Night descended upon Castle Excalibur like a weary sigh, draping the towers and battlements in muted silver. Through the high windows of the Great Hall, moonlight spilled across the stone floor, glinting off goblets and polished platters as the evening feast unfolded. The scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and spiced soup mingled with the clinking cutlery. It should have been a night of celebration. The last supper before summer's parting, but beneath the laughter ran a quiet fatigue that no amount of fine food could disguise.
The Great Hall, once overflowing with noise and life, now held only half its usual number. The exodus had begun weeks earlier. One carriage after another rolled through the gates as families reclaimed their children. Those who remained ate together with an almost fragile joy, aware that their laughter sounded thinner in the space where so many voices were missing. Most had packed their trunks that afternoon, folded their robes, and set aside their books. Not from eagerness to leave, but from exhaustion. Like the citizens of Caerleon, they had survived too much chaos, seen too much death for their years.
Clusters of students sat in subdued groups, some exchanging quiet smiles, others staring at the empty seats where friends once sat. The sight tugged at hearts that had already been stretched thin. No news or justice could fill those absences. The monsters that had taken their loved ones were gone, but the scars they left behind lingered like old smoke in the rafters.
At one table near the front, Godric and his closest friends did their best to hold the heaviness at bay. Laughter came in gentle bursts between mouthfuls, their words weaving a fragile thread of normalcy against the hall's muted grief.
"Oh, I can't wait to get home," Helga said through a mouthful of roast beef, bright and unbothered by the melancholy that lingered around them. "Mum's already brewing stew, and there'll be flatbread and skyr, I just know it." She swallowed, grinning wide. "I can practically taste it."
Rowena gave a small, fond shake of her head. "Helga, you might be the only person I know who dreams about food while you're still eating it."
Jeanne laughed softly, the sound light against the clinks of cutlery. "That actually sounds incredible. I wouldn't mind sampling some of your mother's cooking someday."
"You're welcome anytime," Helga replied with a beam. "Just don't mind my brothers, they're loud and hopelessly competitive."
Salazar's emerald eyes flicked toward Godric. "All packed and ready for the journey home?" he asked.
Godric leaned back, chair creaking faintly beneath him. "Yeah," he said, releasing a long breath. "Though I can't help feeling like I've aged thirty years these past few months." His crimson eyes wandered over the faces of his friends. The people who had stood beside him through fire and fear. "Feels like the person I was before all this belonged to another lifetime."
Helena swirled the drink in her goblet before taking a small sip. "You're not the only one," she said quietly. "I think all of us grew up a little faster than we wanted to." A small, rueful smile tugged at her lips. "Guess that means no one gets to call me a child anymore."
Their laughter returned, quieter this time but warmer. A fragile peace at the edge of something ending.
The moment lingered until a subtle movement at the teacher's table drew the hall's attention. Headmaster Blaise rose from his seat. At once, conversation faltered. The professors fell silent, and the students, sensing the gravity in his posture, straightened instinctively. The older man's azure gaze swept over the Great Hall, taking in faces young and weary beneath the soft glow of the enchanted ceiling. The illusion of moonlight shimmered across his silver-streaked beard, while the crystal sconces along the walls gleamed faintly in the lenses of his half-moon glasses.
"My dear students, colleagues, and all who continue to serve within these hallowed halls," Blaise began. "It seems we once again reach the close of term. Another school year drawn to an end, and so, as tradition demands, we must bid farewell to our classmates, our friends, and perhaps even those we never quite came to know."
A hush settled across the room. At the Visionaries' table, Genji folded his arms, sharp eyes fixed firmly on the headmaster. His fellow Visionaries followed suit, silent and attentive. Across the hall, Cú and Údar exchanged quiet glances, while Lucian and his prefects paused mid-conversation, their expressions solemn.
