Lamar tilted his head, a glint of amusement behind his eyes as he slowly paced, dragging the tip of his scythe along the floor with a shriek of steel on stone.
"I do recall," he began, "back in the day, when old Trench sent you on that little solo assignment to a village. What was it called? Ah, yes. Zennor." His lips curled. "Quiet little settlement on the fringe of Avalon. Supposed to be a joint operation with the Witch Hunters. Under direct orders from the Wizarding Council. I, unfortunately, was on another assignment at the time."
Winston's arms tightened around Rowena as his expression darkened, saying nothing.
"But you assumed, naively, as usual, that the Hunters were there to apprehend the locals." Lamar gave a derisive snort. "Imagine your surprise when you realized the orders were for extermination. Genocide. Wipe them out to the last child."
He rested his scythe, the bottom blade cracking against the stone as he leaned on the haft like a walking stick, then slicked a hand through his damp hair.
"Matthew Hopkins," he said, eyes glittering with cruel nostalgia. "Savage bastard. A feral hound with a badge. But efficient, I'll give him that. He led the purge himself. The screams must've echoed for miles."
Lamar sighed, almost wistfully. "They succeeded. For the most part. But here's the catch. None of them made it out. Not a single Witch Hunter. Every last one, slaughtered."
He glanced toward Winston. "And Hopkins? Crucified. Hands and feet pinned with iron. Then the Cruciatus Curse. Over, and over, and over—until his poor heart gave out. Bloke must have died screaming."
He clicked his tongue. "Tragic. And naturally, the Council blamed the witches. Merely unfortunate casualties in their little crusade." A pause. His gaze sharpened. "But that's not the truth, is it?" Lamar asked. "I remember the day you returned. Hollow. Silent. Like a man whose soul had cracked in half."
He took a step forward. "The guilt. The weight. You looked like someone who had unleashed hell… not just witnessed it."
Then, slowly, he smiled.
"You did it, didn't you? Killed them. All of them. And Hopkins…" he chuckled, shaking his head. "By the Gods, you made sure he suffered."
Winston's gaze dropped to Rowena in his arms. His jaw clenched, but he couldn't meet Lamar's eyes.
"Oh, but there's more to it, isn't there?" Lamar's smirk deepened. "You told me, that day you brought Rowena home, that she was nothing more than an orphan you'd stumbled across. Tragic, yes, but ordinary. Dead parents, peasants, nothing of note." He tilted his head, gaze narrowing. "Yet again, another of your pretty little lies. Because the great Winston Ravenclaw didn't return from Zennor empty-handed."
He leaned back slightly. "No, you returned with that little girl, trembling and frightened, caked in blood and soot. You fed her, clothed her. Gave her a warn place to sleep. A place she can feel safe and loved while, Roland, ever the dutiful son, bestowed upon her the Ravenclaw name and claimed her as his own."
He paused, savoring the shift in Winston's expression. "A Witch of Zennor. A descendent of Hecate herself. Wielder of the Mystic Eyes."
Lamar's face twisted with cruel realization. "And all this time, that power was right under my nose." His words dropped to a murmur. "Perhaps there's still a use for her after all."
"Don't you dare," Winston snapped, seething with fury. "You'll never lay a finger on her. Not you. Not the bloody Council. I swear to the Gods, Lamar. We'll raze Avalon to the ground before we let her fall into your hands!"
"Winston, Winston, Winston... what makes you believe you have a choice?" Lamar simply smiled. Cold. Amused. "You see, once I've ended you and your pathetic little brood, she'll serve as my blade," he said. "I'll collar her like a prized hound, train her to heel. And with her eyes, her blood… I'll finally bring that blasted Council to its knees."
"Lamar…" Winston shook with restrained rage.
"It's a kinder fate than what's waiting," Lamar sneered. "You think the Council will let this slide? You've harbored a cursed child. Marked for death since the day she drew breath. The moment word gets out, they'll come for her, and this time, there'll be no escape. Not for her. Not for any of you."
"Ironic, really," Lamar mused, stepping forward. The bladed butt of his scythe scraped against the stone, leaving a deep, jagged line in his wake. "You travelled all this way to stop me, and yet here you are… delivering the finest gift I could have ever hoped for. Perhaps Yuletide has come early after all." His grin twisted into something darker, deranged.
