The days that followed the execution of Lamar Burgess unfolded in a frenzy of noise and flame. Across Caerleon and throughout the far reaches of Avalon, the people sang in the streets. Tankards clashed until ale spilled across tables and cobblestones alike. Laughter, raw and delirious, filled the taverns. Effigies of the fallen Director were strung from lampposts, burned in pyres, pelted with stones, or turned into grotesque puppets to amuse street children.
For the first time in years, the city exhaled. A collective sigh of relief rippled through its veins. Some offered silent thanks, others spat his name with venom, as if ridding themselves of a lingering poison. Those who once served him with zeal had become untouchables overnight. Once-praised soldiers now walked like ghosts through alleyways, their reputations expunged from every ledger, their names spoken only in ridicule. Even their families, once proud, now rushed to disavow them, as though even blood itself feared contamination.
The remnants of Burgess' loyalists. His Tower adherents, the Norsefire militants, languished in their cells at Revel's End, awaiting trial that none doubted would end with the same grim conclusion. Each of them understood that the stain of allegiance was permanent, and no verdict could cleanse it.
For the Wizarding Council, however, the storm had only begun. The corridors of the Grand Spire were filled not with song but with outrage. The cries of protestors rose from the square below, echoing through the marble halls like a haunting refrain. Even from the high chamber of the Council, the noise reached them. A low, rhythmic chant that refused to die.
Grand Councilman Vessalius sat hunched in his chair, fingers pressed to his temple, his lined face drawn with fatigue. The weight of governance had always been heavy, but never had it felt so crushing. His eyes, rimmed with sleeplessness, stared past the golden trim of his desk to the faint glimmer of torches flickering beyond the window. The people had become a fire of their own. Bright, chaotic, and impossible to extinguish.
Beside him, Mycellus slumped in his own seat, turning a golden goblet idly in his long, pale fingers. The wine inside caught the light, red as blood. His expression was carved from disdain, his jaw tight, teeth grinding softly as he muttered curses under his breath. Vessalius didn't need to listen closely to hear the same venom spill from his colleague's mouth. Words like peasants, filth, and ungrateful wretches repeated between swallows of wine.
Several among the Council shared in Mycellus's disdain, though they veiled it behind measured tones and carefully chosen words. Vessalius saw through them all. He saw the worry flicker in their eyes like candlelight in a draft, the unease twisting in their guts no matter how dignified their postures appeared. Beneath the marble table and silken robes, the Council trembled.
They were besieged on all sides. Mayor Ramonda's relentless crusade for recompense after the ruin of Caerleon had become an open wound that refused to close. Her words cut deeper than any blade, echoing across every corner of Avalon. Demands for justice, for answers, for blood. King Uther, too, had sent his decree, gilded in royal seal but sharpened like a dagger, calling for accountability, for the names and faces of those who enabled Burgess's tyranny.
Yet none of that disturbed Vessalius as much as the last.
Headmaster Blaise.
The man had appeared before the Council only once since the siege. Silent, unshaken, eyes that glimmered with something ancient and dangerous. His words had been few, but their weight lingered still, heavy as lead upon Vessalius's heart. It was not a threat, nor even a promise. It was inevitability spoken aloud. He had heard many men speak of vengeance before. Politicians, kings, revolutionaries, but never like that. In fact, he had heard it once before, in another time, another life.
The Grand Councilman let out a weary breath. He had no doubt that if Mycellus held his seat instead of him, the Custodians would already be in the streets, silencing the crowd with blades and spells. And though he despised the thought of stooping to Burgess' methods, he could not deny the quiet fear coiled in his gut. The fear that, perhaps, one day soon, not even the walls of the Spire would be high enough to keep the fury of the people at bay.
"Low-born swine," Mycellus spat. "I should have them whipped, flayed, fed to a pyre. Watch the flesh peel from their bones for daring to raise their voices." His words pooled in the chamber like a foul draught.
"Would you kindly spare me your infernal declamations?" Vessalius snapped, eyes snapping to the wiry man beside him.
Mycellus's pencil moustache twitched at the rebuke. The contempt on his face deepened into a scowl. "Given our present calamity, I thought perhaps your concerns might be more… pressing." He tightened his grip on the golden goblet until his knuckles paled. "One sliver of triumph and the rabble think themselves emboldened. Imagine, those inglorious masses daring to make demands of their betters, when they ought to be prostrate at our feet."