"Firstly," Blaise began, his tone warm yet measured, "I would like to extend my apologies on behalf of several of our esteemed colleagues who could not be here this evening. Professor Duchannes has, for the first time in decades, taken a well-deserved leave to return home for the holidays. Professor Van Hohenheim, in light of all that has transpired, has chosen to spend some long-overdue time with his family."
He paused briefly, allowing the murmur of the hall to settle before continuing.
"As for Professor Kyar, she has been summoned by her Tribe to attend to matters of great importance, matters upon which I am not at liberty to elaborate. Nevertheless," he inclined his head slightly, "they each send their well wishes and sympathies to every one of you."
Blaise drew a measured breath, his expression softening. "Now, in light of all that has befallen Caerleon, the darkness that sought to consume us, the fear that tested us, I daresay that those who sit beside you now have long surpassed the bounds of mere friendship. You have fought together. You have bled together. You have faced the blades and wands of those who wished you dead, and you have survived. That, my dear students, is something far greater than friendship." He smiled faintly, the light catching his glasses as he added, "That is family."
Godric glanced at his friends, and they shared a quiet, knowing smile between them.
Blaise's tone shifted, grave but composed. "I am also aware of the conversation that has filled these walls of late. Whispers concerning the execution of the architect of the siege, the former Director of the Clock Tower, Lamar Burgess."
A faint shiver passed through the Great Hall. The sound of mutterings ceased. Rowena's expression tightened, her hands clasping subtly on the table. Helga, beside her, gave a small look of concern.
"I know what many of you must be thinking," Blaise continued. "The death of a tyrant is often seen as justice. Many would say his punishment was long overdue." He paused, allowing the silence to stretch just enough to command reflection. "That may indeed be true. Yet let us not forget, men like Burgess are not rare. History is littered with those who thrive upon cruelty and shape their power from fear. There will always be another tyrant, another mad king waiting to rise."
He straightened, the faint gleam of conviction in his gaze. "And that is why, so long as we draw breath, we must stand united against tyranny in all its forms. It is not enough to rejoice in the fall of one oppressor. We must ensure that the seeds of such evil find no soil in which to grow again. Only then can we truly say that the sacrifices made here were not in vain."
Blaise paused, his expression softening. "Which brings me to a more describing note," he said. "I will not dismiss the emotions you now carry within you. The fear, the anger, the sorrow."
At the far end of the teacher's table, Professors Workner, Serfence, and Ryan sat in tense silence. Serfence's fingers curled against the armrests of his chair, knuckles paling as he fought to keep still. Ryan leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes lowered in a rare moment of restraint. Workner adjusted his spectacles with a muted sigh, heavy with thought.
Blaise continued, his gaze drifting slowly across the hall. "These emotions… they are not unfamiliar to me. I too once carried them in my youth, when tragedy struck and grief hollowed my heart. When loss burrowed so deep it felt it would consume me entirely. The pain that seeps into one's very soul, the cry for justice that festers, boiling into vengeance. These are burdens I know well." His voice dipped low. "And I imagine many of you feel the same. You have every right to."
He turned slightly, gesturing to the hall. To the half-empty tables, the quiet seats once filled by laughter and light. "Those whom you loved, those who shared your days and dreams, were wrenched from this world before their time. There is no fury greater, no sorrow sharper, than to live believing that virtue alone might shield you from the cruelty of fate. To believe that a good heart guarantees mercy from the world…" His eyes darkened, the reflection of the enchanted moonlight catching faintly in his lenses. "Only to learn that the world, my dear students, is as unjust as it is cruel."
A silence fell so complete that even the walls seemed to quiet. Around the hall, heads bowed. A few hands trembled upon the table. The weight of his words pressed upon them all, not with despair, but the somber recognition of truth spoken by a man who had long learned to carry it.
****
At the edge of Camelot Cemetery, Roland stood before two gravestones, the wind stirring his coat against his legs. His gaze lingered on the names etched into the marble. Arno Sinclair and, beside it, a newly polished headstone gilded in gold: Isha Sinclair. The letters caught the last light of the sun, glowing faintly as if the stone itself refused to fade into shadow.