Winston lowered his gaze to Rowena, then to Bran. His breath trembled as he cradled her gently, pressing his brow to hers for a brief moment. Silence. Then, he straightened. Slowly, carefully, he laid her down beside her brother and rose to his feet.
"Then I suppose there's nothing more to be said between us, Lamar," Winston murmured. "Rowena is my granddaughter." He moved between them and the man before him. His eyes, once warm with pain, now steeled with purpose. "She may not carry my blood but from the moment I carried her through that door, she has been Ravenclaw. In name, in spirit, in every sense that matters."
His grip tightened around the bow, his stance unwavering. "And for her… I would give everything." He paused. "Even my life."
The sun had long dipped beneath the horizon. Dusk's final embers had faded, giving way to the full shroud of night over Caerleon. Within the clock tower, the crystal sconces flared brighter, their flame-lit glow casting deep, shifting shadows across the stone floor. Gears turned overhead. The great pendulum ticked and tocked like a distant heartbeat.
Winston raised his bow. An arrow shimmered into existence, sapphire-blue and burning with purpose. Across from him, Lamar adjusted his stance, scythe resting on his shoulder, his eyes locked on Winston's. Neither spoke. The only sound was the ticking and the soft crackle of magical light.
****
The clock tower rang with the deafening clash of steel, each strike echoing off the vaulted walls as Winston and Lamar tore into one another. Two old warriors, every movement steeped in decades of skill and bitter history. Winston's bow swung like a heavy club, meeting the whirling arcs of Lamar's twin scythes in bursts of ringing steel. Their footwork was fast, each step shattering the flagstones beneath them. With every blow, the air pulsed, the stained glass of the clock face trembling in its frame.
Lamar snarled, bringing his scythe down in a vicious sweep. Winston caught the strike, twisted, and in the same motion drew an arrow, the shaft splitting into three with a shimmer of magic before he loosed them.
Lamar slipped back, one arrow skimming past his cheek while the other two curved sharply in pursuit. His blades flashed, cutting them from the air in bursts of light. His gaze snapped back just as Winston drew again—this time the arrow was shaped like a spinning drill of sapphire energy.
"Plutonia!" Winston's voice rang out as he fired.
The arrow tore forward in a streak of magic. Lamar's scythe ignited with power, cutting a crescent wave into the air. The two forces collided in a blinding flare, the explosion filling the chamber with fire and smoke. Through the haze, Winston burst forth, circling fast before lunging in. His bow, glowing with the same sapphire light, swung for Lamar's side.
Steel screamed as scythe met bow again and again in a flurry of blows. Lamar twisted, his blade slicing across Winston's arm, tearing through suit and flesh in a line of red. Winston flinched but didn't falter—he dropped low, drew from the hip, and fired. The arrow slipped past Lamar's guard, burying itself in his shoulder.
Lamar's snarl turned to a cry of pain, the curse on his tongue breaking as Winston drove forward, the edge of his bow slamming into Lamar's gut. The impact doubled him over, blood spilling between his clenched teeth as he staggered back, his footing faltering on the fractured stone.
A low, unnerving chuckle rumbled from Lamar as he straightened, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. "Just like old times, eh?" His smirk was slow. "Though I must admit, the years have dulled your fangs… as they have mine." He shook his head, almost wistful. "A pity, really."
Winston's breath was heavy, sweat streaking his face, but his gaze remained iron.
"So then… what now, old friend?" Lamar twirled his scythes in a lazy flourish before dropping into a stance. "Two grey-haired relics, locked in one last scrap until one of us finally drops?"
A faint smirk tugged at Winston's mouth as he lifted his bow. "Or you could surrender."
Lamar scoffed. "Still with the bloody quips." His smile turned razor-sharp. "Another reason I've always despised you!" He lunged, scythes flashing in vicious arcs.
Winston loosed a rapid volley, the air whistling as the sapphire-lit arrows flew. Lamar batted them aside in quick succession, blades ringing with each strike. They closed the gap, bow meeting steel, the impacts sending shockwaves through the fractured stone beneath them.
Winston broke away, drew back, and fired again. This time, the arrow burst mid-flight, splitting into a storm of a dozen spectral shafts. Lamar snapped his scythes together, the single great blade whirling into a blur as he swept them into splinters. The force of his counter scattered the rest in a rain of magical sparks before he split the weapon again, a wolfish grin on his face.
"You can't beat me, Winston. I know every one of your precious little tricks."
"Not quite." Winston said as he raised his right hand.
