"What in the San Diego Comic Con, mecha-transforming, anime-ass, shut-in weeb bullshit am I looking at?" Ryan muttered, jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at the monstrous weapon clutched in Burgess' hand.
It stood nearly five feet tall, its curved blade alone stretching four. Another jagged edge jutted downward from the hilt, giving it a twin-fanged design. The whole thing looked forged from segmented plates. Mechanical parts that had twisted and clicked together like some hellish puzzle box. Pulses of eerie lavender light throbbed through circuits etched along the metal, veins of power running from the blade to the grip. And despite its massive size, Burgess had wielded it with the speed and precision of a duelist half his age.
Serfence staggered upright, his fingers crunching his nose back into place with a sharp snap. Beside him, Workner rose, tightening his grip on his weapon, the pain in his gut ignored. The three men squared off against the old warhound, whose scythe hummed with power, ready to taste blood again.
"And so, he reveals his true form," Serfence said coldly, wand clenched in a white-knuckled grip. "The Reaper of the Reeds. The Butcher of Clydesdale. I'll admit, the stories don't do you justice."
"Ah, the old monikers," Burgess chuckled, eyes gleaming with grim nostalgia. "I confess, they do give me a warm, fuzzy feeling. Rather like slipping on an old coat."
"I doubt the families you left behind share that sentiment," Serfence snapped. "You were always a blade without a sheath. But the higher-ups pardoned every stain you left on the map because you were useful. The world was always teetering on the edge of war, and they needed a monster to keep it from tipping." His gaze darkened. "And they chose you."
"Not all that different from your line of work, Serfence," Burgess said. "So, let's not pretend. You played Executioner just as I did."
"I never took pleasure in it," Serfence replied icily. "You did."
"You were always a bloodthirsty bastard," Workner cut in, eyes burning. "You didn't crave control. You craved permission. Permission to hurt people. It was never about the Director's seat. It was the power. The immunity. You wanted to be worshipped for doing the unthinkable."
Burgess rolled his shoulders in a lazy shrug. "And what of it? There's no use denying it now, is there? You're right, Professor Workner. See, I was a weak boy once. Constantly beaten half to death by a drunkard of a father trying to prove he was a man. Spat on by boys bigger than me, kicked in the gut because they could. I grew up under a boot."
He took a step forward. "But every bruise, every broken rib, taught me one truth. The world doesn't care about justice. It doesn't care about nobility. It cares about who wins. Who holds the blade. And what makes you right in this world. What makes people listen, is power."
"And as Director of the Clock Tower, I was power. Which made me right."
He began to pace slowly, each word a dagger. "The rebellious towns? The little uprisings? The radicals screaming for freedom? They were never heroes. Not to the Council. Not to the Tower. They were obstacles. Irritants, inconveniences to be cleared away. And I did that. I erased them. With precision. With pride."
"You're one sick puppy," Ryan muttered, his finger coiled tighter on the trigger.
Burgess turned, locking eyes with him. "No, Professor Ashford. I am a rational man, and an ambitious one at that. The day I beat my detestable father to death with his own club was the day I decided… no one would ever have that kind of power over me again."
He grinned, eyes wild. "And not you. Not the Regent. Not the Council. No one will take that from me."
A beat of silence passed before Ryan let out a low, mirthless chuckle.
"Wow," he muttered, shaking his head. "Absolutely, freakin' wow. Thousands of miles from home, stuck in the ass crack of another goddamned world, and here you are. Just another power-drunk sack of shit spouting the same tired villain spiel."
His eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. "Hate to break it to you, old man, but you're the same brand of cockroach I've been squashing my whole life. Ugly, evil, belly to the ground piece of crap, and the only difference between them and you, is the size of your ego."
"As nauseating as it is to admit," Serfence said, lowering himself into a stance, his wand humming at the ready, "the man took the words right out of my mouth."
"Let's end this, Burgess," Workner added, gripping his weapon tight.
Burgess exhaled, his grip tightening around the haft of his scythe. A grim smile curled on his face.
"Very well then," he said. "Come and show this old relic whether he's still worth fearing."
****
The black, metallic battering ram slammed against the hospital wing's doors, jarring the entire frame. Six Norsefire guards strained under its weight, pulling back before charging again. Each blow buckled the barricade—beds, shelves, and whatever else the staff had managed to pile behind it. Inside, wands were drawn, hands trembling. The healers, doctors, nurses, medics, stood firm, but fear clung to the air. They weren't soldiers. They knew it. The guards knew it too.