In his hands he held a bouquet of white tulips, the stems wrapped neatly in ribbon. For a long moment, he simply stood there, the silence between the graves speaking louder than any prayer. Then he sank to one knee, setting the flowers gently against Isha's grave. The paper rustled softly in the wind.
He stayed there a heartbeat longer, eyes tracing the carved name. His hand lifted, brushing the cool surface of the stone, before he pressed his fingers to his lips and laid them upon the headstone. A silent promise, a farewell too heavy for words.
A quiet breath left him. He straightened, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of grass and stone as he turned away, walking toward the distant horizon where the sun was sinking into gold. Behind him, the graves gleamed faintly in the fading light. Two names, side by side, holding what was left of a family and the weight of all he could not save.
****
"Though, the catalyst of this tragedy was born from another," Blaise said. "And though I have long refrained from speaking his name, I believe the time has come that we do so." He paused, his gaze sweeping the hall before he spoke the name with quiet gravity. "Asriel Valerian."
A ripple moved through the students. Murmurs rising like wind through leaves. Godric and his friends exchanged somber looks, each remembering the young man whose choices had changed everything.
Blaise continued, his tone steady, reflective. "A boy who knew war and death long before he ever set foot within Excalibur. In his strength and determination, he earned his place as the Ferrum Visionary." His eyes lowered, the faintest trace of sorrow touching his features. "Betrayed, besmirched, and cast aside by those who cloaked their cruelty in the guise of justice, he drew upon forbidden power, and in doing so, revealed to us the true face of the man we once believed was the paragon of truth and justice."
He exhaled softly, a weary shrug of acceptance following. "Asriel found his justice through vengeance. But that justice came at a terrible cost. The true tragedy, however, was not merely that he resorted to such desperate measures, but that he was driven to them by the indifference of those who held power and did nothing. Those who saw the rot festering in plain sight, yet chose silence over action."
Blaise's gaze hardened. "That failure lies not upon the fallen, but upon those of us who looked away. It is a burden we who remain must never forget." He drew a slow breath, his eyes softening as they moved across the gathered students. "It is a vow I have made, and one that many of us here have sworn. To ensure such neglect never takes root again. Yet it is not our burden alone. The duty falls upon each of you, as well, to strive for a world where vengeance need not exist, where justice and righteousness are not words spoken after tragedy, but before it."
A faint smile touched his lips, wistful yet sincere. "That, perhaps, is my dream. Naïve as it may sound. To see a world where such hope might one day be more than just an illusion."
He lifted his head slightly. "And now, as for the Sword of Damocles…"
The effect was immediate. The students' eyes widened, whispers flickering through the crowd like sparks. Even at the Visionaries' table, there was a ripple of unease. Godric straightened, attention sharp. Salazar's expression shifted, interest glinting behind his narrowed gaze as his fingers steepled thoughtfully before him. The air in the Great Hall seemed to tighten, waiting to hear what would follow.
****
The faint creak of a wheel echoed through the cavernous expanse of the storage hall, each rotation breaking the stillness like a ghostly rhythm. The chamber stretched endlessly in every direction, walls of polished marble rising hundreds of feet, their pale sheen catching the dim light of enchanted lanterns suspended far above. Shadows bled between the towering stacks of crates and sealed containers, vanishing into the distance where the air shimmered faintly with dust and cold.
Two men in white robes pushed a heavy iron cart along the marble floor, their footsteps soft, echoing in unison. Atop it rested a solid steel chest bound with thick leather straps and sealed with the crimson wax of the Wandering Sea. The sigil glimmered faintly, the wax stamped over an aged ribbon of parchment inscribed with delicate, faded script. Neither man spoke. Their faces were impassive, their movements practiced. Custodians performing a ritual older than memory.