Lamar's eyes flicked up—just in time to see multiple sapphire circles bloom in the air above him, each bristling with an ethereal arrow like a loaded ballista. His gaze snapped back down, fury twisting his features.
"Lost… Lenore." Winston's fingers snapped.
The air split with a deafening crack as the arrows tore downward, striking the ground around Lamar in a hail of blinding explosions. The tower shook to its core, stone erupting in bursts of dust and debris. When the echoes faded, Winston lowered his arm, his chest heaving. Blood trickled from his brow; he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve without taking his eyes off the haze.
A sweep of Lamar's massive scythe cut through the haze, scattering the dust in a sharp gust. Blood streaked down from his brow, tracing a crimson line past his cheek and the corner of his mouth. His uniform hung in tatters, smoke curling from the slashes carved into his flesh. He cracked his neck with a slow roll.
"Alright… I'll give you that one," Lamar said. "That was new. Still full of surprises after all these years."
"I've kept some cards close to my chest, Lamar," Winston replied, bow still in hand. "Techniques of Nevermore I chose not to use. Not out of secrecy, but because of their cruelty. Their… destructive nature."
Lamar chuckled, shaking his head. "Ever the soft-hearted fool. No wonder they called you the Peacemaker." His gaze narrowed. "Even back when we were Aurors, you'd never raise your hand unless you'd exhausted every option. Always the arbitrator, always the diplomat. The Tower saw you as their finest negotiator." He sneered. "I always saw you as a coward."
Winston exhaled slowly, shoulders lifting in a faint shrug. "We were always two sides of the same coin, Lamar. I preferred a measured hand. You favored absolutes. Which is why they called me the Peacemaker… and you the Grim Reaper. Trench saw us as two tools in the same box—one a scalpel, the other a hammer. One for precision… the other for blunt destruction."
His words hardened. "The world was dark and cruel when we served, I won't deny it. But even then, I refused to let it strip away my belief in people. That's not cowardice. It's resolve. If we can't expect better from the world, what hope does it have?"
"And there it is…" Lamar gestured lazily with his scythe. "More sanctimonious rambling from a halfwit who still refuses to see the world for what it truly is."
Winston's gaze dipped for a moment before lifting to meet Lamar's. "Better a naïve fool than a bitter cynic, Lamar." His tone was steady, his eyes unwavering. "You've carried that grudge for decades… yet, for what it's worth, even now, I've forgiven you, for what you did to me, to my family… to Brenna."
Lamar's smirk faltered, the glint in his eye dimming.
"I suppose I should thank you," Winston continued. "Retirement gave me time to see things as they truly are. I won't deny your betrayal cut deep. At first, I was livid. But away from the Tower, I found purpose in simpler things. I spent my days with my family. With Brenna, until the very end." A faint, warm smile brushed his face.
"And you?" Winston's head tilted slightly. "You paraded about as though you'd triumphed over your great, long-despised rival. But was it truly victory? You built titles, power, influence. Yet you've clung to the same festering hatred, let it define you. You've lived in fear of the day the truth crept out, haunted by it," he said. "Admit it, you've not known a moment's peace since the day you took that chair."
Lamar's expression darkened, his grip tightening on the scythe.
"So, tell me, old friend…" Winston leaned in, "who's the real fool?"
Lamar's lips curled into a faint, poisonous smile. "The fool, Winston… is the one who still clings to the fantasy that forgiveness holds any worth in this world."
He spun his scythe in a slow arc, the steel whispering through the air. "You forgave me?" His words dipped into a scoff. "Let's see if those noble sentiments still pour from your mouth once I've torn the still-beating heart from your precious grandson's chest."
With a sudden roar, Lamar surged forward, the stone beneath his boots shattering under the force of his lunge. The scythe swept into motion, a flash of black steel cutting through the fiery light of the tower.
Winston lifted his bow in an instant, the string drawn taut, the arrow almost loosed.
And then the air itself split apart.
A roar overhead. Fire. Smoke. The ceiling above cracked with a swirl of ash as two figures wisped into existence, wreathed in flame and embers.
"BUR-GESS!"
Their voices were war cries. Raw, furious, seething with vengeance.
Lamar's eyes snapped upward just in time to raise his scythe. Steel met steel with a thunderous clang as two blades crashed against the hilt, sending a shockwave through the tower. Sparks flew. The stone beneath Lamar cracked and buckled.