A cry came from outside as the men braced to strike once more.
But before they could, the door detonated outward in a violent burst of magic. A concussive blast of splinters, twisted metal, and raw force sent the guards flying, bodies tumbling across the corridor floor. As the dust swirled and settled, a single figure emerged from the smoke.
She stepped over the threshold with poise.
Golden silk billowed at her ankles. Her saree glowing faintly in the crystal-lit corridor. Olive skin shimmered beneath the flicker of wardlight, her wrists stacked with gold bangles, her eyes sharp behind a pair of delicate glasses she pushed up with a steady hand.
Dr. Adani's wand hung at her side, but her voice cut through the stunned silence.
"As a doctor, I have sworn an oath to do no harm," she said. "Violence, I've always believed, is the language of the uncivilized."
She exhaled, slowly, as though disappointed rather than enraged.
"But as I have been reminded, time and time again, the world of savages does not speak in reason... only force."
With a flick of her wand, the shattered doors behind her pulled themselves back together—wood reversing its explosion, steel realigning, latches snapping shut with a loud, definitive click.
She raised her wand. Her gaze was cold, unwavering.
"My patients are under my protection. And if you take even one more step forward…" Her words lowered, calm as death. "I promise you. Your next bed will not be in my ward but on a slab in the morgue."
One of the guards sneered, lowering his wand just enough to sneer at her figure in gold.
"Well, ain't this a sight. A Sammy playing doctor." He spat at the ground. "I heard Excalibur was diverse, but I'll be damned."
Adani raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Sammy? Maa lo." She clicked her tongue and shook her head. "How charmingly outdated. As uncouth as you are, I expected at least a passing awareness of the century I come from. No one from my country uses that word anymore—no one with a shred of dignity, at least."
Her voice cooled, sharp as a scalpel. "But I'm not here to give you a lesson in linguistics… only in manners."
"Heh, do your worst, you sam—"
He never finished.
A blast of golden magic erupted from Adani's wand and struck him square in the chest. He went sailing several feet through the air, slamming into the far wall behind him with a sickening thud, crumpling to the floor in a coughing heap.
The other guards shouted and scrambled, wands flying up as spells cracked through the air like lightning.
Adani's wand traced elegant arcs through the air, each movement precise, economical. Shielding charms bloomed and vanished in perfect rhythm, ripostes striking with surgical timing. Her movements bore the poise of a dancer, but her precision was that of a healer turned duelist.
The corridor became chaos.
Spells ripped past her robes, lighting the stone in bursts of color. But Adani remained centered—poised. One guard was hurled against a pillar, another dropped to the ground clutching his side. A third dove behind cover, only to be dragged out by a well-aimed Accio and flung unconscious against the wall.
"Protego." A shimmering shield encased her, deflecting a barrage of hexes as she stepped forward.
She dropped the shield with a breath and flicked her wand. "Stupefy."
The spell struck the final guard square in the face, sending him spinning midair before crashing to the floor in a heap of limbs and groans.
One of the guards, in a last act of defiance, hurled a spear with all his might. Adani turned just in time to see it slicing through the air toward her, but before she could react, a sharp crescent of silver-blue magic flew past her shoulder, meeting the spear mid-flight. The weapon shattered with a sharp crack, splinters clattering against the far walls.
Adani turned toward the source of the spell.
Striding toward her was a man immaculately dressed in a crisp white shirt, a black waistcoat tailored to perfection, and pressed slacks. Duelist gloves covered his hands, and his well-groomed mustache caught the crystal light as he styled its edge with an absent flick of his fingers.
"Mind if I cut in, Doctor Adani?" he asked, unmistakably amused.
Adani allowed herself a smile. "Always a pleasure, Mister Buffer," she said, stepping aside as Anton raised his wand with practiced ease.
"I take it you've cleared your share?" she asked, nodding toward the corridor behind him.
"Took some coaxing," Anton replied coolly. "But the rats have been driven from the back courtyard. I've left the mop-up to the Prefects. I suspect they're quite enjoying themselves."
Adani arched a brow. "And here I thought you were still settling in. Barely a few months on the job and already outshining Creedy. That man would be cowering under his desk by now."