They turned down a narrow aisle flanked by monolithic stacks of boxes, each marked with identical sigils, each silent and unmoving. The air grew colder there, heavier, as if the very stones were holding their breath. When they reached the end of the passage, they halted. With strained effort, they lifted the steel chest from the cart and placed it atop a pile of sealed containers.
For a long moment, they stood before it. Then, without a word, they turned, the cart's wheels groaning once more as they disappeared back down the marble corridor.
When the sound of their footsteps faded, the vast hall fell still again. Only the faintest whisper lingered. A low, chilling murmur from within the sealed chest, like the dying breath of something ancient and hateful. Then even that was gone, swallowed by the cold, eternal silence of the vault.
****
"I need not remind any of you," Blaise began, "that Avalon, as we have long known it, has changed." The steady murmur in the Great Hall fell away at once. "The scales of power have shifted, and for the first time in centuries, none among us can claim to know what the future holds. Not for our cities. Not for our institutions. Not even for ourselves."
He allowed the silence to linger. "When you return to Caerleon, when you once again walk through the gates of Excalibur, you will find a world reborn. The winds of this new age will already be upon us."
Blaise drew a quiet breath, his azure eyes glinting behind his half-moon spectacles. "With Mayor Ramonda stepping down from her long-held post, a new dawn will rise over the city. Whether it brings light or shadow, only time will tell. But whatever awaits, I ask that you meet it with the same strength, the same resolve, that carried you through these dark months. Have faith in that strength. For it is yours, and it was hard-earned."
His gaze swept across the gathered students, pausing briefly on Godric and his friends, especially Rowena before continuing. "Some of you will be met with praise. Others, with scorn." His tone grew heavier, though not unkind. "Especially among those who remain tied to the Tower. Though they bore no allegiance to Burgess, though they had defied him with courage and conviction, there are those beyond these walls who will see only the stain of his rule. They will face mistrust, resentment, perhaps even hatred."
****
Bastion pushed open the precinct doors, stepping into the pale wash of midday light. The gray of his AEGIS uniform caught the sun, the metal badge at his belt flashing briefly before fading into shadow. His greatsword hung across his back, its weight familiar, almost comforting. For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing in the city's air. A blend of salt, dust, and smoke, before his gaze drifted to the street below.
People passed in steady currents along the cobblestone road, their faces drawn, their movements hurried. Bastion's faint smile faltered as he watched them. The same scene, every day. The half-lidded glances, the eyes that darted away too quickly, and worse, the ones that didn't. The glares, the whispered slurs, the subtle shift of bodies making space for him as if his presence itself were a contagion. He had grown used to it. The sharp hiss of breath as he passed, the spit that landed near his boots, the low, hateful murmurs that trailed him down the street.
Now and then, someone threw something more tangible. A pebble. A rotten fruit. Sometimes worse. Bastion never retaliated. He couldn't. Not when he understood so well the reasons behind their anger. Their wounds were still fresh, their grief still bleeding beneath the surface. And though a few recognized him. One of the many who had fought against the corruption of the Tower, most saw only the uniform, the insignia, the stain of an institution they now despised.
He sighed quietly and tucked his hands into his coat pockets, descending the steps one by one. The precinct behind him loomed large, its white facade scarred with spray-painted insults that dripped down the stone like old blood.
As he reached the bottom step and turned onto the sidewalk, a sharp voice cut through the noise of the street. A cruel insult, spat in Elvish. Bastion flinched just as something red streaked past his head. The tomato burst against the wall behind him, splattering across the marble in a bright smear of color. The fresh mark joining the older scrawls of anger that already marred the building's surface.
He didn't look back. He adjusted the strap of his sword and kept walking, the rhythm of his boots steady against the stone. The city watched him pass. Some in silence, others with barely contained hatred, and Bastion met none of their eyes. He had learned from his grandfather that penance, real penance, was not something that could be spoken. It was something one endured.
****
Bran stood before the mirror, the dim light casting long shadows across the room. His navy-blue three-piece suit had darkened with the years, its sheen dulled by duty and long nights. The man reflected back at him no longer carried warmth in his eyes. What stared now was sharp, cold, and unyielding. A mind honed to precision. A heart carved into stone.