Gritting his teeth, he glared up at the two young men pressing down on him with the weight of their fury.
"Valerian," he spat, then turned his glare. "Gryffindor!"
With a furious heave, Lamar threw them both back. They flipped mid-air, landing smoothly, blades drawn.
"Today's the day, Burgess!" Godric snarled. "Today's the day you die!"
Asriel spun his massive claymore once, its obsidian surface flickering with molten embers. His dull amber eyes burned. "I told you long ago, Burgess... You'll never be rid of me. Not until your debt is paid." He leveled the blade. "And tonight, it comes due."
****
A soft chuckle slipped past Lamar's lips. Low at first, then building into a full, unhinged laugh. He threw his head back, covering his face with one gloved hand as if the sight before him was too absurd to bear.
"And so," he said, "the last of the cockroaches have finally crawled their way here." His gaze snapped to Asriel, sharp and venomous. "And the one I've been so very eager to meet. The boy who started it all."
"The feeling's mutual, Burgess," Asriel growled, every syllable trembling with fury. "Twelve years I've waited for this moment. To look into the eyes of the wretched bastard who took everything from me. The coward who believed himself untouchable. Above consequence, above justice."
His grip tightened around the hilt of his claymore, veins rising in his forearm. "I've dreamed of taking your head in more ways than I can count. I've tasted it in my sleep."
Lamar's attention turned to Godric. The younger man stood with both hands gripping his sword, the blade raised and steady, his body coiled with barely restrained wrath.
"And you, boy?" Lamar asked, tilting his head. "Do you believe I wronged you deeply enough to take my head as well?"
Godric bared his teeth. "That, and far more. For months, I've known nothing but hell. I've drowned in pain. I've hurt people who deserved it and people who didn't. All to smother the rage you lit inside me."
"And just when I thought I'd made peace with it. When I thought I'd clawed my way out, I learned the truth. That the monster sitting atop Avalon's golden throne. The man we were told embodied justice... was nothing more than a butcher wearing a judge's robe."
His knuckles turned white around his sword. "You're filth, Burgess. No, you're lower than filth. You twisted the law to serve your hate. And because of that, I lost the one person I loved more than life itself."
"I can't kill the Tower. I can't bleed stone, or shatter the iron that holds it together." Godric's breath trembled as it left him, ragged with rage barely kept in check. "But you… you're no fortress. You're just a man. Flesh, blood, and cowardice wrapped in stolen authority. And by Charlemagne's throne, when I'm finished with you… you'll be on your knees, begging for death to show mercy."
"Bold words, boy," Lamar said with a smirk, the amusement never reaching his eyes. "But tell me, have you ever truly killed a man?" He held up a finger. "No, don't answer. I already know the truth. A man who's taken a life doesn't speak of murder so feverishly. Real killers don't romanticize the act. They don't need to."
His eyes narrowed. "It's only the yapping of little boys, pretending to be warriors in alleyways, who bark threats to sound dangerous, when really, they're nothing but sniveling little cowards."
Godric's jaw clenched, face twisting in fury as he made to charge, but Asriel moved his arm across him, halting him with a glance.
"You don't understand it, do you?" Lamar went on. "The silence after the scream. The warmth of blood as it paints your skin. The moment the light fades from a man's eyes while your blade still rests in him. That's the truth of it. You don't just end his life. You erase everything. Past, present, future… gone."
He gave a slow, twisted sigh. "People speak of life as if it's sacred. Precious. Worth something." He waved a hand dismissively. "But to me? To my blade? They're little more than walking sacks of flesh and fear. Just another batch of vermin to cull. Refuse in need of a bin."
Then his eyes found Asriel. "Like that peck Keenah. And his blasted family."
Asriel's fists clenched, his face a mask of fury.
Lamar turned to Godric next. "Like your precious little mutt. What was her name again?" A pause. "Hmm. Doesn't matter."
"Bottom line is," Lamar said, lifting his scythe and resting it lazily against his shoulder, "Valerian was born of war. Death is but an old companion to him." His gaze shifted to Godric. "But you? You're just a boy. Wet behind the ears, green as moss on cliff stone, yet you talk to me of murder?" He scoffed. "You make grand vows to claim my head, as if your little tantrum carries the weight of law."
He dragged the heel of his boot against the stone. "I would laugh, truly. If it weren't so bloody insulting. You crossed this entire bloody city just to throw your life away, all because the law. My law—shattered your fragile little heart." He sneered. "You loved her?"