Anton gave a modest shrug, adjusting his gloves. "One does try."
His wand pulsed with faint light as he turned his eyes toward the corridor ahead. "Shall we? Best not keep the vermin waiting."
Adani's smirk returned. "After you."
****
The landing exploded into a cacophony of steel and fury.
Burgess moved with unnerving speed, his scythe a blur of gleaming metal and murderous intent. For a man of his years, he fought with a vigor that defied logic, his every step precise, every swing ruthless. The massive weapon twirled and slashed through the air, carving arcs of silver against the crystal lit stone.
Workner met him head-on, teeth clenched as their weapons collided. Sparks flew from the point of impact, and the professor grunted as Burgess turned aside each strike with effortless control and a maddening smirk. With a sudden twist, the scythe smashed against Workner's guard, sending him sliding backward across the floor. He landed in a crouch, adjusting his grip.
With a snap, he yanked back a lever on his weapon. A chamber hissed open at the pick-axe's neck, energy humming to life. Then with a roar, he leapt, bringing the weapon down in a powerful arc.
Burgess narrowly stepped aside. The weapon struck stone with a deafening crack—a fiery explosion bursting outward. The landing shook as cracks fissured through the blackened marble beneath them.
Before the smoke could settle, Serfence unleashed a barrage of spells. Blades of light and magical force hurled toward Burgess—only to be cut from the air by the spinning arc of his scythe. Ryan's bullets followed, ringing off the weapon in sharp flashes, each one deflected mid-spin with uncanny precision.
Then Burgess surged forward.
He charged Serfence like a battering ram, dissipating another spell with a sweep of his blade. As he closed the gap, the scythe split down the middle—its twin halves curling into a pair of short, curved blades, each glowing with eerie light.
Serfence raised a barrier just in time. Steel shrieked against the shield's surface, throwing a glare of sparks as Burgess struck once—then again. The second strike came low, the inverted blade carving upward to shatter the barrier's base. The moment it broke, Burgess slammed the haft of his scythe into Serfence's chest.
The impact lifted him off his feet, hurling him back into the balustrade. His spine cracked against the stone. The wind knocked from his lungs. Burgess stepped in close, pressing the blunt end of the blade against Serfence's throat, forcing his weight forward, inch by inch, until the tip of the scythe hovered above the abyss below.
"You know," Burgess drawled, "for a man who's spent his entire career scoffing at 'primitive weaponry'—you're doing a piss-poor job defending against it."
He angled his head toward Workner and Ryan, who had halted mid-charge. The blade of his second scythe rose lazily in their direction.
"Ah-ah. Manners, gentlemen," he said silkily. "Serfence and I are talking."
He turned back to the man beneath his blade. Serfence glared up at him, breath ragged, fury simmering behind narrowed eyes.
"I've heard your speeches," Burgess went on with cruel amusement. "All that high-minded drivel back at the Tower. Magic is elegant. Blades are barbaric. Steel is for brutes. You've always had a flair for superiority, Edward."
He leaned in closer, the metal at Serfence's throat humming with arcane light.
"But as they say…" He smirked. "Snobbery is often the first step to a very long fall."
"Quite," Serfence muttered, casting a glance over his shoulder at the drop behind him before turning back, a thin, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "But do you truly believe I'd run my mouth without the teeth to match?"
His gaze sharpened, the smirk fading.
"I'm not you, Burgess. I'm not a gust of pompous wind dressed up in flair and theatrics. When I speak—my words carry weight. And as always…"
A low hum began to build, the glow at the tip of his wand swelling brighter by the second.
"…you've yet to learn when to shut your bloody mouth."
A flash erupted from the wand—point-blank.
The blast sent Burgess reeling, his boots scraping across stone as he stumbled backward. Serfence didn't hesitate. He swept his wand across his arm, casting Protego Totalum—a round shield of shimmering light forming over his forearm. He advanced, wand poised, expression cold.
Burgess roared and lunged, his scythe crashing down. Steel clanged against arcane energy as Serfence braced the shield and countered with precise bursts of magic, each spell slamming against Burgess's guard. Sparks and light lit the air between them.
Workner joined the fray from the left, his weapon arcing down in brutal strikes. Burgess parried both men, scythe dancing between them in a deadly blur. The landing became a tempest of clashing magic and steel.