His gaze dropped to the badge pinned to his chest. No longer the emblem of an Adjudicator, but something far heavier: Inquisitor. The polished insignia gleamed faintly beneath the light, a symbol of authority earned through necessity, not pride.
He slid his black gloves on, tugging at the cuffs until the leather tightened over his fingers. Then he reached for his overcoat, draping it across his shoulders in one smooth motion. It fell against him like a mantle of shadow. A quiet exhale left him as he pushed up his glasses, the faintest reflection glinting across the lens before he turned toward the door.
The corridor beyond waited, silent but expectant.
Captain Frank Reagan stood against the far wall, arms folded across his chest, the faint clink of his sword echoing in the stillness. A dozen AEGIS officers flanked him, their formation precise. At the sound of the door opening, Frank straightened, stepping forward with military sharpness before saluting.
"Captain Reagan, reporting for duty."
Bran lifted a gloved hand. "At ease, Captain."
Frank's posture eased, though his tone carried a note of tension. "Your orders… Grand Inquisitor Ravenclaw?"
Bran's lime-green eyes flicked toward him, glinting with quiet purpose. He stepped past, the click of his polished shoes echoing down the hall. "Saddle up," he said. "We're going hunting."
Frank hesitated, jaw tightening. "Sir… yes, sir."
As Bran strode ahead, the corridor lights caught on his badge once more. The crest of the Inquisition gleaming like fire in the dark. Behind him, the sound of armored boots fell into rhythm, a slow march that heralded the beginning of something grim. A single thought trailed his mind:
How the little piggies will squeal when they hear how the old boar suffered.
****
Blaise straightened as his eyes narrowed with quiet resolve. "Let it be known," he said evenly, "that Excalibur remembers the truth. History may twist and tongues may lie, yet we who stood in the shadow of Caerleon know where your loyalty truly lay, not to a tyrant, but to what is right."
He allowed the words to settle, then drew a steady breath, his tone softening. "Moving on to the next address. One I suspect most of you already know." A faint, almost conspiratorial smile touched his lips. "Due to the unfortunate circumstances that befell both Excalibur and Caerleon, your studies have suffered some… disruption. Therefore, I have made the decision that you will be repeating the previous term upon your return next year."
The Great Hall immediately erupted in a chorus of groans. Dozens of students slumped in their seats, rolling their eyes and muttering their collective despair. A few buried their faces in their hands as if he had just announced the end of the world.
Unfazed, Blaise continued, a flicker of amusement glinting behind his composed demeanor. "In conjunction with that decision, I regret to inform you that the crowning of this year's Avalon Cup champion will be deferred. At least until the conclusion of the following term."
A fresh wave of groans and exasperated sighs rippled through the hall, students slumping in collective dismay as Blaise's faint smile threatened to deepen.
"However, should any of you wish to get a head start on your syllabi and studies, Excalibur will remain open through the summer months. Bear in mind that not all of your professors will be present. Some have duties beyond these walls, but those who remain will be more than happy to provide tutoring." He gestured toward the hourglasses gleaming behind the teacher's table. "And any service rendered to the citizens of Caerleon during this time will also contribute to your academic credits and House points. Do remember that knowledge and virtue extend far beyond parchment and ink."
He paused, his expression turning solemn once more. "Now, before I conclude, allow me one final parting word." The hall grew still again. "Cast no blame, and hold no grudges toward those who have chosen to leave Excalibur. Whether driven by fear, concern, or the need for peace. Their choices are their own, and we must respect them. This academy has endured for nearly a thousand years since the time of our founders, the Five Heroes of Avalon, and it will endure a thousand more, so long as you uphold the virtues they once embodied. The very same virtues that led us from the darkness of the Calamity."
His gaze softened as it came to rest on Godric. "Just as those who taught us that through courage, strength, and belief, even when all is lost, one may still find their way back to the light."