Then his expression curdled, his voice dropping into something venomous.
"Well, damn you. Damn you both to the foulest pits of hell!" he spat. "Once I'm done peeling the skin from your bones, I'll pay your precious pelt a visit in the Howling Mountains, and I'll do to her exactly what I had done to Valerian's little whore!"
The air changed in an instant.
Asriel's eyes shrank, his entire body tense with rage. Godric's crimson gaze locked on something just off to the side. A man. Older, kneeling, between two motionless bodies.
Godric's breath caught.
"Bran?" he muttered. Then he saw her. "Rowena…"
And something inside him snapped.
Golden light surged across his skin in glowing arcs, circuits of raw energy racing down his limbs. Lightning cracked the air, curling wildly around him as the atmosphere turned volatile. The sound of it built like a storm. Then, he vanished.
The ground exploded as Godric launched forward with such force it blasted Asriel sideways. The older boy had to brace, plunging his claymore into the floor just to hold his ground as wind and stone erupted around him.
A thunderous clang rang out.
Godric's blade struck Lamar's scythe with terrifying force, sending the older man sliding backward across the stone floor, boots carving deep grooves into the ground. For a moment, Lamar's eyes widened, not with fear, but stunned disbelief.
Godric stood tall, lightning wreathing his body like a living storm.
"You're a dead man, Burgess!" he roared. "I'll rip and tear you to bloody pieces. Even if it kills me, I won't stop until it's done!"
Lamar split his scythes with a snap, spinning each in his hands until they blurred into whirling crescents of steel. His grin widened, the madness in his eyes unmistakable. "Then what are you waiting for, boy?" he jeered. "If death is what you seek, then come and claim it!"
He lunged, the scythes a storm in his grip, carving the air in lethal arcs. Godric met him head-on, sword flashing in rapid succession, each clash ringing out in a shower of sparks. The trill of steel filled the tower, their movements too fast to follow. Godric's strikes fueled by unbridled fury, Lamar's driven by a perverse exhilaration.
Behind them, Asriel cast a glance over his shoulder toward Winston. "Keep them safe," he said, jerking his chin toward Rowena and Bran. "We'll finish this. You have my word."
"To that, I have no doubt," Winston replied firmly, before breaking away. Dropping to one knee beside his grandchildren, his bow flared in a burst of white light, dissolving into two ravens that took flight. When the glow faded, only his wand remained in his grasp. Its tip shimmered as he traced it over Bran's wound, the faint light spilling into torn flesh.
Asriel turned back to the fight, hefting his massive claymore. The blackened blade pulsed faintly with embers as he advanced, closing the distance on the two warriors locked in their savage duel.
Godric's blade swept upward in a brutal arc, the impact jarring through the chamber as Lamar crossed his twin scythes to catch the strike. The force drove him back a step, boots grinding against stone. His head snapped to the side just in time. Asriel came down from above, claymore raised high, bringing the weapon down in a single-handed swing that split the floor with a thunderous crack. Shards of stone burst outward from the impact, dust curling into the air.
For the briefest heartbeat, Asriel's burning amber eyes locked with Lamar's, black flames wreathing his frame in the same way lightning coiled like living veins around Godric.
Then they moved.
Godric and Asriel surged forward as one, coming at him from opposite sides. Lamar's snarl twisted into pure fury as steel met steel in a violent cascade of sparks. The tower rang with the clangor of their strikes, smoke curling around them in shifting clouds. Every blow was fast enough to leave ghosted afterimages—Godric's swordwork a relentless, cutting tempest, Asriel's claymore a crushing storm meant to break bone and steel alike.
But Lamar held. His scythes spun and clashed with unyielding force, his stance unbroken, teeth bared in defiance as he met them stroke for stroke, refusing to give an inch.
****
The castle had fallen into a strange, hollow quiet, broken only by the groans of the wounded, the ragged cries for aid, and the low whimpers of those begging for mercy. The crystal sconces burned brighter now against the dark sky beyond the windows, their warm glow casting long shadows across stone that was slick with blood.
Outside, Caerleon still burned in pockets, but it was plain to see which side's strength was waning. Norsefire's hold was broken—its remaining fighters either scattered, dead, or surrendering in droves. The few who still clung to their arms knew the truth: if the castle did not fall by sundown, all was lost.