"Tiny Tim, now," Ryan barked.
A series of blue holographic interfaces flared to life in front of him.
"The MP5K, sir," a calm, cybernetic voice replied.
Ryan reached into the conjured space, pulled free a compact submachine gun, cocked it once—and opened fire.
The muzzle flashed as he sprinted forward, shell casings bouncing and skittering across the stone. Burgess twisted, spinning his scythe like a cyclone. Each round was batted aside midair or ricocheted harmlessly off the curved blade.
Snarling, Burgess growled between clenched teeth and slammed the twin halves of his scythe together, reforging it in one swift motion. He spun in place, sweeping the weapon in a vicious horizontal arc.
Ryan dove low, dropping to his knees and sliding across the polished floor. The blade passed inches above his head, parting the air with a whistle. Tilting his head back, he locked eyes with the old man and grinned.
"Too slow, grandpa."
He spun back onto his feet in one fluid motion, ejected the spent mag, slammed in a fresh one, and opened fire again—brass flying, barrel glowing, his boots pounding across the stone as he rejoined the chaos.
Burgess pressed the assault, scythe spinning in wide, brutal arcs, but the momentum began to wane. Serfence, Workner, and Ryan moved like a pack. Coordinated, relentless. Every swing was met with steel, spell, or gunfire, forcing the old man to retreat with growing irritation.
Serfence broke from the circle, his shield finally dissipating in a flicker of light. Electricity began to arc from the tip of his wand as he traced a sharp motion through the air. Lightning crackled at his fingertips, coiling down his arm like a living serpent before he thrust it forward.
"Tonitrus!" he roared.
The bolt exploded from his wand, white-hot and searing.
But Burgess leveled his scythe with a fluid motion, and the lightning surged straight into the weapon's curved blade. The energy crawled down the shaft, the circuitry within pulsing brighter with every second.
His eyes narrowed—pinpricks of icy menace.
And then he charged.
The scythe carved through the air, a blur of steel and voltage, aimed straight at Serfence.
The world seemed to slow.
Serfence barely had time to react. Just wide eyes and a tightening grip, before Ryan dove in from the side and slammed into him, knocking him to the floor.
The blade struck an instant later, cleaving Ryan's gun in half mid-swing. The weapon split with a hiss, glowing at the edges as if sliced by molten steel. Sparks spat as the halves clattered to the ground.
Before Ryan could recover, Burgess spun and drove a boot into his chest.
The impact was thunderous.
Ryan's eyes flew wide, the breath torn from his lungs. The kick launched him backward, up and out—straight through a nearby stained-glass window. The frame shattered in a burst of light and shards, and Ryan vanished in a shower of broken glass.
"Ashford!" both Serfence and Workner cried out.
Burgess straightened slowly, letting out a breath as he rested the scythe on his shoulder. He turned to face them. Lips curled into a satisfied grin.
"By the Gods," he exhaled. "I've been meaning to do that since the moment he opened his wretched mouth. Honestly, another second of that insufferable prattle and I'd have put myself through the window."
His smirk widened.
"Now then," he said, tone dark and playful, "where were we?"
Serfence was already back on his feet, wand sweeping into motion, eyes burning with fury. Workner growled and hurled his weapon like a spear, the chain snapping taut with a sharp whirr.
Burgess spun his scythe, catching the cable mid-air with an elegant deflection.
"Come on, then!" he bellowed. "Let's make this worth the trouble!"
****
A strangled cry tore from Ryan's throat as he plummeted through open air, the world spinning violently below. The wind screamed past his ears, a deafening rush, and the city sprawled beneath him like a model—distant, delicate, and rapidly approaching. The golden light of the late afternoon sun painted the sky behind him, warm against his skin, absurdly peaceful for a man about to die.
A flock of startled birds scattered past him in a flurry of feathers and angry squawks.
"I'm goanna die! We're goanna die!" Ryan yelled, limbs flailing, eyes wild. "I'm goanna throw up and then I'm goanna dieeee!"
His face tipped downward, staring straight into the onrushing earth. The wind battered him like a fist.
"It appears that you're falling, sir," chimed a calm, cybernetic voice in his ear.
"No shit!" he snapped. "Grappling Gun!"
A glowing blue interface snapped to life mid-air. Ryan reached through it, pulling out a compact firearm with a mounted hook. Twisting in freefall, he spotted a window on the side of the tower. Still a good hundred feet up—and aimed.