With that, Blaise gave a small nod and returned to his seat.
A single clap broke the silence, then another, until the hall swelled with thunderous applause. Godric let out a quiet breath, glancing at his friends. Smiles passed between them. Weary, genuine, and alive. For that moment, brief and fragile though it was, the world felt right again.
****
The walls of the Congregation trembled beneath the weight of celebration. Cheers, hollers, and tribal cries of the Clans rose like thunder, mingling with the pounding of drums and the clashing of tankards raised in triumph. Songs were shouted in every tongue. Hymns for the living, toasts for the fallen. Each voice a fragment of catharsis after months of silence and fear.
The arena roared with magic and steel. Spells flared like fireworks in the air, colliding in bursts of light as blades struck against enchanted shields. Anton's booming cries echoed from the grand balcony, his animated commentary shaking the hall's foundations as he recounted every blow, every victory, every ounce of blood spilled for coin and glory.
The scents of roast meat, butterbeer, and pipe tobacco thickened the air, drifting toward the vaulted rafters where banners of the Clans swayed in the rising heat. Laughter rippled through the crowd, blending with the sound of betting tables as coins clinked. Platinum, gold, silver, fortunes made and lost in moments. For the first time, the Congregation felt alive again, a world reborn from the ashes of Norsefire and Burgess's reign.
Helena moved through the crowd, her steps light but sure amid the sea of shouting patrons. Her hazel eyes swept across the tiers of the arena. To the circular stands where Cú, Údar, and the rest of the Hounds of Cú bellowed in Gaelic and Highland drawls, mugs slamming against the rail in unison. Their laughter carried above the noise, raw and thunderous.
Looking upward, Helena caught sight of the upper balconies, where Genji and the three remaining Chairs of the High Table stood in quiet observation. Their silhouettes were stark against the glow of the floating lanterns, unmoved by the chaos below. It was a view of two worlds. The feverish joy of the floor, and the watchful calm of those who governed it.
Helena drew a long, steady breath, letting the warmth and noise wash over her. From the members, patrons and her fellow Overseers, she felt something she hadn't dared to believe in, normalcy. A fragile, fleeting sense that life had begun to mend itself. She leaned her back against the registration counter, arms folded loosely, a faint smile ghosting her lips.
"It's been a while since I've seen that look on your face," came a familiar voice.
Helena turned to find Eskel sorting through a stack of forms, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He spared her a glance, the corners of his mouth curving faintly. "It's comforting, honestly."
She smiled, soft and genuine. "Yeah… it's been a long road," she said quietly. "But I'm glad we're still here, after everything."
Eskel adjusted his glasses, the crystal lamplight glinting off the lenses. "Still," he said thoughtfully, "I can't help but wonder. Since Gryffindor's victory over Volg and the Calishans, he and his friends never made a move to form a Clan. I always thought it was a passing impulse, or perhaps that he intended to remain a lone wolf." He leaned slightly forward, studying her. "What changed?"
Helena tilted her head, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "A lot," she said simply. "Sal was always open to it. Helga just needed a nudge. But Rowena…"
Eskel's brows rose. "Ah, yes. The Ravenclaws have always been vocal about keeping out of the Congregation's politics. She was rather adamant about that."
Helena nodded, her expression softening. "She was. But like the rest of us, she became disillusioned. With the Tower, the law, her family. Everything she thought she understood." Her eyes flickered toward the crowd, as if searching for something beyond it. "She told me that, like her brother, she's decided to carve her own path. To find out who she really is… and where she belongs."
Eskel nodded slowly, the roar of the hall swelling again around them, echoing off the marble arches like a living heartbeat. For a long moment, neither spoke. The noise of celebration filling the silence between their thoughts. Then, with a quiet hum, Eskel lifted a single sheet of parchment from the stack beside him. The paper was creased from handling, its ink still fresh and dark.