He drained the goblet in a single, theatrical motion and slammed it down so that the metal kissed wood with a sharp report. The sound ricocheted. The chamber swallowed it and then remembered how to murmur. Mycellus seized the pitcher, its silver lip catching the firelight, and refilled until the goblet brimmed.
"Burgess was monstrous in every sense," he went on, coiling with reluctant admiration, "but useful. While he sat upon that chair the common sort kept their place. They did not question. They did not clamor. They knew advantage when they saw it."
Vessalius set his jaw and let the words hang between them like a verdict. "And it is precisely that complacency which has damned us," he said at last, the growl in his tone belying the grandeur of his speech. "We loosened the reins. We tolerated his excesses when we ought to have reined him in. He bit the very hand that fed him, and in doing so, devoured the flock he was sworn to guard."
Mycellus began to object, fury already uncoiling on his lips, but the protest died as the chamber door sighed open. Heavy soles tapped across the obsidian floor. Light spilled along the threshold as a well-dressed elven figure stepped into the room, silver hair catching the amber glow of the fire ring. Every head in the council chamber turned, the argument suspended by the sudden presence of someone new.
Vessalius straitened, smoothing his robes as if to ready himself for whatever arrival had made the debate fall silent. "We will return to this," he said. "Later."
The elven man stood within the circle of firelight, composed and elegant as ever. His silver hair framed his sharp features, his grey suit and long overcoat catching the warm flicker of the torches that lined the chamber walls. The crackle of flame and the distant murmur of the city below were the only sounds that filled the silence.
Macon Duchannes, the Grand Regent they had appointed the moment Burgess' crimes had come to light. The decision had not been born of unity or conviction, but of necessity, and under the heavy hand of royal insistence.
"Lord Duchannes, I bid you welcome," Vessalius began. "My apologies for the abrupt summons. These past hours have proven… taxing for us all. Still, there are matters that require our immediate attention, and I would see them dealt with swiftly and with precision."
"Think nothing of it," Macon replied with a measured bow, the faintest gleam of amusement in his silver eyes. "I take no offence. I know well the endless tedium of bureaucracy. Necessary though it may be. The backbone of civilization, some would say… though I find it a rather dreadful bore."
Mycellus let out a loud, theatrical groan and rolled his eyes before taking a deep pull from his goblet. Vessalius's gaze cut sharply toward him, heavy with warning. Mycellus merely shrugged, feigning nonchalance until the Grand Councilman's throat cleared, silencing the man at once.
"I must admit," Vessalius began, his words carrying the fatigue of a man who had seen too many years of politics and betrayal. "When His Majesty first proposed your name, I was… wary. Despite your reputation, your rather distinguished service record, I doubted that anyone could have unmasked the depths of Burgess's depravity to the world."
His tone softened. "But you have proven otherwise. You have done well, Lord Duchannes."
Macon inclined his head with a graceful bow. "Your words honor me, Grand Councilman. I merely did what duty demanded. Nothing more."
Mycellus shifted in his chair, his lip curling faintly. His fingers drummed against the stem of his goblet, his restraint visible only by the tightening of his jaw.
Vessalius continued as if he had not noticed. "And now, with this chapter closed and Burgess's shadow finally lifted from Avalon, so too must your tenure come to an end." His words hung in the air like a gavel. "You have served the realm admirably, and your efforts will not go unrewarded. The Council shall see to it that you are compensated accordingly."
He paused, straightening in his chair. "Thus, Lord Duchannes, we bid you farewell. Go, and spend the rest of your years as you see fit. Free of this chamber, and of its burdens."
The flames along the ring crackled louder for a moment, as if stirred by something unseen. Macon's eyes flickered toward them, then back to Vessalius, a faint, knowing calm in his expression.
"Regrettably, and with the utmost respect, Grand Councilman," Macon said, his tone smooth as polished steel, "I'm afraid that decision is no longer yours alone, nor this Council's to make." His gaze levelled with quiet certainty, though the faintest trace of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
A ripple of murmurs coursed through the chamber. Vessalius's brow arched, his expression unreadable, while Mycellus's scowl deepened into something darker, suspicion gleaming in his narrow eyes.