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon—" he muttered.
He fired.
The gun bucked in his hand as the grappling hook launched, the steel cable unspooling in a high-pitched whirr. The hook struck home with a heavy clang, burying deep into stone. The wire snapped taut, jerking his body with whiplash force.
Ryan clung to the grip as his momentum swung him upward like a wrecking ball, arcing toward the nearest tower window.
"Oh, this is goanna hurt," he muttered through gritted teeth—right before he crashed through the glass in a shower of shards.
****
Adani and Anton stood shoulder to shoulder, chests heaving, their breaths ragged and shallow. The hallway was a war zone—charred walls cracked and cratered, stone scorched black, and blood smeared in erratic trails across the floor. Dozens of Norsefire guards lay strewn in piles, their armor dented, limbs twisted, bodies utterly still. And yet, more had come.
Another wave of them stood just ahead. Blades drawn, wands raised, clustered together in nervous silence. They didn't charge. Not yet. Hesitation clung to them like fog.
Adani's golden saree was torn and singed, her cracked glasses slipping down her nose as blood traced a line down from her lip. She pushed them back up with a calmness that didn't match the burn in her lungs. Beside her, Anton gripped his side, blood seeping through his waistcoat from a deep gash that ran across his ribs. His shirt, once white, was now soaked and clinging to him. He risked a glance at the bodies behind them, then to Adani, before focusing on the armed crowd still blocking their path.
They were both running on fumes, and there were still far too many left to fight.
"I must say, Adani," Anton said with a pained but wistful smile, "you've fought beautifully. But I fear this may be the end."
Adani nodded, steady despite the tremble in her fingers. "Then let it be known we fell with dignity... beside someone who refused to bend."
"You flatter me," Anton replied, gritting his teeth. He lifted his wand. "Alright then, come on, you yellow-bellied cowards! What's the holdup?"
One of the guards broke formation with a roar, blade raised high as he charged.
Wands snapped up.
Then—crash.
A thunderous explosion of shattering glass erupted between them. The guard barely had time to register the sound before something barreled through the broken window—a steel case slammed into him like a battering ram, knocking him clean off his feet. He hit the stone wall with a gut-wrenching crack, his body crumpling on impact.
Silence followed.
Dust choked the air. Shock froze every face. Then came the sound of groaning followed by shifting metal and slow movement.
"Back… arms… legs…" a voice muttered through the haze. "Oh God… everything hurts."
Out of the settling smoke stepped Ryan, dragging the case over his shoulder like it weighed a ton.
"When I get my hands on that son of a bitch, I'll—"
Ryan stopped mid-rant, eyes locking onto the group of Norsefire guards still blocking the corridor.
His jaw slackened. "You have got to be kidding me."
Then his expression twisted into something unhinged. Eyebrows drawn, nostrils flared, lips curled into a snarl.
"You know what, that's it. I've freaking had it!" he snapped. "I hate this place. I hate the food. I hate the weather. I hate bargain-bin Hitler and every last grown-ass adult playing magical Nazis!"
He stomped forward, glass and rubble crunching beneath his loafers. "Eff this job. Eff this world. Eff this whole damn castle!"
With a sharp motion, he moved his hands to his hip. A sapphire-blue screen flicked into existence in front of him and zipped backward, materializing a hulking rotary cannon into his grip. Metallic, brutal, and pulsing with mechanical life. The weight made him stagger, but he adjusted, teeth bared.
The guards stared, confused but visibly unnerved. None of them had ever seen such a weapon before—but instinct screamed danger.
"I wanna go home," Ryan growled, shoulders squared. "I want concrete. I want smog. I want the smell of piss and trash. I want subway rats the size of Chihuahuas. Overpriced hotdogs. The sound of gunshots and police sirens outside my window. I want homemade tortellini. And I want my New York Yankees."
The barrel began to spin with a rising whir.
"I wanna go home."
The spinning reached a shriek.
"I wanna go home!"
The hallway exploded in gunfire.
The thunder of bullets drowned everything else out. Stone cracked, walls lit up in sparks and blood, and the front line of guards were reduced to mangled, unrecognizable pulp in seconds. Flesh and steel collided in an avalanche of violence. Limbs flew. Armor shattered. Screams barely escaped before they were snuffed out in the onslaught.