Soon, the Tower's full force would arrive, and when it did, there would be no salvation for Burgess or his cause. His command had already shattered. Hartshorne had fallen silent, as had most of Norsefire's captains. Burgess himself gave no orders. By contrast, the Congregation's students, the Tower's soldiers, and the local militia had moved like a single, disciplined force under Frank's command. They had purged the streets with precision, cutting down the enemy while keeping the city's heart intact.
Inside the castle, the aftermath was worse. Guards lay strewn across the halls, crimson slicking the walls and pooling on the flagstones. Professors had held their ground, the Visionaries and their Clans carving through wave after wave until the last stragglers fell. The students were safe—hidden deep within their dorms under lock and ward.
Serfence limped down a corridor, his right arm hooked under Workner's shoulders, hauling the man toward the Hospital Wing. Pain flared with each step; every breath reminded him of the cracked ribs and fractures running like a map through his body. It wasn't unfamiliar. His years as an Executioner had been nothing but one brutal encounter after another, but even he knew he'd taken a beating this time.
Workner had fared no better. Blood streamed from a cut above his brow, soaking half his face. His glasses sat cracked and crooked, the remaining lens splintered with hairline fractures. Serfence didn't know much about dungeon delving, but he'd heard enough to know that surviving long enough to earn a White Whistle was no small feat. Yet even that skill had faltered against Lamar Burgess.
"I'm sorry, old friend," Workner rasped. "If only I were stronger."
"Save your breath," Serfence muttered. "And stop talking like it's the first time I've dragged your sorry carcass to the Hospital Wing. It won't be the last, either."
A faint chuckle escaped Workner. "You remember the last time?"
Serfence rolled his eyes. "Don't."
"We were all pissed drunk after term ended," Workner went on, ignoring him. "Fourth year. Creedy's birthday."
Serfence's face was somewhere between a grimace and a sigh.
"Creedy was playing pin-the-tail-on-the-Horntail—blindfold, spin, the whole lot," Workner continued. "Except we managed to stick it on the arse of one of the Scholomance lads. He… didn't take it well."
They rounded the corner toward the grand staircase, the muffled chaos of the battle now a distant hum.
"He started shouting, Creedy tried apologizing, which made it worse. Then Amelia stepped in… and the rest, as they say, is history."
Serfence exhaled. "By the Gods, Amelia. Love that woman with all my heart, but her temper could make a cave troll weep." He paused, his tone sharpening just slightly. "And for the record, it was a Hornback, not a Horntail."
Workner blinked, then burst into laughter. Only to wince and clutch his ribs. "Ah—damn, that hurts. Can't remember the last time I was this banged up. Maybe Henfield Caverns… when I ran into that Archduke. Barely made it out with my skin."
Serfence's expression hardened. "And don't go doubting yourself. You held your own against Lamar Burgess—that's no small feat."
Workner glanced at him, brow furrowing.
"Back in his prime," Serfence went on, "Burgess was one of the Tower's most dangerous men. Second only to Winston Ravenclaw and, of course, the legendary Overdeath—Wilhelm Reinhardt. That 'Grim Reaper' title wasn't for show. He earned it. Through blood, fear, and dread."
Their boots scraped slowly across the cold stone, the echo of each step following them down the corridor.
"He's faced armies, cut down champions, commanders, generals. No matter their skill, they fell," Serfence continued. "His name came to mean absolutes. The devil they sent to kill the devil. For years, the Tower wielded his reputation to keep the most volatile and power-hungry nations in line, and it worked."
A short scoff escaped him. "Truth be told, he'd have made a fine Executioner. But Burgess? He'd never hide behind a mask. Too vain for that. The man's ego wouldn't allow it. He wanted the world to know it was him."
Workner tilted his head. "Then why did the Council favor Winston over him for the Director's seat? For that matter, why either of them over someone like Reinhardt?"
"For one," Serfence replied, "Reinhardt refused. Soldier first, last, and always. He had no taste for politics. As for Burgess… you've seen what happens when he's given untethered power. The man's mind was fraying long before he ever took that chair. Now, Winston was the diplomat, the one who'd exhaust every road before drawing a blade. That's why they called him the Peacemaker. Because he wouldn't plunge Avalon into a war over a slight."
"But after Dah-Tan, Burgess all but served Winston up on a silver platter," Serfence said, his words edged with contempt. "The outcry over the catastrophe had reached a boiling point, and as ever, those decrepit old cowards on the Council did what they always do. Cast one of their own to the wolves to shield their blasted hides. They'd sell their own mothers if it meant keeping their seats secure."