Macon did not flinch beneath their scrutiny. "You see," he continued, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat, "the sands have shifted beneath your feet." From within the folds, he drew a scroll, sealed in crimson wax impressed with the unmistakable insignia of the Council of Kings. With deliberate calm, he broke the seal and unfurled the parchment, stepping forward to lay it upon the marble table before Vessalius.
"As of this moment," he declared, "the Wizarding Council no longer stands as the sole governing authority of this realm. By decree of His Majesty and ratified by the Three Bodies, the Council of Kings shall now stand equal in power and influence."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Vessalius's eyes widened faintly, though he held his composure. Mycellus, however, erupted. His goblet slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the table as wine spilled across polished wood, staining the pale documents scattered upon it with crimson. His chair screeched against the floor as he surged to his feet.
"Preposterous!" he roared through the chamber. "How dare you utter such heresy in this hallowed hall, you insolent, silver-haired peck!" His face reddened, veins straining at his temples. "I should have your tongue cut from that deceitful mouth before you finish another damned word!"
"Perhaps, Councilman Mycellus," Macon replied, "if you possessed even an ounce of decorum, or intellect, you would look upon the parchment before branding me a liar."
"I need not waste my time on forgery," Mycellus spat, jabbing a finger toward the scroll. "No single body has the power to make such a decree. It would require—"
"Kindly spare me the courtesy of being lectured on the laws that govern our realm, Councilman," Macon interrupted, his tone cutting through the chamber like drawn steel. "I daresay I was present when they were written."
The rebuke struck its mark. Mycellus faltered, mouth snapping shut as a flicker of unease crossed his face.
"Now then," Macon continued, "given the span of my years and tenure upon this earth, I am intimately acquainted with the machinery of our governance. After the end of the Warring Nations, the foundations of order were laid. The Wizarding Council, the Council of Kings, and the Three Bodies."
He clasped his hands neatly behind his back as he began to pace. His gaze swept over the circle of faces before him, taking in the unease and faint hostility that simmered behind polite façades.
"In time," he went on, "as magic rose in prominence, the Wizarding Council assumed a higher authority than was ever intended. A dereliction, if one wishes to speak plainly." His eyes settled on Mycellus. "And yet, the remaining pillars retained their rightful influence. Their decrees, their signatures, their votes. All continue to bear the full weight of law."
He paused mid-stride, turning slightly toward the table. "Which brings us to the matter at hand. For any resolution of such magnitude, the Council of Kings must vote unanimously, with the endorsement of all three Directors. The Wandering Sea, the Atlas Institute…" he tilted his head ever so slightly, "…and the Clock Tower."
"Precisely!" Mycellus crowed, his confidence returning with a sneer curling like smoke. "And that, I can assure you, would never come to pass. The Director's seat of the Clock Tower remains vacant. As such, you do not have the votes."
Macon regarded him for a moment before a quiet, mirthless laugh escaped him. "Good heavens, Mycellus," he said softly. "Have the events of this past week proved so taxing that you've conveniently forgotten who now occupies that chair?"
He froze as Macon gestured with a tilt his head, his faint grin returning as the councilor's words withered in his throat. Mycellus's eyes darted to Vessalius, who said nothing. He leapt to his feet and hurried to the Grand Councilman's side. His eyes traced the ink, reading the names inscribed at the bottom. Three distinct signatures, each accompanied by an official seal pressed deep into the parchment.
"The Director of the Clock Tower…" Mycellus whispered. His eyes widened as he read the final name aloud. "…Roland Ravenclaw."
The chamber held its breath.
Mycellus' jaw worked and a high, trembling snarl tore from him. "I remember now. You conniving, scheming, two-faced wretch. You engineered the whole charade. You hurried the deliberations, you lavished him with praise, you stitched this farce together from the beginning!" He brought his fist down on the polished wood with a crack that echoed through the chamber. "You deceived every last one of us. You set us up from the start!"
"Indeed," Macon responded, as though recounting an inconvenient fact rather than issuing a rebuke. "And I confess, Councilors, you made it remarkably easy."
Vessalius leaned forward slightly, fingers steepled. "That may be, Duchannes. However, even a man of your stature could not possibly have swayed both the Wandering Sea and the Atlas Institute to your cause."
"My, you truly have grown far too comfortable in that gilded chair of yours. So much, you forget how little the Three Bodies hold you in regard." Macon's expression softened into something almost indulgent. "The Wandering Sea has little interest in politics. Their world is one of relics and dust, of parchment and forgotten tongues. Yet even their apathy has its limits. When faced with abject genocide and wanton destruction, even the most detached scholar finds cause to stir."