Adani winced, hands over her ears, the roar of the cannon shaking the walls themselves.
Ryan just laughed—wild, manic, eyes dilated, breath ragged as he stepped through the carnage, gun blazing. Brass shells hitting the stone floor in a metallic rain. Smoke billowed behind him. The surviving guards broke ranks, turned, and ran, stumbling over the bodies of their fallen.
"Yeah, run! Run, you limp-dicked bastards!" Ryan bellowed over the roar. "Run as fast as you can!" He pressed forward, dragging the minigun behind him. "You can't escape me! I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
Ryan rounded the corner, laughing hysterically as the minigun roared to life once more. The hallway was drowned in the shriek of spinning steel and the wet crunch of bodies torn apart. Screams rose—then stopped. What followed was the splatter of shredded flesh against stone.
Anton stood frozen for a beat, eyes wide as the acrid smoke and copper tang of blood thickened the air.
"Well," he said, slowly straightening his posture, brushing the dust from his vest with trembling fingers. "I'm fairly certain that isn't how the rhyme was meant to go."
Adani shot him a flat, unimpressed look, sweat and soot streaking her face.
He blinked. "What?"
She shook her head and turned back toward the hospital wing. "Come along, Buffer. Let's get that stomach wound tended to before your insides stage a mutiny."
Anton gave one last glance to the blood-slick corridor, where Ryan's laughter still echoed through smoke and ruin, then sighed and limped after her.
****
The landing was a ruin. Cracked stone slabs littered the floor, deep gouges carved into scorched walls, and the acrid scent of magic still hung in the air. Workner lay slumped against a column, unconscious, blood streaking down from a gash on his forehead. His weapon, once formidable, now lay in broken shards beside him.
Serfence pushed himself up on trembling arms, blood soaking the front of his robes from a slash across his chest. He winced, but his eyes remained locked on the man still standing.
Lamar Burgess, battered and bloodied, yet impossibly steady, rested his humming scythe against his shoulder. Cuts and bruises marred his skin, but there was no falter in his stance. Only a maddening composure.
"I must commend you and Professor Workner," Burgess said, his tone almost cordial. "You fought admirably. A few more years, a bit more polish, and you might have won."
He set the blade's tip against the floor, using it like a walking staff.
Serfence narrowed his gaze. "That weapon. A bit theatrical, even for you. I imagine it's not the one you were trained with."
Burgess gave a chuckle. "A gift, if you can believe it. From our industrious friends at the Atlas Institute." His eyes drifted to the weapon with something bordering reverence. "The new Directors are unshackled by sentiment. Bold, visionary. The kind of minds Avalon needs if we're to usher in a new era."
"Of war, you mean." Serfence's lip curled. "I've seen what your so-called vision produces. Carnage. Corpses. Soldiers turned to ash in a blink. If that's progress, I'll pass."
Burgess leaned forward slightly. "That's your problem, Edward. You still believe the future can be built on good intentions and blind idealism. But the truth? The future has a cost. Power, influence, advancement—they demand sacrifice. Always have."
Serfence scoffed. "And somehow, it's never your blood that's spilled for it."
"Quite right." His smirk twisted wider, equal parts satisfaction and scorn. "It's the blood of foolish little boys, lining up to play soldier. Throwing themselves onto the gears, the wheels, the levers of the Clock Tower, never grasping the simple truth."
He gestured with a wave of his hand, eyes gleaming. "That this grand and beautiful machine we serve exists for one purpose alone: to keep the powerful in power, the rich in gold, and the scales precisely where they are. Balanced in our favor."
His head tilted slowly. "And you, Edward Serfence. The infamous Executioner of the Tower—you're no different. You danced. You killed. You bled for me. For my wars. My cause. You were but a mindless pawn in the palm of my hand, whether you realized it or not."
Serfence's expression hardened.
Burgess gripped his scythe with both hands and raised it.
"Besides, I told you earlier," he murmured, "I made you."
The blade hummed as he drew it back.
"And now—"
He surged forward.
"I break you."
Serfence clenched his teeth and turned away, bracing for the final blow.
But it never came.
A surge of magic tore through the air. Burgess recoiled mid-swing, the blade of his scythe slicing through a luminous arrow just before impact. Another followed. Then a third. He spun his weapon with controlled precision, parrying each one in sweeping arcs. The arrows shattered into fragments of radiant light, scattering across the stone floor.