"Here it is," he said, holding it up to the light. The bold letters at the top spelled out a name, followed by the signatures of its founding members and a neatly attached crest, the wax seal gleaming faintly in gold. "I'll admit," he said with a raised brow, "it's quite a peculiar choice of name for a Clan. And this sigil…" He tilted the page slightly, studying the emblem. "Curious."
Helena's smirk returned, soft but certain. "Maybe," she said, her gaze drifting back toward the roaring arena, where the lights of dueling spells shimmered like falling stars. "But I've no doubt it'll be a name spoken through these halls, and across Avalon, for centuries to come."
Her eyes lingered on the crowd, the laughter, the flames of rekindled hope that had once seemed impossible. "Who knows," she added quietly, "they might even take their place at the High Table someday."
Eskel let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Quite the claim, Helena," he said, slipping the parchment back into the pile with care. Then, after a pause, he said. "But I'll admit… I do look forward to seeing it happen."
****
The cries and cheers of the crowd above echoed faintly through the stone corridors below, reduced to a dull roar that rumbled like a distant storm. Every now and then, the heavy thud of boots striking the floorboards above sent tremors through the holding area, dust drifting from the ceiling. The restless pulse before battle.
Godric stood before the iron gate, his frame still and composed, the crimson scarf around his neck fluttering in the faint draft from the arena beyond. His battle suit, black trimmed in deep scarlet, bore the etched symbol of a roaring lion across his back. The sword across his back gleamed faintly in the crystal light, the dagger beneath it a shadowed twin.
"I still remember the first time we came here," came Salazar's voice beside him. He stepped up to Godric's side, his own attire mirroring the design. Black and emerald, his green scarf draped neatly over his shoulders. A hint of amusement crossed his lips. "I daresay you were rather cross with me that day."
Godric smirked without turning. "That's putting it lightly. I remember wanting to run you through."
"Then I suppose I should count myself fortunate you didn't," Salazar replied dryly, his grin widening. "I would have found death most inconvenient."
Helga appeared next, her golden scarf fluttering brightly against the dark backdrop. Her amber eyes sparkled with excitement as she adjusted the straps on her gloves. "Oooh, this is so exciting! Our first official battle! I've seen Godric fight before. Looks like a blast."
"By Hecate, Helga…" Rowena sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose with a gloved hand. She was dressed like the rest, the sleek black uniform offset by a scarf of sapphire blue that caught the light when she moved. "Honestly, I'm already having second thoughts."
"Oh, come now, Rowena," Salazar said with a teasing grin. "If I may be perfectly honest, the look rather suits you. But beyond vanity, think of it as a rebirth. A step into a world unshackled by the dead weight of tradition."
Rowena paused, then allowed herself a small, reluctant smile. "I suppose you're right," she admitted softly.
A hesitant voice rose from behind them. "Um…" Jeanne stepped forward, drawing their attention.
She was clad in the same black battlewear, though hers bore the pale contrast of white embroidery. A white scarf hung from her neck, trailing over the faint tribal outline of a dove etched across her back. She looked between them, uncertain. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this… with any of this."
Helga moved immediately to her side, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Relax," she said warmly. "Whatever happens, I got your back."
Jeanne managed a nervous smile, though her grip on her scarf tightened. Around them, the muffled roar of the arena grew louder, the gate trembling as gears began to turn. The sound of chains and creaking iron filled the chamber a call to step into the light and meet whatever waited beyond.
"Come on," Godric said, his grin widening as he tilted his head toward the light spilling through the gate. "Let's give them a show."
His friends exchanged knowing smiles, the kind born from shared fire, and followed him forward. Their boots struck the sand in unison, a steady rhythm beneath the thunder of distant cheers.
When they stepped into the arena, the noise hit them like a wave. The stands erupted. Cheers, whistles, and cries reverberating through the expanse. Crystal light glared off steel and banners rippled in the breeze. The scent of dust, sweat, and anticipation filled the air.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Anton's words boomed across the structure, refined and theatrical, carrying easily to every corner. "Friends from all corners of Avalon, what a match we have for you this evening!"