"The Atlas Institute, on the other hand," he said, "Their… cooperation with Burgess did not escape notice, least of all King Uther's. Presented with the evidence, they were reminded of the folly of overreaching ambition. And when faced with the King's scrutiny, even the proudest minds of Atlas proved remarkably quick to fall in line."
"But I digress." He allowed his gaze sweep the councilors. The rigid postures, the quick, guilty glances, before returning to rest on Mycellus with a patient, almost pitying regard. "Faced with wolves at your door and the fires you yourselves started, you grasped at any thread that might save your hides."
"The man you once leaned upon to drag the Tower from the mire, the great Overdeath himself, no longer walks among us. With his passing, your salvation died alongside him." He took a slow step forward. "Your next recourse would have been Winston Ravenclaw, that steadfast paragon of principle. But even he would not stoop to clean the filth you've allowed to fester."
Macon's gaze swept the council, calm and damning all at once. "Yet the name Ravenclaw still carries the luster of reverence, does it not? It commands respect, steadies trembling hearts, restores a measure of faith where none remains. So, you turned to the next best thing, his son, Roland. Decorated. Impeccable. A soldier with unblemished honor and reputation." He allowed a pause. "In your desperation, you raised him high, believing you had found a savior. When in truth, you crowned your reckoning."
Macon's tone tightened, not with heat but with exacting clarity. "For you see, men carry memories. You cast aside his father, besmirched and dishonored him. A man you wronged most grievously. You placed a Ravenclaw upon a throne you presumed to control, never realizing how raw his hurt still is, nor how precise his reckoning might become."
"You were predictably careless, Councilors," Macon said. "And that carelessness is precisely why you find yourselves in this position." He let the silence that followed stretch, heavy and suffocating, before allowing the faintest grin to curve his lips.
"Though," he continued, the glint of amusement flickering behind his calm grey eyes, "I cannot, in good conscience, grant you all the credit. This outcome, this elegant collapse of your own making, was not mere happenstance." He straightened, the firelight casting sharp relief across his composed features. "It was, in every sense of the word, by design. Mine."
"Treason!" Mycellus snarled, the veins at his temple standing out like cords. "This is treason and plot!" He jabbed a trembling finger at Macon. "You will pay dearly for this. I will see you broken and hung for your betrayal, Macon Duchannes. You are a dead—!"
Before he could finish, the chamber doors slammed open with a thunderous report. A parade of clinking armor and disciplined footsteps filled the hall as a dozen figures in white-and-gold plate crossed the threshold. Red cloaks fell from their shoulders in neat folds. They were not Custodians. The councilors' faces drained as recognition spread.
"W-what is the meaning of this?" Mycellus spluttered. "The Crownsguard have no authority here, nor are they welcome within this hallowed chamber. Remove yourselves at once, before we—!"
"Careful now, Councilman Peverell," drawled a voice from the doorway, smooth and sharp as polished steel. A young man strode forward, black hair slicked neatly back, lavender eyes glinting with mischief and confidence. A faint smirk curved his roughed, unshaven face as three others followed in his wake, all clad in tailored black coats, silver emblems pinned to their chests. "We wouldn't want to get blood all over those fine silks of yours."
Mycellus froze, his face a contorted mask of outrage and disbelief. "Ulric," he hissed, the name bitten out like poison.
Vessalius's expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze between the assembled soldiers and the black-coated men who flanked them. "What business," he said slowly, "does the Crownsguard, and the Kingsglaive, have with the Council?"
From the ranks of soldiers, a tall, bald, broad-shouldered man stepped forward. The firelight caught upon the polished plates of his armor along with the greatsword strapped across his back.
"Councilors," Macon said, "I believe you know Lord Commander Clarus Amicitia. He brings a message from His Majesty."
Clarus stepped to the table, broke a seal and unfurled a heavy scroll. His voice, when he began to read, was low and grave.
"As by decree," Clarus began, "I, King Uther Pendragon…" He stopped mid-recital, the faintest glimmer of fatigue crossing his face as he exhaled. "Forgive me," he said, rolling one shoulder with casual ease. "The titles have grown insufferably long over the years. It seems each decade adds another string of empty flattery to his name."