He gave a bitter laugh. "Execution? Revel's End? Hardly. They knew better than to try. Put Winston to the axe, and the Tower would revolt. Wilhelm himself among them. So instead, they wrapped their treachery in civility. Called it an 'honorable retirement.' Pushed him quietly into the shadows while they carried on their charade."
Serfence then shot Workner a sharp look. "All that aside, do you honestly believe Burgess, even if he'd taken that seat without burning a city to get it, wouldn't have done something even worse than Dah-Tan? The man's mad. Power's his lifeblood, and he'll take it any way he can."
Workner's eyes widened. "You think he'd go as far as to turn on the Council itself?"
"With his bloody army at our gates?" Serfence said grimly. "I'd say he already means to."
As they stepped from the corridor into the castle's grand foyer, both men stopped dead.
The sight before them could have been torn from a nightmare. Stone walls were pitted and fractured, scarred with blackened scorch marks and jagged holes where something had punched clean through the masonry. Across the surfaces, thick streaks of red clung in grotesque patterns. Blood mixed with scraps of flesh, bone splinters, and clumps of brain matter.
The floor was worse. Bodies lay scattered in ruin, some so torn apart they were barely recognizable as human. Severed limbs and twisted torsos lay amid coils of entrails, organs glistening wet beneath the flickering glow of the sconces. The guards' faces were frozen in their final moments. Eyes wide, mouths twisted in terror, their expressions locked in the instant before death claimed them.
At the foot of the blood-slicked staircase sat Ryan. Head to toe, he was drenched in crimson, the stains dark and wet against his clothes. He crouched low, a lit cigarette shouldering between his lips, sending a lazy thread of smoke curling toward the high ceiling. His gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the carnage in front of him, hollow and unblinking, his expression slack. One elbow rested on his knee, chin propped on his fist in an eerily still pose.
Both men limped toward the crouched figure at the foot of the stairs, Workner's gaze sweeping over the carnage. His boot struck something with a metallic clink, sending a brass shell casing skittering across the blood-slick floor. It was nearly five inches long, and one of hundreds littering the ground.
"By the Gods… what happened?" Workner muttered.
Without lifting his gaze, Ryan raised both hands and shrugged. "I… honestly don't know what came over me. One minute I'm plummeting to my death, the next I'm crashing through a window—" he jerked his thumb upward, "—and just going ham with the fifty cal."
Serfence gave him a flat look. "Why do I have the distinct feeling this isn't the first time you've done something like this?"
Ryan chuckled awkwardly, pushing himself to his feet and adjusting the large case slung across his back. "Well, you might not have caught all the insane crap I was shouting, but for the record? I didn't mean any of it."
Serfence exhaled, long and weary. "If you've got the energy to sit and reflect on your… moment of lunacy, you can help me get Workner to the Hospital Wing."
"Yeah, sure," Ryan began, then stopped mid-step. "Hold up, if you two are here, then where the hell is scythe-wielding Norman Bates?"
"Norman… who?" Workner frowned.
"I believe," Serfence said dryly, "he means Burgess. The Ravenclaws came to our aid and went after him."
Ryan threw his arms out. "Wait, you left the Ravenclaw kids to deal with that psycho? Are you out of your damned minds? We need to get up there!"
"And do what exactly?" Serfence shot back. "Look at us. Burgess already made short work of the three of us, and sent you hurling out a window, I might add. If you were any less of the man you are, you'd be a corpse on the lawn."
Ryan opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again, unable to find a comeback.
"We need to trust them," Serfence continued. "Or, at the very least, wait until Headmaster Blaise returns. Right now, we regroup, tend our wounds, and plan our next move."
Ryan snorted. "Yeah, well, if he gets his hands on that doomsday device, your plan's goanna be pointless, because he's goanna take control of this school and blast—"
"So… that's what my old friend's after," came a calm voice from the entrance.
The three turned sharply. Headmaster Blaise stood in the doorway, lifting his foot as blood smeared the sole of his polished shoe. He adjusted his half-moon spectacles, eyes sweeping over the ruin before settling on them.
"My word," Blaise said, tone cool but edged with disbelief. "What happened here?"
Ryan rubbed the back of his neck, giving a sheepish grin. "Uh… I can explain."