He stood upon the high balcony, his gloved hand sweeping grandly toward the five figures below. "Their long-awaited debut upon these hallowed sands! You know them, you love them. The ones who took the Congregation by storm and felled the Calishans in glorious fashion!" His magnificent moustache twitched as if barely containing his excitement. "Behold, the one they now call the Hero of Caerleon, the Lion of Ignis, Godric Gryffindor!"
The crowd roared, his name chanted from every side, echoing off the stone walls like a battle hymn.
"And with him," Anton continued, "the Serpent of Ferrum, Salazar Slytherin! The Badger of Terra, Helga Hufflepuff! The Raven of Ventus, Rowena Ravenclaw!" His arm swept wide. "And last, but by no means least, Jeanne D'Arc! A new light among us, who I daresay will earn her name this very night!"
The cheers climbed higher still, the air itself trembling with energy. Across the arena, the opposite gate ground open with a deep metallic groan.
Five figures stepped into view, opponents clad in the colors of their own Clan, their weapons glinting in the light. Swords. Maces. Wands. Each one poised and ready.
Salazar smirked, drawing his wand with fluid precision. Jeanne swallowed hard before raising hers, knuckles white. Rowena lifted her own wand, and with a rush of wings and a burst of blue light, it folded and reshaped into a sleek black bow, its string humming with energy. Helga grinned wide, slamming her fists together. Her bracelets unfurled with a grinding whirr, transforming into golden gauntlets that locked around her arms with a satisfying click.
Godric reached over his shoulder and drew his sword, the blade singing as it left its sheath. The dagger followed, flashing briefly in his other hand as the light caught both edges.
"Tonight, for the first time upon these sands," Anton declared, a crescendo that swept through the crowd, "I give you—the Marauders!"
The roar that followed was deafening.
Godric looked once at his friends. Rowena steadying her bowstring, Helga pounding her gauntlets together, Jeanne bracing herself, Salazar's wand angled like a drawn blade, and felt that old fire ignite in his chest.
He lifted his gaze toward the highest stands, where the light thinned into shadow. The noise of the crowd seemed to dim, his focus narrowing to the figures seated above, the Chairs of the High Table. Three stood shrouded in darkness, their forms outlined only by the faint gleam of light. But at the corner, Genji leaned forward, his eyes locked on Godric. A faint smile, proud and knowing, tugged at the corner of his lips as his hand came to rest upon the hilt of his katana, a silent gesture of respect between warriors.
Godric drew a quiet breath, the weight of the moment sinking into his chest. His gaze drifted to the crowd, a sea of faces alive with color and movement. He caught sight of Professor Serfence, arms folded tightly across his chest, expression carved from stone. A man too proud to cheer, yet unwilling to look away. Beside him, Workner and Ryan made up for it in volume, both raising their tankards high and shouting something entirely drowned out by the roar of the arena.
And then he saw it. The banner.
Hanging proudly among the countless tapestries of the Clans, its fabric rippled in the warm draft of the torches. The sigil of The Marauders blazed across it: the lion, the serpent, the badger, the raven entwined in unison. Their emblem, their bond, their defiance made flesh. For a heartbeat, everything else, the noise, the heat, the smell of sand and steel, faded. All that remained was the echo of his friends behind him and the banner before him, fluttering in triumph.
Godric closed his eyes before opening them, gaze narrowing, smirk tugging his lips. "Let's do this!" he shouted, as he surged forward across the sand.
The others followed. Wands raised, arrows drawn, fists ready, as the crowd's thunder rose to meet them.
****
Raine… wherever the winds have carried you, wherever the stars now cradle your name.
Know that my love will always find its way to you.
Do not grieve for me, nor linger in sorrow's shade.
I will be alright.
We… will be alright.
And in the quiet between worlds, may you feel my heart still reaching for yours.
Yours eternally,
Godric Gryffindor.