Macon allowed himself a quiet chuckle. "You are excused, please proceed."
Clarus gave a small, knowing incline of the head before continuing, his tone hardening once more. "For too long, the Wizarding Council has worn the mantle of leadership while failing the realm it swore to protect." The room grew colder. Vessalius sat rigid as a statue, his hands tightened on the armrest until his knuckles blanched.
"Your negligence allowed a tyrant to stride unchecked through the heart of Avalon. The rivers of blood, the ruined homes and broken lives. These are stains on your hands as much as his. Your complacency was his cudgel. Your silence, his sanction. That complacency ends now."
Mycellus opened his mouth, red with outrage, but he fell silent under the weight of the black-coated men and the steady, unblinking gaze of Ulric. The scroll lay like a verdict atop the marble table, the ink of the King's words searing the air.
"I have long tempered my tongue and restrained my hand, believing, foolishly that you would hold the interests of Avalon as matters of priority," Clarus said, his eyes moving over the councilors like a verdict. "In its place, you have grown fat on privilege, command without consequence, authority without accountability."
A hush fell so deep the flames seemed to lower themselves in deference.
"And as of this decree," Clarus continued, "the Wizarding Council is held financially and morally liable for the harms committed under its watch. Caerleon will be rebuilt at the Council's expense. Every citizen wronged over Burgess' entire tenure be it by the Siege, the Insurrection, or the tragedies of Dah-Tan shall receive recompense. If the Council's coffers prove insufficient, then all personal estates and holdings will be seized until every debt is honored."
The chamber erupted. Chairs scraped. Outraged voices climbed into the rafters. Color drained from Vessalius' face.
"This is an outrage!" Mycellus barked. "This is a usurpation. A coup. An affront to law and order! You cannot—"
Clarus set the scroll down before the Grand Councilman with the calm of inevitable weather. "You will sign," he said, nodding toward the parchment, "or we will begin with what the people have a right to take." He tapped the wax seals that stared up at them like eyes. "The authority of King Uther, the Council of Kings and the Three Bodies stand behind this. The Council's privileges are privileges no longer, only obligations remain."
Vessalius rose, steadier than he felt. The room watched him for the hint of capitulation or counterattack. His fingers tightened around the edge of his chair.
"Ser Clarus," he said at last, "you speak of ruin. Of stripping this very institution bare. Have you considered the cost of dismantling the mechanism by which we govern? Do you imagine chaos will not follow a collapse of the very body that keeps order?"
"With all due respect, Councilman, the order you invoke no longer exists," Clarus said. "Or perhaps it never truly did. What remains is failure, and failure must answer for itself. Accountability requires restitution. The people will not be placated with rhetoric. They will be made whole, or you will answer to history."
Vessalius opened his mouth to reply, but Macon cut in.
"That," Macon said, "is your debt to Avalon. To the very people you have betrayed. To those who placed you in power and trusted you to protect them, only to be butchered by your negligence." His expression hardened, the flamelight cut hollows into his cheekbones. "That being said, we have settled one disgrace. You will now answer for another. Your conceit."
"Duchannes—" Mycellus spat between clenched teeth. His hands trembled at his side. "You tread perilously close to destroying whatever fragile patience I have for you."
Macon's gaze was glacial, unblinking. "Forgive me if I appear indifferent to your patience, Councilman," he said evenly. "In truth, my indifference extends to your dignity, your title, and the pitiful illusion of authority you still cling to." His lips curved in a faint, poisonous smile. "What was it Burgess called you in that courtroom? I must admit, the phrasing lingered in my mind. A sickening parody of a man, was it not? Poetry, really. I daresay the description fits you rather perfectly."
Mycellus's pencil-thin mustache twitched, his face flushing red. "You dare!" he snarled. "I will not stand here and be insulted by a filthy peck!"
Macon tilted his head, the smirk never leaving his lips. "And there it is. The tired venom of a small man gasping for relevance. Your fondness for slurs, Councilman, only reminds us of the filth in which you so naturally wallow."
Mycellus spluttered, words caught between rage and disbelief, but Macon's words only grew colder.
"As Ser Clarus so aptly stated, the debt owed to the people of Avalon is between you and them," he continued. "That, I find of no personal consequence. What I do find consequential, however…" His composure faltered for the briefest moment, the flicker of grief surfacing before it hardened again. "…is that your failures led to the death of my beloved Gloreth."
