. What remained in his grasp was no longer a mere blade—but a scythe.
A relic of execution.
Burgess stood tall, his silhouette framed by the gleaming crescent edge.
"Now lads, allow me to remind you," he said, "why they once called me Grim Reaper Burgess."