His gaze snapped forward.
At the front of the staircase stood Bran and Rowena. Their bows drawn, notched with gleaming magical arrows. Their stances were unwavering. Their eyes locked on him.
Serfence blinked up in stunned disbelief.
"Lamar," Bran said.
"Uncle," Rowena echoed, her sapphire eyes sharp with loathing. The word hung bitter on her tongue.
A smirk curled on Burgess's face. "Well, well. I was beginning to wonder when the crows would come circling. It's been a while, hasn't it? Come to pay your dear uncle a visit?"
"You lost the right to that title the day you tried to have Laxus and me murdered," Bran growled, pulling his bowstring tighter.
"And don't get me started," Rowena added. "The things you did. The cities you burned. The people you killed. Caerleon. Dah'Tan. Grandfather..." Her voice faltered for only a moment. "He trusted you. You were his closest friend."
"Friend?" Burgess let out a barking laugh. "Don't be daft. He was never my friend. He and that lumbering ox Wilhelm were useful, nothing more. Blunt instruments. Shields. And like all tools, they served their purpose—until they didn't."
Their eyes widened, just for a breath.
"If Winston had stayed in his lane, Dah'Tan would still stand," Burgess continued. "But no—he had to outshine everyone. The Tower's little golden boy. Always the hero. Always adored. And like every gnat that's ever buzzed too loudly in my ear, he became a problem."
His eyes darkened.
"And I don't leave problems standing."
"You wretched cur!" Bran roared, his face twisted in fury. "He welcomed you into our home. You sat at our table, drank from our goblets. You danced at our festivals, played with our kin—"
"You gave us your blessing on our wedding day. You spent your summers under our roof. And this—" his hands trembled as his bow creaked under the tension, "this is what you truly thought of us? All this time?"
Rowena's breath hitched. Tears streaked down her cheeks. Fury etched in every line of her face. "We loved you," she said, her words cracking under the weight of betrayal. "We cherished you. And this is how you repay us? Me?"
But Lamar only smiled.
"Oh, my dear," he said, almost amused. "If you think you're the first to be fed to the fire for the sake of something greater, then you've learned nothing."
He rolled his shoulders and sighed. "Winston's mistake was letting me in. Your grandmother's mistake was believing I ever belonged there in the first place. If Winston was naïve, Brenna was the queen of fools. Avalon's own wide-eyed saint."
His words struck like ice. Even Serfence stiffened.
"She was blind to everything," Lamar went on, almost wistful. "It was laughable, really. Winston suspected, Roland loathed me—but neither had the spine to say it aloud while she was alive. Sweet Brenna, may the Gods rest her soul." He shook his head. "Far too kind. Far too soft."
Then his gaze shifted to Rowena.
"But if it's any comfort," he said, his tone softening with eerie sincerity, "I really did love you, in my own way. I saw brilliance in you—your wit, your will. You were meant for greater things, girl. Things your sentimental family could never give you."
His expression turned cold once more.
"But instead, you chose to play the little crow. Just another fool clinging to dead names and broken oaths." His tone lowered into a sneer. "As I told you weeks ago, a bloody waste."
With a sharp kick, Lamar sent the butt of his scythe flipping into the air. He caught it mid-spin and rested it against his shoulder with practiced ease.
"Now, as much as I'd love to indulge your little temper tantrums," he said, "I've a battle to finish… and a war to win."
The scythe pulsed with a low hum as he slashed it against the stone floor. The impact burst into a cloud of dust and shattered debris, filling the air with grit and smoke. Bran and Rowena turned away, shielding their faces—only to catch a glimpse of Lamar's silhouette as he bolted up the stairs.
"Get back here!" Bran shouted, loosing a volley of arrows. They struck the steps just behind Lamar's heels as he vanished into the upper levels.
Bran turned to chase, but paused, his eyes flicking back to Serfence.
"I'll be fine—after him!" Serfence barked, clutching his side, blood still seeping through his robes.
Bran nodded once, then sprinted up the stairs with Rowena close behind.
Left alone on the wreckage-strewn landing, Serfence let out a weary sigh, dragging himself to a half-seated position against the balustrade.
"What a bloody mess this has all turned out to be," he muttered, wiping blood from his brow.