The chamber fell utterly silent. Even the torches seemed to dim in reverence to the weight of his words.
"My Gloreth… my love!" Macon snarled, grief finally breaking through the veneer of control as his composure splintered, and it echoed through the chamber like a knell. "No amount of coin, no ledger of silver, shall ever atone for that transgression."
He extended his hand. At his signal, Clarus drew a dagger from his belt and placed the curved silver blade and its gilded hilt upon the elven man's palm as though laying a verdict before them all. "On behalf of King Uther, and the blood spilt upon the streets of the Crown City during the faux Insurrection. On behalf of the elves of Beleriand, for the light so mercilessly wretched from this world… I shall have my pound of flesh."
Vessalius' single eyebrow rose in incredulous protest. "P-pound of flesh?"
"It matters not," Macon replied, "from whom it is taken, or how you choose to extract it." He flicked a finger toward the gathered councilmen as if casting pebbles into a pool and watching rings spread. "You may convene, debate, and elect some hapless soul to bear the cost, as you have oft proven fond of sacrificing others to soothe your consciences. Or, if you prefer the more equitable cruelty, take a piece from each of you until the debt is paid."
"If none among you possess the stomach or the courage to do the deed yourselves." His hand turned toward the guards as he finished, not unkindly, "Then they will be only too willing to oblige." He allowed the words to settle before continuing, his smirk thinning into something edged with bitterness.
"I am certain Ser Ulric would attest to that," he added, his grey eyes flicking toward the young officer with a glint of restrained amusement. "I am told he is rather proficient with a blade."
Vessalius' lips twitched. Disbelief and indignation warred across his face. "You cannot mean—"
Two guards stepped forward and set down before them a scale hewn of burnished gold, its balance carved with a sleeping dragon. The metal landed with a soft, resonant thud that sounded final. Upon it, a brown sack.
Mycellus staggered as if struck. "A-are you mad?" he spat. "T-this is barbarism! This is nothing but savagery masquerading as justice!"
"Call it what you will, Peverell," Macon said. He inverted the dagger and drove the blade point-first into the polished table. The metal sang against wood, a thin, high note that hung in the air. "But be it a seal short or a single gram shy, those doors will not open for you."
He turned his gaze slowly to the heavy doors, to the lords and ladies now paling in their seats. "You and your fellow conspirators will remain within these walls until the debts you have incurred are reconciled. Starvation, thirst, the slow erosion of civility into hatred, name your preferred languishes. They will be your company. They will be your judgment. I care not which one finishes you."
A hush, thick and stunned, settled over the chamber. Macon's hand rested on the hilt of the dagger for a heartbeat, then he gave a small, chilling nod and moved toward the threshold. The guards drew back as he passed.
Clarus followed at his shoulder. Macon paused with one foot out the door. "When you are finished, take the scroll and the sack to the chamber below. King Uther will be waiting, and he along with the Council of Kings will demand you show cause for each and every dereliction. May the gods bless your excuses, for I fear they will be found wanting."
Macon then he stepped through the doorway. The great doors closed behind both men with a thudding finality that echoed through the chamber like a judge's hammer. The lock clicked into place. Within the ring of fire the councilors were left alone with the hush that follows an irrevocable decision. The soft, oppressive silence of a room that knows it has been trapped inside its own judgement. Crownsguard and Kingsglaive stood like marble sentinels, impassive and immovable, their helmets and masks catching the firelight as if to mock the men who had just been stripped of leverage. Ulric stood with his arms crossed before the door, a smirk gracing his lips.
Vessalius folded back into his chair as if the weight of the world sat upon his shoulders. He pressed the bridge of his nose between two fingers and breathed out a long, ragged exhalation. The breath was the only acknowledgement he could afford to his own exhaustion. Around him the councilors' mutterings swelled and broke, a storm seething under the surface.
Mycellus turned to the older man with the venom of a trapped animal. His eyes bulged, teeth bared, words raw with outrage. "Vessalius, get off your arse this instant and put an end to this farce. I won't have it, you hear me! I won't—!"
"Peverell!" Vessalius snapped, the single name like a crack of lightning. His composure, brittle until then, shattered into something very close to fury. "One more word… one more bloody word, you heinous, sickening, deplorable waste of space," he said, "and I will personallycarve that pound from your rotten hide piece by bloody piece. Starting with your tongue. Do I make myself abundantly clear?!"
Mycellus shrieked, high pitched and craven as he stumbled back into his seat, panting, a frantic nod his only reply. Vessalius' stared at the dagger planted upright in the table as if it were a mirror reflecting the ruin of everything he'd believed in.
A brittle laugh escaped him. "So, this is how it ends?" he muttered, the sentence barely audible over the hum of outrage. "You may have won today, old friend, but the war is far from finished. Mark my words, Blaise… there will be a reckoning. For you, and for all of Avalon. I swear it."
****
The streets of Camelot blazed with celebration. Joyous cries tangled with the songs of the drunken and the free as confetti spiraled through the mid-day light. Never in living memory had the city been so united. One people rejoicing in the fall of the man who had cast such darkness upon their lives. From cafés to taverns, balconies to alleyways, the air pulsed with laughter and music. Even the choked lines of cars and busses did little to dampen spirits. For once, the congestion was met not with curses, but with grins. Justice, long delayed, had finally come; the people could breathe again, and the dead, at last, could rest.
Down by the docks, Langston crossed the cobblestones, the wind teasing the hem of his black jacket. He hitched the heavy duffel higher on his shoulder and lifted his eyes to the sky, where airships hovered at their moorings like silver leviathans. The great board before him clicked and flipped through its destinations until one caught his gaze—Vol'Dunin. The faintest smile touched his lips.
"You seriously planning to slip away without a word?"
Langston turned. Frank stood a few paces behind, uniform crisp, sword at his hip, the hint of a grin beneath the rebuke. "And here I thought we were friends."
Langston rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "Hey… I'm just not good with goodbyes. You know how it is."
Frank closed the gap between them, the leather of his uniform creaking softly as he shifted his weight. For a moment he glanced up at the hulking silhouettes of airships above. "You sure about this?" he asked.
Langston hesitated, thumb worrying at the strap of his duffel, then nodded. "Orgrim's right," he said, low. "It's the only way I can make things right for what I've done." His jaw tightened. "I can't stay here knowing what the Tower did… what Burgess did." He looked away for a heartbeat, then back at Frank, fierce. "Wherever he is, I hope he's burning in the deepest pit for everything he's taken."
Frank let out a short, humorless laugh. "If it's any consolation, they made sure the city had the last laugh." He resettled his hand on the hilt at his hip. "They strung his head up over the Palace of Justice, then tossed the rest in an unmarked grave. Fitting, all things considered."
"Not nearly enough, if you ask me," Langston shot back, his tone half-sharp, half-weary.
Frank gave a dry shrug. "You've got to hand it to the old bastard," he said, voice low and steady. "To be torn apart like a carcass and not once scream? Not even flinch? He just stared. Blank as stone, like it was his final act of defiance. A last spit in their faces."
Langston scoffed, disgust tugging at his tone. "Yeah, I heard the Skellige lads talking about it. Said men who die without crying out earn a place in the halls of the Old Gods, hailed as warriors." He bared his teeth, the faintest growl beneath his words. "Makes me sick, hearing that. As if silence makes a monster noble."
"Yeah," Frank shook his head. He then tilted his head, brow quirking. "So… a school?" he asked in an attempt to change the subject. "That's noble, I'll give you that. But do orcs even want an education? Given their—" he waved vaguely, hands circling as if trying to catch the right word. "Reputation?"
Langston barked a laugh, the sound rough but genuine. "Yeah, I know how it sounds. Marching into orc country to build a school instead of an arena. It does sound like I've gone mad." His smile faded, replaced by quiet conviction. "But I've got to try. Some'll mock it, others'll fight it, and plenty'll try to run me out before I've even laid the foundation." He drew a slow breath. "But I won't move. I owe Orgrim… and the Warsong Tribe more than I can ever repay."
He jabbed a thumb to his chest, grin flickering back to life. "Besides, if there's one person who knows how to deal with an orc, it's this guy right here."
Frank laughed outright. "That's putting it lightly. You've probably got more scars from orcs than most men have medals."
Langston smirked. "Well, both tell a story. Just depends who's doing the reading."
He studied Frank for a long moment, the lines at the man's eyes deepening in the afternoon light. "You wear the captain's grays well," he said suddenly. "Take care of my lads while I'm gone, will you?"
Frank's mouth twitched into a private sort of smile. "I'll do more than that. Still feels surreal if I'm being honest. If Wilhelm were still about, he'd never let me hear the end of it, but he'd be proud." He bumped Langston's chest with a gloved fist. "You look after yourself. Vol'Dunin's no place for the faint-hearted."
Langston snorted. "I spent years trading fire with some of the meanest orcs this side of the Ashen Ridge. I'll manage." He glanced over Frank's shoulder. "Where's the kid? I don't see him with you."
Frank shook his head. "He stayed back in Caerleon. Reckons he could do better there."
Langston's eyebrows shot up. "You serious? That boy's got no idea what kind of ugly is coming his way."
"Trust me, I tried to talk him out of it," Frank said with a shrug. "But he's got that good ole' Reinhardt stubbornness in his bones. Sometimes that's a curse. Sometimes it's the only thing that keeps you standing."
"Stubbornness, and something more," Langston said. "He's got that same fire in him. No doubt he'll go on to do great things, just like his grandfather before him." Langston then let out a long breath and slung the duffel higher on his shoulder. "How's Roland holding up?"
Frank's face hardened, and for a second the weary veteran returned. "You mean Director Ravenclaw?" he replied. "He's settled. I respect the guy, but he's a far cry from Winston. Colder in the ways that matter. They don't call him 'The Merciless' for nothing." He shook his head. "Burgess left the Tower in ruins, and Roland's made it personal. There'll be purges, inquiries, and heads will roll. Anyone who wants to keep theirs should start running now."
Langston gave a tired smile. "Before Roland took over as Chief of the Auror Office, he wasn't that different from Burgess. People still talk about him. Say he's the kind of man who makes even the most hardened soldiers piss themselves just by walking into a room."
Frank chuckled, though there wasn't much humor in it. "Yeah, I've heard the stories. We both know why Duchannes made him Director. With Wilhelm gone and Winston refusing to return, they needed someone with weight to bring order back to the Tower. Can't think of anyone better than a Ravenclaw." He nodded once. "Still, I'll take a sane watchdog over a rabid hound any day."
Langston nodded quietly. He turned his gaze toward the bustle of the docks. Families sharing sweetbreads, vendors laughing, a child tugging at his mother's sleeve and pointing at a low-hovering dirigible. For the first time in months, he felt he might be leaving behind something worth saving. He squared his shoulders and met Frank's eyes.
"I suppose I'll miss this," he said. "I don't know when I'll be back. If ever. But if you find yourself my way, drop in and say hi."
Frank smiled faintly, placing a firm hand on Langston's shoulder. "I'll bring ale," he said.
Langston chuckled. "You'd better. And make sure it's the good kind this time."
Frank grinned, stepping back as the sound of the departing airship's horn rolled across the port. "Safe travels, Langston."
Langston gave him one last nod before turning toward the gangway, the sun catching the edge of his jacket as he walked, a lone figure fading into the steam and light of the open sky.
****
The hospital's sterile corridors gleamed beneath the cold halogen lights, the polished floors reflecting every step and squeak of rubber soles. Nurses and doctors moved with practiced rhythm through the whitewashed halls, their clipped voices blending with the steady chorus of intercom chimes and distant heart monitors. The clock above the nurses' station struck eleven, its soft chime marking the end of visiting hours. One by one, the wards quieted, doors closing, lights dimming, the day giving way to the hush of the night shift.
At the far end of one corridor stood a man in a tailored black suit, his posture straight, hands folded neatly before him. The faint glow from the room ahead bathed his face in sterile white. Through the window, his gaze fixed on the patient within.
The woman lay motionless beneath crisp hospital sheets, her body swathed in stitches, casts and gauze. Tubes and monitors trailed from her like pale, lifeless vines. The steady rhythm of the ventilator filled the silence. Inhale, exhale, machine breath for a broken body.
The man reached into his jacket and withdrew a small communicator orb. With a quiet tap, a holographic screen flickered to life, its faint hum cutting through the stillness.
"Hey," he greeted. "Remember that little project we were working on?". The man's eyes never left the figure on the bed. "I think we've just found our perfect candidate."
The light above caught the silver emblem pinned to his lapel. A sigil of The Atlas Institute. He slipped the orb back into his jacket, his gaze shifting briefly to the name embossed on the doorplate beside him:
Astrea Vikander.